tales of a girl in the city

juillet 29, 2004

In Which I Finally Get Political

As all eyes in America turn towards Boston and the DNC, people across the nation are finally asking the important questions:  How do we work to repair the damage done in the Middle East?  How do we help US workers whose jobs have been displaced because of outsourcing?  What of healthcare?  What steps are necessary to build a safer, more secure America?

As I packed for David's house last night, listening to the Convention speakers incite Americans to stand up and ask the tough questions, I was inspired to add my own voice to the fray.  

So to that end, my friends, I ask you:

Is it OK to reuse lingerie?

Because, frankly, I'm feeling weird about it.

While going through my underwear drawer, it occurred to me that I have had some of that stuff for a long time.  In fact, some of my frilliest underwear may remember a time when Academy-Award Winning Actress Hillary Swank was still just a single mom, trying to make things work with Steve Sanders on 90210.  Which--in Beverly Hills terms--means that some of my lingerie has seen considerably more action than Andrea's did when she was a geeky virgin. 

Though, let's be clear: NOT as much as Brenda's did during her Worrisome Slut Phase. 

Hmmm.  Come to think of it, my underwear and I are probably more "Kelly." 

But, I bet every girl thinks she's a Kelly.  Which is absurd, because I am so much more like Kelly than any of you skanky bitches.  You all probably think you're like Kelly, but you're really like Donna, and you just don't want to admit it to yourselves.

Which is so lame. 

I mean, get over it already. 

Donna's not so bad.  During The Prom Episode when she got drunk, all the kids banded together and protested so she'd graduate. 


Everyone loves Donna. 

Not as much as they love Kelly. 

But still. 




Hey, Look.

I hate it when we fight. 

I'm sorry.

Let's never fight again, okay?



Let's go shopping.




Got you!  Suckers!  I was just doing that to prove how like Kelly I am.  I'm so like Kelly.  No one could ever stay mad at Kelly either.


Now that that's settled. 

Where was I?


About lingerie. 

So, a single item in my lingerie drawer may have encountered anywhere between three and five of the various men I've dated and/or just made-out with. 

And that's really a little strange when you think about it.  It's weird to have worn the matching bra-and-(sorry, Emily, I know you hate this word)-panty set that I bought for Dan's birthday... for M.  Or to remember so clearly how Luis slipped his hand up my skirt while I was wearing the black thong that I later wore for Unicorn sometime last Spring.

Now let me be clear,  it's all in pristine condition.  I don't wear the nicest stuff that often--special occasions mostly (Christmas, Groundhog Day), and lord knows it doesn't stay on very long, so it's very close to almost new.  But, even so.  It's a bit odd when you think about it.  I mean, I wouldn't have bought all of those various men the same Christmas present.  Wouldn't re-use the same card at birthday-time.  Or alternate wearing one of, like, eight dresses to every date I'd been on since 1996. 

But on the other hand, who can afford to keep buying a new $50 bra every time she wants to get a little lovin' from a new man?  And, obviously, he won't know the difference.  So what if I purchased the little pink number originally to celebrate an anniversary with the last boyfriend?  (Though, THANK GOD underwear can't talk.  Because, wouldn't that be embarrassing?  In the midst of rolling around with a new lust-interest, and your knickers pipe up, "She bought us for the last bloke, you know.   And he had a bigger dick.")

Hmmm.  Though, singing knickers could add quite a nice harmony line to the arm-hair caroling.

Things to think about.

In any case, it's certainly a dilemma that the Democratic Party will need to take seriously in order to get my vote.

juillet 28, 2004

My Day In Haiku

Sexy e-mail,
Curious boss and I 
Don't fit in one room

juillet 27, 2004

There's A New Sheriff In Bikini Waxing Town

Her name is Kim. Well, actually, we highly doubt that her real name is Kim, just as we doubt that her co-workers--none of whom speak English--are actually named "Liz," "Stacey," or "Kate." But, she's called "Kim" on her nametag, so Kim it will be.

And Kim hates body hair. She cannot abide it. If Kim were a superhero--which, let's face it, she might be--her mission on earth would be to seek out body hair in all corners of the world, and smite it.

Kim The Bikini-Waxing Avenger would wear an outfit made entirely of linen strips, her arms would shoot hot wax from the wrists, and she would wield The Golden Tweezers of Infinite Doom. Italian men with back hair would quake with terror at the mere mention of her name.

I can't decide if I think she has a sidekick. She may have had one at some point, and he pissed her off, so she waxed him to death.

