what a dish

After putting up some blinds in the apartment I decided I deserved a treat and popped on the tellie. Ah, Food Network, my calorie free substitute for historical binge eating. There's that stiff frigid one, Sandra Lee- OH MY GOD- AND her huge bouyant breasts in front of her grill and limes. Jesus fucking christ- now Sandra Lee is being primped for pimping. It's bad enough that my daily bouts of nausea are spurned on by the slap fests of my inner Betty Friedan and Hugh Hefner, but now generation boobalicious has gone banal and it makes me wanna open up a big can of intellectual whoop ass. But that never helps me make friends.
It takes me back a few months when that song "It's hard to be a pimp" was nominated for some big dumb award that I really did not care about. What I did care about though was the fact that somebody who rented out the loins of others was whining about his life. How about my song brother? How about "It's hard to have a thought", or better yet, "It's even harder to love sex, be a pervert, be a girl, and have a brain." Twenty years ago with my first boyfriend I learned that guys like naked pictures. I attempted to teach Matt how stupid looking at porn made him seem- this was his soft spot- appearing stupid. I found stashes of magazines with titles like; Young Asian Butt Holes Ready for your Schlong- Wet Naked Naked Wet Wetness, Naked Nude Naked Teens not Really Putting on Clothes. After too many shouting matches and more revenge fantasies than I could count I let Matt, and every boyfriend after that win.
Somehow, years later the other women my current boyfriend ogles doesn't affect me with enough rage to perform interpretive dance, but his need to exercise his inappropriate flirting muscle does bring on a nausea that would make Sartre jealous. He names it as an "indulgence"- something that his sexless wizoned marriage provoked-substitions of 99cent hamburgers before dinner for marital duty. What's interesting is that his flirting is in a category with clandestine donut runs. I wonder if he realizes it would be much easier for me if I had found powdered sugar on his lapel. I wonder how it is that his little ole' habit could bring on a pain in me that takes me right back to the days when my father would burst into flames and take our doorknobs off our bedroom doors, or put chains on the cabinets so I couldn't snack between meals. The last time I checked I had evolved into a confident, respectful, reasonable human being- but when I imagine the boyfriend telling another woman that she is "ferociously beautiful" I feel like I want to humiliate and then promptly pick up the nearest fire hose and kill everyone who ever hurt me.
That saying that "trust is earned " has been ringing in my ears whenever the dark and hairy "indulgence" issue rears its greasy head. So, does that mean that I am the employer and boyfriend gets a weekly paycheck? It would be really cool actually if trust worked like that- if boyfriend could do some sort of task or work that would merit direct deposits of trust with tax free respect from the employer (me). But for now it seems that we will both just have to stay with our day jobs and 100 calorie portion control cookie packs as evidence that our lives make sense and are under control.