Fuck my ass. What else?

I apparently rebounded with the same guy for over a year. Surely that's a record. Wow. That's just amazing.

That pizza was a mistake.

I went to get a slice with my friend Gabe. Tasted like ass. Watched James Dobson on C-Span over the weekend while I folded my laundry. Apparently, when a boy hits 14 or so, a hormone washes over his brain and changes its color. It actually becomes greyer in appearance. Were a woman to refer to a man as "brain-damaged," she'd be right. Regardless, once this change occurs, this young man will never feel the same things a woman does.

For all my tough talk about feeling like I was born the wrong sex or because I was raised by my dad, I have male personality traits . . . I'm a woman. And I hurt. I couldn't swallow my feelings if I tried. I can see and use logic. I have rational thought. Yet . . . I obsess, I worry, I get sad. My first weekend alone was surprisingly nice; however, was it weird to go to bed alone Sunday night and start the week alone? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Funny thought of the day while walking with Gabe:

G: "You wanna get something to eat?"
K: "Nah. I don't have my appetite yet. I get hungry, take two bites and I'm done."
(pause)
K: "Maybe I'm pregnant. Wouldn't that be a kick in the head? Yeah, M . . I know you dumped me but I'm pregnant with your lovechild."
G: "And I know it's yours because it's doing bad standup. In the womb."

Rachael Ray and the sadness she brings

Yep, not ready to watch the Food Network yet. Emeril maybe, but not Rachael Ray. I'm de-ex-boyfriending my apartment. The man I loved dumped me last night. I asked him for honesty and directness and he replied with "I don't love you anymore." The breakup I can handle, that latter bit blew.
Funny, the things that you do after a breakup. Since September 23, 2003, I have woken up to a stuffed red flower with a long curly green tail on my nightstand. Matt had gotten it for me while he was in Vegas with his friends the week before my birthday. We were already having issues and I was prepared to give him the boot upon his return. When he walked into my apartment that night, he cried a little, said "I don't want to lose you" and offered the little flower, which he'd slept with so it would smell like him, a mixture of cheap cologne and chest hair that I had come to love. I tossed it today. Then I saw the egg he'd made me during our Easter-season issues. All it said was "I love K.W " and my tag: two blue dots, a red smile, and four brown curly strands of hair. I tossed that, too. Just now I tossed the homemade Christmas tree ornaments we made, especially saddened by the red heart he'd made that said "K.W + M.D." Then I remind myself of the way he treated me in our final days: sometimes like a stranger, sometimes like a second class citizen, sometimes like a child, sometimes like a sexually unappealing sad woman. He was often distant, angry and ambiguous and I realized he wasn't scared of losing me anymore and there would be no tears shed this time. And so now I'm comforted by chucking these things: they illustrate the timeline of a relationship that sometimes was lovely and easy and charmed but ultimately was spotted with issues, miscommunications and conflicting views on what a relationship should be and where one's priorities lie when one is half of a couple. Something was always missing, something was always sitting not quite right. So I greet my newfound singledom with some sadness but also with a load of relief.
I've weathered bigger heartaches than this. My last ex . . . I had to hide all of my stuffed animals because he's a very funny man, skilled in puppetry and had a different voice and personality for each of my bedtime friends. And we have worked together in the same office and shared a lot of the same friends every day since. Now I consider him a cherished friend, someone who has seen me through some of my finest and lowest moments. And he is someone I thought I had a real future with. My current ex . . not so much. My friends hated this current ex. They take turns calling him "schmuck," "unfunny," " a 2 on the 1-10 scale" and that makes it all that much easier.

Will date robots

It would seem my boyfriend and I are having some trouble. He believes I am jealous of his bodypillow. It sounds nutty and it is. I can't help but think: if you think I'm that insane, why are you dating me? I thought we had something really lovely going: we have a lot of fun, we traveled a couple times together, we've gone to our respective friends' weddings, we have great sex . . . and then something happened and I still don't know what. We're not due to see each other for a couple days and I'm waffling: I love him, I want to be with him, he's a good guy. The other part of me wants to run for the hills: how did we get to this point? What's really going on here? Did I miss something?
I want to tell him: please, let's work this out. It's so rare to find someone you can actually love, someone you want to give your time to, someone you like going to bed with cuz you're already looking forward to waking up next to them the following day. I don't know what to do with taboo subjects and game playing and swallowing things rather than saying them. It smacks of my relationship with my dad as well as failed romantic relationships in my past. Yet here I am dating one of the most thoughtful, loving men I've ever known and it feels like one of us is going to bail. I don't know that my heart can take it again.
Next time, I'm dating a robot. They got them rhoombas that are remote controlled and vacuum in hard-to-reach places. Surely one of them could get me a beer and give me a footrub.

College ladies and the men who love them

As a beautiful, albeit nearly 28-year-old woman, I am concerned about the growing trend of men my age and a bit older dating 19 and 20-year-olds. It scares me because as long as those women date those men, the men that I have to date get older as well and I really don't want to date a man in his 40s. And boys in their late teens and early 20s are dumb, immature and sexually inexperienced. Hence, the pool of men from which I can draw grows ever smaller. And men my age in New York City, already commitment-phobic and terrified of marriage, have no reason to pursue a woman like me. That's awfully disheartening.

My friend Gabe has dated a young woman who is 20 and ogles the 19-year-olds in our office. A friend of his is dating a girl the same age. My boyfriend's friend John, 30, is dating an NYU student who is not yet 20. I understand the physical appeal of this women, I do. Believe me. I haven't dated a single man with a washboard stomach and soccer legs in years. (And I do miss it.) I know what time, beer and food do to the lazy late 20-something who's pushing 30 and doesn't hit the gym so often. Likewise, I've seen women's thighs and hips grow to shocking proportions and we all know men are not as forgiving of women's perfections as we are of theirs. My own thighs ain't so great.

The root of this dilemma is simple. First off, everyone loves a sweet young thing. Secondly, men supposedly are more "visual" than women, whatever the hell that means. Thirdly, and perhaps most disturbingly, the barely legal Lindsay Lohan type, most recently epitomized by Britney Spears or perhaps originated by Natalie Portman's turn in "The Professional," has become our society's ideal woman. How funny . . . our ideal woman isn't quite a woman yet.

Did I date men in their 30s when I was in my early 20s? Yes. Did any of those torrid affairs amount to anything of substance? No. Most of those men went off to have a string of similar affairs with young women who are awfully pretty, naive and easily disposable.

Does every guy in my age group want a woman 10 years his junior? I don't know. God, I hope not.

Should I hit the gym more often and get a decent night's sleep every night? Yes.

Hm.

My husband and other news

Have you ever met someone and you're blown away by just how hot they are? I was in my first commercial shoot yesterday and I found myself staring lustfully at a man I had just met. I was positively ogling him, much as my friend Gabe ogles the 19-year-old interns in our office, so I ogled this gorgeous 26-year-old. I felt like I was at a 7th-grade dance all over again but this time around I'm lookin' pretty cute, having had talented hair and makeup folk fuss over me all day.

On a less-fun note, a girlfriend of mine continues to friend-cockblock me. I heretofore believed this phenomenon to be specific to 12-year-old girls but no! This situation occurs when she and I get together with a mutual group of friends. More later as I process.