I'm serious about this.

Kim does not fuck around.

Whenever I am on a table with my legs spread in the air for a new aesthetician, I make some disparaging comment about women and how crazy we are for undergoing the skin-tearing torture that is The Bikini Wax. It is my version of Bikini Wax Small Talk.

I made such a comment while on Kim's crinkly paper-covered waxing table last week.

"Boy, we women are crazy to do this, aren't we?" I said, laughing lamely.

Kim looked up sharply.

For a moment, I thought she might hit me.

Before I tell you what she told me, let me just say that Kim may have learned English from listening to the adults on the Peanut's cartoons. And though it is fair to say that--to her credit--her English is a hell of a lot better than my Mandarin, it is also fair to say that the adverb which best describes the way that Kim speaks English is: barely.

So I really have no idea what Kim said to me so vehemently, as she ripped the hair from my body.

None at all.

BUT, because I am me, I will tell you what I think she said.

I think she told me that her husband married her because she had a hairless pussy.

I would, in fact, testify to this in a court of law.

For Kim, then, body hair has no place in a healthy relationship. And once she found out that I have a boyfriend,



To town.

I'll spare you the gory details, but, suffice it to say, at one point she pulled out a magnifying lens.


Show of hands. Who here has ever had someone pull out a fucking magnifying lens during a bikini wax? Yeah. Thought so.

Let me just tell you, it is an intense experience--probably for all involved. As far as awkward goes: off the charts. As far as baby-bottom smoothness goes: you have no idea. I'm considering asking David to guest blog a testimonial.

Bottom Line: My arm hair is still traumatized from the experience, afraid that I'll unleash Kim on it next. Last night, my arm hairs actually woke me up, their tiny, follicle voices screaming from fear.

And as soon as I teach them some Christmas carols, I am so having all of you over for dinner.

juillet 20, 2004

In Which I Discover The New Blogger Font Sizes And Receive A Chinese Dress

When it comes to body-image issues, on a scale of 1 to 10--a 1 being "So Issue-Free I've Even Grown To Love My Back Fat" and a 10 being "So Anorexic That When I Get Very Hungry I Allow Myself To Lick Advil"--I am about a 5. 

A 3 on a good day. 

A 9 and 1/2 whenever I go to the New York Sports Club in Soho and stand too near a naked model in the locker room.  (Don't worry.  I have stopped exercising all together in order to avoid this problem.)

But, all in all, I feel curvy and sexy 90% of the time.  And, for a girl who at one point in her life chewed donuts and then spit them out to get the taste but not the calories, I'd say I've come a long way. 

Though one could argue that there was really nowhere to go from The Chewing/Spitting Out Phase, but up.


There are two exceptions to my new "I'm Twenty-Five Now And Tired Of Pretending That Tasti-Delite Tastes Like Real Ice Cream" Healthy Body Image.  



I hate them. 

If they were a color they'd be puce.  If they were a subject, they'd be Advanced Algebra/Trig.   I hate them so much--are you ready for this--that if my thighs were running for President in this year's election, I would vote Bush. 


Yes.  I hate them that much. 

Which means that, unless I'm forced to lift up my skirt and kick off my heels because a GIGANTIC FUCKING SLIMY SCUTTLING HALF-ROACH HALF-SPIDER BEAST MONSTER IS RUNNING AFTER ME WITH A PARTIALLY DEVOURED HUMAN BODY HANGING FROM ITS GAPING MAW... will never see my legs above the knee.

And even then, its maw better be gaping and it better have a full-on scuttle, not just some weird could-be-a-scuttle, could-be-a-straightforward run.  Because a full-on scuttle is terrifying, but a partial scuttle/partial run is just kind of awkward looking, and maybe even a little funny.

Bottom Line: Every skirt or dress I own was purchased because it shows exactly as much leg as I am comfortable showing.  No more.  No less.  Period.

Enter: David.

Enter the fact that David is blinded by lust. 

Couple that with his constant need to bring me surprises....add a recent trip to Hong Kong, and... Voila!  You have the shortest, most form-fitting white silk Chinese dress ever known to man, currently hanging in my closet, where it takes up almost no room at all, because it's basically the size of a scarf or a mitten.

Now.  Before the comment box gets filled with bitter notes from librarians in the Midwest telling me to be grateful for his kindness, let me be clear: 


I love that he bought it for me, and I love that the dress that he bought me is form-fitting and sexy.  And, I might add, I love that it's a size "small."  I love that--standing in the shop where he purchased it--he thought long and hard about me and my body, and the word that seemed most appropriate to describe my physical being was:


David is a Superhero Genius.

