In the words of Snoop Dogg, greetings loved ones! I'm super excited tonight because I have an awesome discovery to share with you. I recently sat down to interview a brand spankin' new author from Pittsburgh who wrote a super funny memoir entitled Going Back for Thirds. If a reference helps, she wants to reader to think of her as a fat Carrie Bradshaw (you know, if Michael Kors made dresses in size 102!) The story chronicles her mishaps as a rotund serial dater from adolescence to adulthood as she struggles with her weight between juggling dozens of Romeos (who were really more like Randies)… my favorite chapters involve the boyfriend who ate the skin off of the bottom of his feet, the one who mistook her mother’s boudoir for theirs and the one who turned out to be gay. Below are some of the more - ahem - colorful moments from this hysterically funny book:
Mole vs. Aj From Detroit
There, in that forgotten little shack underneath the expressway, was where I lost my virginity.
I vividly recall doing the deed on his little brother’s Sesame Street blanket as the cars above zoomed by. When we finished, I sat up and looked around.
“I thought that was going to hurt,” I said.
“I was gentle, wasn’t I?” he smirked, with a shit-eating grin on his face.
I smiled. “It was good.”
I never let on that I was embarrassed for him. It was just my luck that I had found a guy with a penis the size of a cocktail weenie. Of course it didn’t hurt – it was like masturbating with a fun-size Tootsie Roll.
Fancypants
“I made reservations at Benihana, baby,” he greeted me as he arrived at my house for date night.
I was in the midst of getting dressed and was desperately trying to tuck my fat ass into my “skinny” Daisy Fuentes jeans. They became a steel trap and made my horribly distended muffin top rise like baking bread. I jumped up and down, trying to get them to stretch out.
“Great!” I said, a little too enthusiastically. Like I needed deep fried tempura shrimp on a bed of mayonnaise. “Let me call Sarah and tell her to get ready.”
Fancypants’ smile faded. “Babe, please don’t take this offensively, but I’d like to go out alone tonight.”
I stopped jumping about and started doing lunges. “So I’m not going either?”
“No, no, not that. I want to be alone with you,” he explained. “We haven’t gone anywhere without your friend in a month.”
Sensing that the lunges weren’t stretching out my jeans, I proceeded to sit on the floor and stretched down toward my toes. I was losing the battle against the denim.
“But I told her we’d hang out…tonight… I can’t…cancel now,” I huffed, my head buried in my boobs, while I hopelessly tried to touch my feet.
Knowing full well that he wasn’t going to best me, Fancypants whipped out his cell phone. After a muttered conversation with the party on the other end, he snapped his phone shut. “I can’t change the reservation so I told them to cancel it.”
By this point, I had given up on trying to stretch out my jeans while I was in them and was standing on one end of the waistband and pulling the other end upward towards my knees.
“That’s fine,” I said, as beads of sweat rolled down my face, “we’ll stay in and order a pizza.”
Jonas vol. 1
Things took a horrifying turn when we were having the apartment fumigated or pressure washed (the reason escapes me today) and were staying with my parents for the weekend. Jonas and I had met Ashley and Jason at the bar after work for a drink. I’ve never been a big casual drinker and excused myself to head home soon after extracting a promise of only one more drink from my unruly boyfriend and our buddy. Jason promised to see Jonas home himself. Unfortunately for Jonas, Jason promptly forgot his promise and drank himself stupid. Jonas followed suit and staggered home in the wee hours of the morning. Before falling into bed, Jonas must have decided to relieve himself in the guest’s bathroom upstairs – a facility which sat between my room and my parent’s. I’m under the assumption that Jonas forgot which house he was in and made a wrong turn on his way to bed. Instead of making a right into my bedroom, he made a left and crawled into my parent’s California King – right between my snoring father and naked mother. Mom stirred out of her light sleep and patted the figure’s head, thinking that it was me. Instead of my long brunette tresses, she found herself touching a head full of gelled spikes.
“Jonas!” she hissed.
Jonas opened one eye. “What?”
“What are you doing?” my mother whisper-shrieked.
Jonas’s eyes flew open. “Oh, SHIT!” he gasped, as he fled the scene of the crime. Crawling into bed next to me, he pulled me close and prayed that it was all a dream.
The next morning, he had thoroughly convinced himself that he’d had an incredibly vivid nightmare. After calling me at work to tell me all about his crazy visions, he sat down at the kitchen table with my mother. She waited for him to get comfortable.
“Jonas?” she asked conversationally over her coffee.
“Hmm?” he responded, totally unabashed, as he flipped through our dog-eared copy of Interpreting Dreams.
She casually blew the steam out of her mug. “Get lost last night?”
We never spoke of that night again. And by “never speaking of again”, I mean I tell that story every time someone prompts me, whether it’s at a wedding, a funeral, a Bat Mitzvah or a Bris.
If you'd like to read more excerpts from Going Back for Thirds or learn more about this incredibly talented author (whose name I'm not willing to share - yet!) , stay tuned for our interview in my next article.
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