Body By Jake ... Ass By Betty Crocker ... Body Image Issues by Our Culture.
What makes a gay heart weep like Rick Santorum in a Chocolate Factory [hell, even a Cheesecake Factory, ‘cos you know that closet-queen has some food issues]? Why, it’s realizing that you're sprouting chins like a teenager grows zits.
A true cringe-worthy moment.
Definitely diet time. And I swear, this has nothing [read: everything] to do with my impending 29th birthday this July and my first trip to the beach since 1996.
Well, I soft-guarantee?
The other day I had to buy my first pair of "fat jeans" [size 33] since I successfully took off the weight in 2007. When I couldn't get the size 32s past my thighs [which canNOT stay seperated these days, fyi] I knew it was time.
The icing on the cake? Getting a LOVELY post-card from Just For Men with a FREE OFFER to help me get the grey away ... this may have sent me running.
Okay, fast walking.
For the first time in almost 2 years, I turned back to exercise. To say that it was a cake walk would be a misnomer [mmmm, cake - can I make it double-fudge with chocolate icing?] but, I strapped on my mp3 player and blasted Madonna's new album, MDNA, and took myself out into the night.
Seriously, I had quite forgotten how difficult it was to stick to a comprehensive and effective regimen of diet and exercise. The exercise part's not that hard, but the diet? Oh diets, how I want to quit thee.
It's easy to tell yourself “Benjamin, today you are going to eat three sensible medium meals and 2 small snacks; when you get up and go to bed you are going to do your exercises.”, but actually doing that?Bugger.
1. Getting out of bed and setting foot outside of my nice warm blankets [one of which is faux beaver fur] is NOT pleasant nor something that I particularly relish. And this? This makes it difficult to do my morning exercises
2. Doing morning exercises (usually stretches and mild cardio in my room to Madonna or Cher [remember this is Stuff That Makes a GAY Heart Weep]) is tough when I am curled up underneath the covers wondering how quickly I can throw on house shoes and run into the kitchen for some hot coffee and back into bed where I can nurse it while watching the Today Show [What can I say, that 4th hour? When I get to catch it ... Kathie Lee does love her bottles of 'coffee'] and Lifetime's reruns of The New Adventures of Old Christine.
“Y’know, that’s a very good look on you: it’s ‘come hither,
I’m wearing something under-sized and machine washable in-case I get so plastered I vomit on myself’.”
"Thanks, I got it out of your closet."
3. The whole eating right thing: eating 3 smaller meals a day and 2 small/sane portion snacks? Let’s just say, that I’m not known for my tendency to eat and nibble throughout the day.
I have a tendency to skip [unless chugging a large cup or three of dark, plain black coffee counts as eating] breakfast and then head into work where I will grab a lunch of a Subway “lite” for good measure. By now, the lovely Arabic girl who works there knows my order by rote; Tuna on flatbread with spinach, green peppers and cucumbers.
By the time work is over, and I get home … cooking a lite dinner isn’t exactly what springs to mind, and I just buy some chicken nuggets at McD's.
Okay, I admit it! There is a reason it's called convenience food. Me not standing over a stove making it makes it automatically fantastic to me.
4. After letting dinner digest by sitting on my arse working on the computer [answering e-mails, talking on facebook, tweeting and writing], I'm pretty beat. By the time that I'm ready to call it quits, I just wanna crawl back into bed – not get over onto the mat I keep on the floor in the middle of my room for exercising. But, unless I lose out to my laziness, I drag myself over, put some Madonna on and do my evening toning exercises.
Then, drag myself back under my covers and drift off to sleep … only to be awakened by the alarm way too damn early in the morning *le sigh*.
BU-UT, all that whining aside … I do seriously intend on continuing to try to eat healthier, trim down my waistline and lose just a FEW pounds.
Because if I lose just a few and tone up, then I will be healthier and have a happier body and body image – though, time, affirmation and self-esteem will be what change the image I really see in the mirror.
Of course, if I slim down my waistline AND keep the booty? Well, everybody wins!
What makes a gay heart weep kosher tears quite like a hilariously bad Seder story? Well, if you're a Gentile, I guess not much of anything [whoops] but, let's not go there.
I'm sure we can all laugh together at the sheer absurdity of my first Seder in college. At the time, I was a student, worked as a caterer and had a budding social life [versus my treasured nights at home with my cats these days].