Even more lovely, is the fact that this small dress fitBecause you have no idea how stressed I was when I saw the "S" on the tag, and envisioned myself struggling into the dress--which he, of course, insisted I try on--only to find that it ripped, or wouldn't zipper, or, even worse, got stuck somewhere mid-hip, unable to stretch across THE VAST EXPANSE OF MY THIGHS. 

But, it fit.  It FIT!  It looked horrible.  But, it FIT!

As I stared into the mirror in my bedroom, aghast at how much leg this lovely but SHORT dress exposed, I thought the following:

"My thighs are like huge sausages." 

 Then I thought, "Hey.  Well.  So we'll have a good laugh.  He'll see me in this beautiful but Oh-my-GOD-so-short dress and understand why it is that my sausage-thighs have never seen the light of day.  He'll tell me that he thinks I'm sexy and perfect, and that, when I wear the dress for him in the privacy of his apartment, it will drive him wild."

With those thoughts in mind, I entered the living room. 


You know those cartoon scenes when the Tazmanian Devil sees Bugs Bunny dressed up as a female Tazmanian Devil, and he doesn't realize it's just Bugs with a wig, and he spins around a lot, and his jaw drops to the floor, his pupils turn to hearts, and his ears make steaming, honking noises?

Well, David did that.

"He's just being nice," I thought, sure that some comment about wearing the dress for him... alone...later that his room, was going to follow.

"When I come to stay next month, I'll be wearing this when you come home from work," I purred, trying to give us both the opportunity to silently acknowledge MY ENORMOUS THIGHS.

"No way," he said.  "You look too good.  When you wear that dress, I'm taking you out."

On the one hand: FUCK. 

On the other hand: Huh.   If he really did think I looked stupid, I'd given him the perfect opt-out option.  And still he insisted that I looked amazing.  How 'bout that?

David is a Superhero Genius, But He Also Has Very Bad Eyesight.

Later, after he had left and I was alone, examining the dress from every angle and wondering if maybe stilts would make my legs look longer,  I suddenly realized that I have only one real viable option.  If I'm going to have to show my stumpy legs in public at some later date with David, I'll have to practice walking around in public in the dress, without him.

So, to that end, this Sunday evening I will be grocery shopping in Park Slope wearing the highest high heels I can find, and my uber-short, lovely white Chinese dress. 

You should all come out and cheer me on.

juillet 15, 2004

In Good Hands

Two weeks ago, David spent some time in Maryland at a camp that he volunteers at almost every summer. The campers in his cabin are boy's boys--they're funny and gross. This year, one of them was an aspiring rapper. Another was pumped up about being a college sophomore with a new girlfriend. All the guys love the female counselors and talk a lot about which ones they would like to date. They make dirty jokes; they tease one another incessantly.

And when the week at camp was over and I was sitting across from David, listening to him describe the best acts from the talent show, I just sat there, amazed. Because at David's camp, all of the campers are born with a muscularly degenerative disease. So, in addition to the horsing around and joke-telling, one of David's jobs as a counselor is to help the campers turn themselves in the middle of the night. In fact, many of the kids use motorized wheelchairs and ventilators. And most of them won't live much past their twenties.

David doesn't make his time at camp about the kids' sickness, nor does he paint himself as some sort of hero, so, I'll try to do the same. But nonetheless, I think what David does is extraordinary. I asked him how he can get so close to kids he knows might not be around next year, and he talks about it very simply. He loves to be their arms and legs for a week. That killed me when he said it, and killed me even more later, when I saw the video of him in the pool with them, lifting the kids in the water and zipping them around.

It amazes me. This capacity he has to offer himself without fear of rejection or loss, though simultaneously with enough to wisdom to acknowledge that hurt and loss are possible.

From the moment I met him, he has given me this same type of boldness.

Though I've been wanting to sit him and my dad down since I first found out how many interests they had in common, I was squelching any thoughts of a trip to my house for Thanksgiving, sure that David would run for his life. Until:

"I'm trying to figure out my vacation days," he called one day to tell me, "because I figure I'll want to spend Thanksgiving somewhere with you."

I laughed so hard, I couldn't talk for five minutes.

I'll never be able to tell him how much things like that mean to me--mostly because I'm usually laughing too hard, but also because I don't think I'm that good with words.

"Are you always like this?" I have asked him several times.

