Skinny Bitch

Photo courtesy of Twiggy Lawson

You're not fat, you're neurotic—or possibly anorexic.

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who’s the skinniest weight-obsessed bitch of them all?  Not me. While I have been labeled a “Skinny Bitch” at times, I’m not and have never been weight obsessed. I’m fit—okay, extremely muscular—but not skinny. I eat carbs. I love to eat. And, knowing this, you likely hate me more. You hate me if I don’t eat. You hate me if I do. I can't win. Believe it or not, over the past 4 years I have gained 8.5% additional body fat, and I fall well within the average weight range for my body size and type. That was not always the case. There was a period of time in my teens and early twenties when I was a little heavier, and not so long ago I was actually twelve pounds lighter than I am. This was due to extreme stress and a death in the family. I looked like a heroin addict—not a Skinny Bitch. 

Women waste so much time and mental energy on judging our own and other women’s bodies (see this great article from CNN). Think of all the things we could accomplish, if we focused on other things. You think Hilary Clinton and Sarah Palin got so far in politics by obsessing about their weight? I can understand how a woman who is severely overweight might call herself fat, but when a thin woman labels herself as fat or obese, it’s nothing less than repulsive. Makes me want to vomit, but alas, I’m not bulimic!

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Wine And The Single Girl - Burgundian Babe

All too many times I have gone on dates with men who have said they love wine, and have been brutally disappointed when they order a bottle of some mundane California Cabernet like Silver Oak. I’m sorry, but I thought you were trying to impress me? Did you do your homework? Didn’t I mention that my cats are named Monte after Batard-Montrachet—the crème de la crème of white Burgundy—and Pinot Noir after, well, the Holy Grail of wines? You’d think a guy would have enough common sense at least to order French wine, if not something from the Burgundy region. Go directly to foodie jail. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. And, do not expect a second date! 

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Stealing the Soap

Since childhood, I have predominantly dated Jewish men. My first love was an eleven year-old boy named Jimmy who I met in Hawaii over the Christmas holidays. We were staying in the same condo development in Lahaina—a place where the non-wealthy vacationed, far away from the fancy hotels of Kaanapali Beach. On our last day of vacation, he knocked on the door of our condo unit and asked if he could kiss me. I said no. I hope I didn’t break his heart.

I like Jewish men. They tend to be educated, kind, intellectual, successful and respectful of women. One thing amusing I have noticed about Jewish men, is that no matter how much money they have, no matter how expensive of a hotel they are staying at, they always steal the soap and the little shampoos. I confess. I have a habit of doing this as well. I get the concept: you’re paying a few hundred bucks a night for the hotel room, what can it hurt to take a few bars of soap? I, however, am a discretionary soap theft. I only take the good stuff, like the Lemon Verbena soap at the Wynn in Los Vegas, the Molton Brown in the Peninsula Beverly Hills, or the Bulgari White Tea from the Four Seasons. I would never even consider stealing those wimpy little bars from the Sheraton.  I mean, they’re like a one use kind of thing.

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