Outfitted in low-rise jeans, punk boots, mascara, “Dropkick Murphys” tee and a seriously fierce feaux-hawk I sauntered into the second-floor of our catering offices looking for my sunglasses (left-behind the day before after another mother-of-the-bride-batshit-crazy wedding downtown).
The plan was to get together with friends and hit the gay club downtown. On Thursdays it was 80s Retro Night there, hence the pseudo-punk and I was ready to get my drink on and dance to “Like a Prayer” [obligatory song for 80s Retro Night].
I didn’t even top the stairs before I heard an overly-enthusiastic … “BENJI!”
Now, when you hear an all-too cheerful exultation of your name [even an annoying nickname] you KNOW something fishy is up.
It was my boss, Pescha, approaching me …
“Bubbula, you’re free right now, aren’t you?”
“Uhm … I mean, yes, I'm not running anywhere at the moment; but I really only stopped in to pick up my sunglasses … I, uh, have plans tonight.”
[No, it is NOT apparent that I have an issue saying no to authority figures, is it?]
“But, you don’t have plans now?”
“No, not at this exact moment – why?”
“Good, because I need help downstairs; the Jewish Student Organization is coming by soon for the Passover Seder. We’re hosting it for the students who can't get home.”
“But-t, I – uh … uh, well – I guess if I don’t stay later than 7?”
Promising that the event would run no later than 6:30 that worked, it left me enough time to get all re-dolled up and to grab my friend Hana and run.
Changing into a cobalt dress shirt and black tie, eschewing the black slacks in favor of my jeans (two reasons:
1. none of the black slacks really fit me well, either too-small girls’ pants or the guys’ which were too big
2. the jeans were so tight I'd all-but crisco’d myself to get into them I didn't wanna think of the ordeal to get myself in and out of them in my little cubbyhole of an office).
I grabbed a black vest just-in-case.
The Heads of the Jewish Student Organization, a young semi-cute boy and a very attractive young lady – very shiksa in her blonde hair and pale dress – arrived and helped us lay out the Seder plates and such.
By the time sunset neared, the guests had arrived and gathered around 5 properly attired tables.
I walked the kosher wine and grape-juice to the various settings and matzo crackers as appetizers and caught at least 3 of the cute boys’ eyes darting both to crotch and ass level [hmm, Jewish AND gay?] as well as catching this REALLY sweet young guy’s eye as I proffered him the water, my crotch apparently just-below shoulder level – he blushed almost as crimson as the wine in front of him.
I should’ve really wondered why I was getting this attention, but I didn’t.
By the time I had meandered around each table, making sure all of our guests were comfortable and good, and making it back into the ante-room, I was well-aware of more than a few girls and guys outright staring at me.
As soon as the door behind me had closed Pescha was at my side, an embarrassed grin on her suntanned Bubbe face. Hana was doubled over in a giggle-fit.
“Benjamin, you CANNOT go back out there like that … you are giving those poor girls [and gay boys] whiplash!”
It seems, the tight jeans I'd chosen to attract attention for dancing were doing their job; causing these poor Seder-goers to get whiplash from trying to stare at both my crotch and ass – which were both pronounced in them.
My bad. [Or a great date-catching plan - you decide.]
Not being able to wear a pair of the black slacks upstairs, I opted the simple-fix; grabbing a black apron and making sure it covered up my crotch and at least minimized my booty’s appearance.
After that? The Seder went by quietly and in proper reverence [my bulge/booty causing no more stir … but, at least, I’d like to think that my overt-sexuality had made for some good stories to be told around the next Seder table].
Hana and I made our excuses and re-primped and headed out. Of course, after walking the 10 blocks to get to the club from campus, we found that it was one of the arbitrary nights when the bouncer was checking IDs and I was the only 21 yr old in our group.
So, we did what anyone thwarted would do: we ditched the dance-plans and did TGI Friday’s instead. Lame? A little. Fun? Definitely. A very interesting first Passover for me.
Moishe led the Jews on Exodus and I? Led my friends to dinner. Not quite the same, but, there you are.
Do you want to lick The Hoff? David Hasselhoff thinks so. And so does Del Monte! They've just come out with a smoothie flavored popsicle shaped like his image. I don't know about licking The Hofficle, but I might enjoy biting its head off. This cheesy promotional video will have you weeping with laughter. But what I really want to know David, is are you going to make vodka Hoffsicles? Maybe then I'd lick...