Having told him all about the posers and the crazies,
he knows enough to know my skepticism is warranted. But he just grabs me and laughs into my hair.

"You know weird people," he'll tell me. "I'm just normal."

Then he'll kiss me and tell me what I swear is the prettiest three-word poem I've ever heard:

"You're my girl," he'll say.

After that, my heart tells my brain to shut up.


This normal guy's favorite book is Steinbeck's East of Eden, and because I'm doing that thing that we all do when we fall for someone, I took it off my bookshelf the minute he told me it was his favorite and began reading it immediately.

On page 12 of my Penguin edition, there is a quote which I have already underlined. Though Steinbeck wrote it about the people of Salinas Valley in California, the minute I read it it elucidated something about David's character that I had not previously been able to describe:

I think that because they trusted themselves and respected themselves as individuals, because they knew beyond doubt that they were valuable...because of this they could give God their own courage and dignity and then receive it back.

In short, as I begin the crazy, joy-filled slide of falling in love, I am realizing the inestimable value of what it is that I have found:

A person who's brave enough to catch me.

juillet 14, 2004

Grammy Sent $20 And....

A note, after seeing the pictures of David:

"David is quite a hulk--if you know what I mean."

juillet 13, 2004

The Great Penis Epiphany

In yet another moment of genius, last night over martinis Emily proclaimed the following:

"There are two ways to love a penis."

Emily is like The Buddha.

Because Emily and I have been friends for almost eight years now, it shouldn't surprise me when she brings forth these jewels of wisdom. By now I should be accustomed to her sage proclamations, and should just grab a scroll, write them down, burn some incense, and find a village boy to rub her belly. (Her belly, by the way, which is flat, toned, and has an awesome six-pack. Kind of a belly-cross between the bellies of "Giselle Bundchen" and "Anna Kornikova." I feel sure she would want me to clarify.)

Anyway, as Emily sat there, perched on her bar stool, looking at me knowingly from over the top of her Mangotini, I knew she had just hit on something big.

Suddenly all was light and illumination: There are two ways to love a penis.

But the innocent Kathryn did not entirely grasp the meaning of Emily's great wisdom. Kathryn placed another Mangotini before Emily and entreated her to take it. Emily smiled and began to drink the Mangotini, thenceforth to be called The Nectar Which Brought Forth The Great Penis Epiphany And That Also Happens To Come With A Cool Little Teeny Plastic Mermaid Hanging Off The Rim.

Emily sat in a meditative mood.

"You can love the penis," said Emily, "because you love the man that it is attached to."

"Or," Emily continued, "you can love the penis as a penis itself. As an entity separate from the man."

This, indeed, is the noble truth.

And Emily is the best friend ever.

juillet 09, 2004

The Girl...Friend

David has a girl friend.

Actually, he has several. Several female friends that call him and bring their boyfriends along and they all hang out and drink, and it's fun and just like a scene right out of St. Elmo's Fire. Only none of the women look anything like Demi Moore did in that movie--thank God--'cause if they did I would have to follow them into the bathroom and cut them.


He has several female friends like that.

And then he has another, more specific kind of female friend. His single female friend who he thinks of as A Super Fantastic 'Ole Buddy 'Ole Pal Give Her A Chuck On The Shoulder And Let's Go Have A Beer kind of friend. Who, in turn, thinks of him...


And I knew it the minute I met her.

It's amazing how we women can read one another when it comes to men. And as soon as I saw her give me The Tight Smile/Cooly Assessing Once-Over Combo, I knew exactly what I was dealing with:

Not to be confused with her more aggressive and threatening cousin The Fuck Buddy, The Gal Pal is so-named because she reminds the majority of males in her tribe of their younger siblings.

Distinctly territorial, the resident female Gal Pal's senses are attuned to any sign of invasion by foreign females. At the first scent of a threatening intruder, the Gal Pal will often become increasingly needy. At this time, bystanders can observe her employing one of several highly evolved defense mechanisms. These may vary depending on Gal Pal species.

In the wild, The Gal Pal displays an astonishingly varied plumage, ranging from baseball caps (SEE: WNBA Gal Pal) to Prada heels (SEE: Bitchy Manhattan Junior League Gal Pal). Found in urban and rural settings round the globe, scientists are continually adding new species to the Gal Pal phylum. Though by no means a complete list, the following represent a few samples of known species and their identifying characteristics.

WNBA Gal Pal: Known to sit for as many as five hours at a time while watching the males in her group run around in parks, the WNBA Gal Pal is often herself adept at video games, drinking, and sports talk. Regardless of college or state of origin, her favorite teams will always be the ones your boyfriend loves.

