Was your day 4 good? Mine was. After last night’s breakdancing and butoh, today’s breakfast with Molly and her parents (who are totally adorable). We walked to the Riverside Deli which was not crowded — I guess everybody who turns up for their Sunday brunch buffet is unaware that on all other days of the week you can still get a delicious breakfast that will not break the bank. I didn’t have the Lox Benedict this time, but I did get scrambled eggs with tomato, onion, cream cheese, spinach, and lox. This is, I feel, my ideal breakfast.
So much delicious food while we talked and wondered about the old photographs and butcher’s saws that decorate the place. Dusty Coke bottles, marble shelves, and mirrored built-in cupboards. The Riverside, being appealing and inexpensive, is a popular place to take your parents when they come in to visit. Also, very low-key for those post-coital breakfasts, though if you’re feeling shy you can just get food from the deli case — breaded pork cutlets, stuffed peppers, fish cakes, and empanadas, among other treats — and eat it at home in bed. Or so I hear.
After breakfast, and a long walk to the grocery store to buy chicken for tomorrow’s adobong manok, I was all set to spend my afternoon doing laundry and cleaning my room. Naturally, Kathy and her need for shopping company ruined my plans, yet again. Before shopping, Kathy dropped off some items for donation at the local Salvation Army. All I will say about this stop is that the donations staff is very friendly.
We hit the big chick store, as Kathy is tall and I am very round, to see if we couldn’t find Kathy some black jeans. The place was full of ladies, trying on sparkly tops and crinkly cotton skirts. Whenever I hit this particular chain of stores, the only guy I ever see is the security guard. And the further I can get away from the eyes of the guard while I paw stretch jeans and beaded bracelets that have extra beads so the thing fits and doesn’t pinch so much that I feel like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s Asian Cousin, the Pillsbury Chinese Roast Pork Bun, the better.
There was a cute round lady with cute glasses being followed around by her husband, who was not a big guy. While I skulked near the tunics and the trousers with the elasticated waists, I’d peek at him, this normal-sized man, a regular kind of guy. Not because he was especially hot but because I wanted to read his face. A mixture of bemusement and bewilderment as he wandered the store. I wonder what he thought of the scene before him — a bevy of ladies, none of them smaller than a size 14, plenty of them explaining dismay or pleasure when trying items on to see exactly where they fall size-wise. Let’s take for granted that they, I mean we, are all rocking the double-digits. For some of us though, the truly compelling question is how far north or south of 20 are we? I kept having to banish from my head the idea that he thought it was like being on safari, where the twist is not so much that none of us were skinny, but that for once, the air was not ringing with the sounds of shrill female voices asking plaintively “Does this make me look fat?” Because, well, by and large, we do. But do we look hot? Do we look cute? These questions are, I feel, much more important.
So post-shopping (where Kathy found no jeans), post-lunch, post nap on purple couch for Kathy (and some web surfing for me), I decided that we will not spend another weekend night on the couch, watching television, and ogling cute boys on the screen. I decided we should go to The Tasting Room and just be out to see if we could ogle cute boys in person. So out we were — Scotch flight for me, Champagne flight for Kathy, and cheese and olives for all. Kathy mentioned that The Tasting Room would be a great place for a date, which immediately got me plotting and scheming on how I would organize her social life because, well, I am a busybody and this is just how things go. We talked about being ready to date, being prepared, which got me thinking about (instead of acting on) my own thoughts about men.
So say I like vaguely athletic or at the very least not-fat guys — should I feel guilty or hypocritical about that, given my present… physicality? Is it fair for a chubby girl like me to be attracted, on occasion, to the skinny indie rock guy? I don’t know about fair, but who gives a shit if it’s fair or not? I understand that most guys are attracted to girls with “hot” bodies, but isn’t there often a gap between what you fantasize about and what you are happy to have? I guess for those guys who have no such gap, you are either fooling yourselves, you are profoundly lucky, or you are the kind of guy who would describe yourself as being “the total package” without any irony whatsoever. In which case, you probably get what you deserve. And for those of y’all with that gap, well, how big is it really? How important is it to close that gap? Do we even all have the same idea of what constitutes hot?
So when I was in the fifth grade, should I have been offended when the girls in my class (none of them my friends, really) all said that I should “go with” this one guy in my class because he was both chubby and Asian? Why couldn’t I have a crush on the wiry Puerto Rican boy, just like everybody else? I guess what it boils down to is like what you like, love who you love, and act accordingly. Above all else, love your yourself.
For March 5, 20006, day 5 of the 30 days of jasmine, though I know it’s a holy day to the Christians (especially as it’s Lent and all), feel free to fantasize about whomever or whatever you choose. Or if you feel that this borders too closely on the salacious, then do something that makes you happy. Feed the ducks at a nearby pond. Go to church and count the number of funny hats. Watch DVDs of “The Benny Hill Show”. Kiss your dog. And remember to tell me all about it!
Van Hunt – Seconds of Pleasure (I told you this song was good); Dolly Parton – Travellin’ Thru; Ms. Dynamite – Krazy Krush; Liz Phair – Friend of Mine