Your gay heart just took a weeping crash at the gates of The Cheesecake Factory on Mother's Day. You could suggest Denny's or In and Out Burger but she will definitely slap you. Best bet is to put your chef hat on and whip up something amazing. It's your only way out. If you can't cook you better pretend like you can and run to the nearest grocery store deli. Oh and you'll need a fabulous chocolate desert - then Mom just might forgive you! Happy Mother's Day to all you amazing Moms!
What makes a gay heart weep more than going on another blind-date? Another first date? Why, when that first date turns awkward. Then bad. And a gay heart winds up on an awkwardly bad date.
[In honor of the fine tradition of shit-tastic dating experiences on-or-around St Patrick's Day I've been running for the last almost-decade, I'll share one from back in '04 in hopes that an ounce of gossip is worth three pounds of new experiences.]
Late September 2004 found this gay heart on a date with a very kind and engaging [read: tall with a touch of neuroses, my kinda guy] fellow - one of the dozen dates I drowned myself in while recovering from my ex [crazy with a side of cute and follow-up a double-helping of crazy]. Being a proper gentleman, he picked me up at my place and drove us out to dinner at a lovely dining establishment - what, you don't consider the lounge at TGIFriday's lovely dining? - and, of course, listened to my nervous chit-chat.
The date-proper (the point when you are sitting down and talking) was off to a stilted but good start, we had multiple things in common (including a love of all things Jennifer Saunders) and were comfortable in the secluded booth [sidenote: yes, private is good for a date, but, when the hostess seats your asses NEXT TO THE GODDAMNED KITCHEN one should say something, especially when the restaurant is far from full]. When our waiter came by to take our drinks order - Diet with a twist of lemon, thank you - I contentedly looked-past him; after all, I was on a first-date!
Apparently, my date noticed him. His eyebrow cocked. The corner of his mouth twitched.
When our waiter - the cuteness of a young Zack Morris sans the highlights - left through the (still-too-damn-close) kitchen entrance, I cocked my eyebrow right back at my date. Who, when caught, laughed.
Excuse me, we - you and me - are on this date, not you and Waiter Macslutty-pants.
Swallowing the very snarky retort [and some tasty chips that had arrived, carried by a female busboy - busgirl? - with tasty spinach dip] that was about to come tumbling off of my lips, I opened my mouth to ask what was "So damned funny?" when I heard, "Ben, he's hitting on you. Hardcore."
Que? Wha? Vas? Huh? My usual verve and wit seemed to escape me while trying to wrap my mind around this new nugget of information. I had just spent five minutes fuming and imagining various painful revenge-filled scenarios for Waiter McSkankerstein. Seriously? He was throwing his slutty-mojo at me? And I had missed it? WHATTHEHELL?
Okay, well, that explains that as he places my drink down he stares. I mean, when you hand someone their drink you look at them, right? But, he's still looking at me when he places my date's water in front of him. Hmm. He does the same maneuver when placing our dinners in front of us - boring holes into my forehead as he almost drops the linguini onto my date's lap.
So, tension eased, we laugh about the WTF-esque moment of our waiter but, the conversation still doesn't flow as well ... it's an awkward date.
We decide to become friends instead of pursuing dating.
When dinner wrapped up [of course I had dessert, cheesecake? Hells yeah!] and we asked for the check - again, he was a gentleman and was paying [what? I was a poor college student and he was a mid 20-something with a good job] - we sat contentedly talking as Waiter Whorevitz left to fetch it. Upon his return, he handed the check to me [what part of me looking young and broke says "Hey, I'm paying"?] and returned to the still-too-damn-close-'cos-I-can-smell-what's-burning-kitchen.
"Hey," I say, handing it over to my date, "What's this weird squiggle on the back-bottom?" Looking it over, he barks out a guffaw, "Ben, that's his phone number and a smiley-face."
Hmm, I wondered, is this how Tommy Tutone got started?
If you walk into a Super Bowl Party and see something weepy like this on the food table, it's time to start drinking and praying that you don't get alcohol poisoning by the end of the game so you can go get something edible at CPK. What in weenie hell???? They look more like Halloween than they do Super Bowl. Seriously that is just all kinds of wrong.
And below you have the White Trash Food Stadium. That's enough to make a gay heart call the health department.
Now it's no secret that I love me some Doritos (in fact I'm muching them right now before the game), but Doritos surround by Twinkies makes me want to barf. Happy Super Bowl Sunday everyone!