The Simpering Gal Pal: May display a marked sensitivity to climate conditions and/or physical ailments, thereby demanding that every male in her immediate vicinity devote his entire attention to making her comfortable. The Simpering Gal Pal can be easily identified by the man's jacket she almost always asks to borrow.

The College-Friend Gal Pal: Can be recognized by her unmistakeable warning call, an incessant series of verbal anecdotes, most commonly identified by their opening line: "Remember the time when we...." This call is among the College-Friend Gal Pal's most sophisticated defense tactics. Though, to listening males, her throaty call merely evokes memories of times long past, any female within hearing range will hear the C-F Gal Pal's true message--a message that scientists have translated roughly to, "Back the fuck off, Bitch. You're messing with my baby's daddy."

The most dangerous member of the Gal Pal Family, the Ex-Girlfriend Turned Gal Pal Gal Pal, should be avoided at all costs. Frequently found delivering fake compliments on your outfit, the EGTGP GP can also be recognized because you've seen her face in way too many of your boyfriend's old pictures. Additionally, the EGTGP GP will seem to ALWAYS have her hand on your man's arm. TREAT THIS ANIMAL WITH CAUTION. Set her up with your single male friends immediately. The Ex-Girlfriend Turned Gal Pal Gal Pal can be easily killed with kindness.

David's friend is a GP of a kind I have not encountered before. She is a DC Gal Pal, which means that she is always asking me questions about who my Congressmen is. And, when she found out I was from Wisconsin, she immediately jumped on me with questions about the current Senators (Luckily, it's been the same two men for years) and their political leanings.

I found it annoying. Manhattan GP's are more about handbags and shoes, for the most part. And though this political line of questioning is obviously more worthwhile, I have found it distinctly LESS fun to sit around a computer all week, brushing up on state capitols and (just in case she goes totally psycho) state birds.

Though she is decidedly harmless, I think life would be easier if she had someone of her own to complain about the temperature to.

So, the solution here is obvious.

I'm going to set her up with my brother ASAP.

juillet 08, 2004

In Which I Ask For Book Suggestions, But Vow That If Anyone Suggests "Harry Potter" I Will Find Them And Tear Out Their Tongue

Book suggestions?

I'm stuck in an apartment building again today and tomorrow, and have read all of the shitty Patricia Cornwell paperbacks that the other agent has left there.

Patricia Cornwell.


So give me suggestions. Non-fiction would be especially appreciated, as finding out more about real issues in the real world might help to keep my brain from eating itself out of boredom.

Much appreciated.

juillet 07, 2004

Worth A Thousand

From the black tie with David.

Am thrilled with this picture because: I have cleavage.

Am not thrilled with this picture because: I am channeling a flamingo.

 Posted by Hello

juillet 03, 2004

Love Letters: A Study

I think the first love letter I ever knew of was probably Beethoven's to his Immortal Beloved.
The signature at the end:

"ever thine
ever mine
ever ours,"

moved me.

And then I discovered e.e. cummings.

Then Rilke.

However, lest you think that I was some sort of precocious, affected, literary nerd who did things like read "Les Miserables" in the sixth grade--Well.


So, I was a precocious, affected ten year-old literary nerd carrying around Victor Hugo on her bookpile, mooning over love letters written by dead men with crazy hair. BUT let me reassure you that that did not stop me from running to the library with the rest of the remedial readers to tear through Flowers In the Attic looking for the sex scene. Nor did it stop me from worshipping every adjective (and Christ there are a lot of them)that dripped from the pen of one,




Yes. It is fair to say that my teen years were heavily influenced by The Bridges of Madison County. I wrote a lot about peregrines and being alone in a great storm. I filled entire notebooks with letters to Eric Ostermahn, who I knew for two weeks but loved with a certainty that comes but once in a lifetime. (He got in and out of his car Dukes of Hazard style through the driver's side window, and tried to play various musical instruments with his feet. We all knew I was That Girl already, so no one act surprised.)

ANYway, since my discovery of the love letter as a form of communication, I have received several amorous missives (fewer than 5) from various boyfriends (mostly just the last 2). And my best friend, Emily, has also received a number (entire filefolders full) from various boyfriends (and one boy for whom the term "boyfriend" should be understood to mean "hot wanna-be rockstar with huge dick and awe-inspiring penchant for oral sex.") So, in effect, between the two of us, Emily and I have collected an entirely un-random sampling of writing--some intended to actually be understood as letters conveying love, and some just written as drunken e-mails--from fewer than ten men.

