Tuesday, August 30, 2005


Ladies and Gentlemen...you might notice that the comments have been turned off. You may be experiencing deja vu; you may think that it just got too plain nasty in here.

Okay, so we didn't disable the comments. We're not those kind of girls.

We DO have, though, a shiny new blog over at TypePad, where the lovely folks have assured us that we can keep writing what we're writing. I'm sure you'll bear with us in the next day or two as we get the design under control, but we know you're just itching to get in there and continue the verbal poo-flinging of the last sixty two hours.

So, Get In There.

Peace out, Blogger. It was kind of like bad anal...it started out as a great idea, but then just turned into a giant pain in the ass.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

sweet tooth

We were told what foods were to be taken out of the Goldstein Consuption Rotation. Refined Sugars. Saturated Fats. Simple Carbohydrates. These foods would feed our sausage-y little legs, they said, and we would never be truly loved or taken seriously if we had legs that looked like Oscar Mayer Wieners. We would never be accepted in the real world, because fatties don't have beautiful friends, or glamorous jobs, or hot boyfriends. We didn't want to live our lives like that. All of those beautiful foods that we adored...cotton candy. funnelcake, saltwater taffee, caramel apples...the ones that made our diets look like we were the children of carnies, and not of Connecticut bourgeoisie, were now off limits for the walrus twins.

Miss Lewis found me crouched one day, surrounded by bushes, shoving Equal packets into my mouth. Those bushes were the same one that Arnold Parker had fingered me in the summer previous. The chemically sweet taste was far inferior to my insatiable desire for sugary, fatty goodness, but it was either this, or hacking my veins open with a filed down haircomb. The Equal packets quelled my gluttonous appetite for sweets. Slowly, over time, I became desensitized to my need for these things. My caloric intake dwindled, as did my weight, and with this, my spirits and self esteem soared. I had friends. Boys noticed me. At first, it was hard, but the ends far outweighed the means. This was it.

I find myself falling down, falling into old patterns. Depression brings out the Cookie Monster in me, and I can't stop. I eat everything I can get my hands on, and today was no different. I consumed an entire dozen of Krispy Kreme Cookies and Kreme donuts...then I licked the box clean. the fifteen minutes it took me to eat them, dulled the maddening pain in my heart. The crushed Oreos topping the donuts looked like something Claude Monet would have painted when he was feeling like I was -- an impressionistic muddle of brown, grey and black; crushed pieces of heartbreak. Hobbes looked at me forlornly, but knowingly. Sometimes I think he's the only one that can feel my pain. I can virtually feel the cottage cheese collecting under the skin of my thighs now; but it doesn't matter. I am alone.

all about steph: 100 things (so far)