Well, we all know what this means.

Because, here at Bellow we do not adhere to scientific standards or the rules for proper sociological study (we are not, after all, scientists or sociologists, but, instead, just Gorgeous Wonderful Beauty-Queen-Looks-Coupled-With-Nobel-Laureate-Brains-Who-Love-Being-Observant-But-Don't-Necessarily-Care-Whether-Or-Not-We-Are-Being-Entirely-Accurate Kind of People) I feel that is safe to say that we have now conducted a thorough investigation into the topic of love letters. As such, we can now make several very broad generalizations about love letters and the men who write them.

*Everyone jumps up and down excitedly*

Let us begin.

A love letter should never contain the word "poo."

Even if said note may not actually have been written as a love letter per se, it was still written to a woman with whom the writer was intimately involved, and, therefore, should NOT under any circumstances that I can think of, have contained either "poo," "poo-ey," or any other derivations of words pertaining to human excrement. Even the fact that it was preceded by the sentence "Sexual relations with you last night were yummy"--which is kind of cute when coupled with the knowledge that the writer of these lines possessed a penis the size of an oak--does not make up for the use of "poo." And though the author is a confirmed recipient of the little talked about "I Break For Pussy" Boy Scout Honor Badge, his use of "poo" is still unacceptable. Though a little less so. Because that's one hell of a rare honor badge/penis-size combo. So, on some level, who cares if he can write. Which, I guess, was the conclusion that Emily came to. Proving to us all, once again, that Emily is wise beyond her years.

Anyway. As usual, I digress.

Bottom line: If you really cannot muster up anything appropriate for ages 3 and up in the way of love letters, I would suggest just going full force back into your pre-school days. Forget love letters and resort to crafts. Get out the paste. Make her an Oscar the Grouch Christmas Ornament with a spool of thread and a green pom pon. She'll keel over from love. Unless she's Jewish. In which case, a popsicle stick menorah? Something like that. You'll figure it out.

In direct contrast to the immature, poo-reference containing love letter, Emily's collection also contains a love-letter specimen that I think represents an error commonly made by those attempting to craft romantic prose. We shall refer to this type of letter as The Ok, New Rule: You Can't Use The Word 'Doth' Unless You're In A Play That Also Requires You To Use The Word 'Codpiece' Love Letter.

I just spent an hour trying to recreate one of this guy's letters here, and I can't do it. I'm just not that good. Suffice it to say that he actually used the phrase "you bestow grace upon me" and later went on to mention either St. Francis of Assisi or St. Thomas Aquinas. I can't remember which. Either way:

Many un-sexy things can be made to be sexy, given the right treatment. Catholic Saints are so not one of these, that I almost want to grab the author of these letters by the head and give him a noogie just for trying. Though, I suppose, that kind of summarizes the plight of the man for whom St. Thomas Aquinas represents romantic love: his life will probably be filled with noogies, but he'll never get laid.

Now. On to my love-letter collection.

Let's see. There's the post card my first boyfriend out of college, Dan, sent when he was on a two-week long bed and breakfast vacation in Seattle with his MOTHER, that I was not invited to, because the two of them needed time together, since they were each other's self-described SOUL MATES. The self-same post card--one, as in "single," as in "only"--that he HAD to write to me because the hotels they were staying in were so intimate that they DIDN'T EVEN HAVE PHONES.

There's that post card. (The lesson learned there, I think, is obvious: I am an idiot for ever dating anyone who referred to their mother as their soul mate in the first place.)

There are the e-mails that S wrote in an attempt to heal his oh-so-bruised ego. They read like a scene from one of his movies and included such pompous statements as, "I know you don't want to lose me." Unbelievable what an ego that man had. It boggles the mind.

And now?

And now.

There is an ever-expanding collection of what can only be called, "The Real Thing."

Funny, romantic notes slipped into my suitcase. Newspaper articles he's read that he thinks I'll enjoy, popping up in my mail box unexpectedly with little notes scrawled across the top. Six postcards from his recent trip to Europe. All of them, silly and lovely and dirty and crazy. Witty. And tender.

And--sorry, guys 'cause you know I love to share--

And private.

juillet 01, 2004

I'd like to give a big shout out to the Thai people. Thank you guys for making food so yummy that I have been eating it every day for a week, and have now officially gained five pounds. Way to go. Keep it up with the peanut sauce.