1. I uttered my first word when I was only six months old. The word? "Me."
2. My twin sister Annie has been my best friend ever since we bonded our way through four summers of fat camp.
3. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than spilling the intimate details of my life all over this blog, and knowing that you love me for it.
4. My former best friend's second cousin's college roommate went to high school with Meg Ryan, whom I adore. She (the roommate) sent me a photocopy of her yearbook page with Meggy's signature on it. I keep it on my fridge.
5. Any man who pays for our first date will probably be in bed with me on the second... as long as he pays for the lube, too.
6. I am the best cook I know.
7. I believe a girl's nailpolish shade says a lot about her. I'm currently wearing OPI nailpolish in "SoHo Nice To Meet You", from the New York City collection, because it reflects my cosmopolitan allure and sophistication.
8. I love making lists.
9. I had my first sexual experience at age nine, but I didn't actually lose my viriginity until age fifteen. His name was Lance Worthington III - those WASPy names get me every time - but he didn't live up to it. He wasn't worthy of my flower.
10. I love spending rainy days curled on my ottoman with Calvin at my feet, watching great chick flicks like Uptown Girls and thinking about how much prettier I am than Brittany Murphy.
11. I'm not just needy, I'm needed. I love knowing that without my calm guidance and sympathy, someone might drown in depression. That knowledge keeps me warm and safe from those jealous haters who don't really get me.
12. I don't know where Illinois, Colorado, or Mexico is on the U.S. map.
13. I own six different Hermes scarves, all equally gorgeous.
14. The only thing more irritating than talking to a JAP is being mistaken for one, just because people don't recognize my fresh, original personality and unique talent.
15. I'm excellent at my job (I work at a large marketing firm) but my real passion has always been writing. I love words: playing with them, rolling them around my tongue, inventing them. Every time I write a truly brilliant post - okay, all my posts are brilliant - I print it out and keep it under my pillow. Later, I masturbate to my own words; they turn me on.
16. I'm used to getting compliments from total strangers, usually about my gorgeous - and natural! - titian curls.
17. In college, I was the only girl not picked to join a sorority. I was devastated at the time, but now I realize they hated me because I had such perfect hair.
18. I love anything cashmere.
19. Charlie O'Connell (Jerry O'Connell's younger brother; the one from The Bachelor) hit on me at a gallery opening last spring. He was sneaking glances at me the whole night, until he finally summoned the courage to walk halfway across the room, just to ask me stop taking pictures of him and his snotty girlfriend. If she hadn't been there, he would have kissed me.
20. Sounds I love: the soft click of a camera shutter, the rhythm of Jimmy Choo stilettos on pavement, catcalls directed at me because I look so hot, my voice.
21. Smells I love: swiss and parmesan fondue, bedsheets after sex, my freshly washed hair.
22. I'm good at writing, photography, cooking, singing, giving head, talking about myself, reading magazines, shopping, applying mascara, self-promotion and shaking martinis.
23. I'm not good at faking things.
24. I lie about my age sometimes, but that's okay because I really do look younger than I am.
25. When Annie and I were in fourth grade, Cindy Johnson asked me why my twin was prettier than me. I punched Cindy in the face, didn't talk to Annie for a week, and ate six gallons of heavenly hash ice cream.
26. I like big penises.
27. I have a degree in English from an Ivy League university.
28. Someday I am going to write the Great American Novel of my time, like Huckleberry Finn or The Great Gatsby or Bergdorf Blondes.
29. When I'm bored, I love to alphabetize my closet, sorting the clothes, shoes, and bags by label. Chloe before Dior, Lanvin before Michael Kors, and so on.
30. I have never eaten vegetables from a can.
31. I have never lost a competition. I always win at wet t-shirt contests.
32. I once rode in an elevator with Benicio Del Toro. He was DELicious.
33. The only newspaper I read is the New York Times.
34. I survived massive shock and disappointment, and came out stronger and better for the experience.
35. Dean & Deluca is my home away from home.
36. I once slept with somebody whose stepsister is friends with the woman who played Natasha on Sex and the City.
37. My first pet was a parrot named Princess, who would repeat everything I said in a shrill voice. I loved her, but the rest of my family got tired of hearing her shriek "Look at me! Look at me!" all the time, so they made me give her away. I'm still not really over it.
38. I met Mary Kate Olsen in the VIP room of a Greenwich Village club. I asked her for diet tips, but I guess she couldn't hear me over the music because she just looked blankly at me.
39. My daily Starbucks order: venti chai latte, steaming hot with skim milk and a fragrant dusting of cinnamon.
40. My hair is naturally red, but don't ask me to prove it. I plucked out all the carpeting yesterday.
41. In high school, my nickname was "walrus" because I weighed 170 pounds. I was miserable. No one liked me, and looking back, I can't blame them. I don't like fat people either.
42. I don't go to church. The Blue Ribbon is my religious experience.
43. I had liposuction, and it's more than just some item on a list.
44. On a cloudy morning, when I was nine years old, I asked God for a sign that I would be rich and famous when I grew up. I looked in the nearest mirror, saw my adorable face looking back, and smiled knowingly.
45. I'm proud to be a daddy's girl.
46. My boobs are the perfect size: 32D.
47. I refuse to drink alcohol, any kind of alcohol, out of a bottle. I'm just not a Corona and coolers kind of girl.
48. I had the opportunity to cheat on my last boyfriend. I didn't. Okay, I did, but let's face it: cheating in a different borough so doesn't count.
49. I called in sick to work one day because I was up all night googling myself.
50. I keep everything I've ever written - even one-liners or mental notes composed on paper napkins - in a locked safe in my bedroom along with a vial of my college boyfriend's frozen sperm.
51. I love talking on the phone with my sister, trading gossip and stories, comparing our boyfriends. The size of their penises, their bank accounts. Good talks, sis.
52. I'm still waiting for a man to sweep me off my feet.
53. I hate clichés.
54. I've developed a hard, polished exterior to prevent myself from getting hurt. Underneath, though, I'm still the same vulnerable, aching girl that cried herself to sleep when she got the wrong model of BMW for her sixteenth birthday.
55. I talked to Marcia Cross in a Starbucks line once, before she was on Desperate Housewives. Her red hair is almost as gorgeous as mine.
56. I've never been to Vegas, Boston, West Dakota or Brooklyn, but I'm planning to (except Brooklyn).
57. My favorite kind of bread is my own special focaccia recipe, with golden onion, parmesan and rosemary.
58. I once had my picture in the New Yorker. It was taken at a Tony Bennett concert, which was one of the most awe-inspiring experiences of my life. Okay, I was one of about forty fans in the shot, and you could only see the top of my head, but those silky red curls are unmistakable.
59. I don't believe in love at first sight, but I once fell in love on a first date. It was magic. I'm still waiting for him to show up on my doorstep, but if he doesn't, it's probably because he was intimidated by me. Most men are.
60. I love when I'm trying on clothes in front of those three-way mirrors, and all I can see is me.
61. Like my sister, I only eat Greek yogurt.
62. I dreamed of going to law school, then changed my mind. It had nothing to do with me not being smart enough, nothing at all. My gut told me that law would stifle my passion and creativity, and I listened. Now, the only regret I have is that I can't sue those jealous haters on my own.
63. I have never had a haircut that cost less than a hundred dollars.
64. I dated - okay, screwed - an artist in Greenwich Village. He was sweet, gorgeous, sensitive, and cultured. He told me he had his own store, but after I slept with him, he admitted he was living with his parents and doing caricatures for tourists on the street. Obviously, I dumped him. I know that sounds harsh, but a girl in this city has to have standards. Besides, I waited until he'd finished my lifesized portrait, which is now hanging on my living room wall.
65. I think everyone should own at least one "it" bag. I have four: Louis Vuitton, Balenciaga, Gucci, and of course, the famous Hermes Birkin.
66. Even though everyone covets my body now, I still stress about my weight. A few months ago I found myself inexplicably gaining again, but then Annie moved to LA and I was so crushed that I didn't eat for two weeks and lost twelve pounds. (Thanks Annie, you're the best!)
67. I don't understand how any woman can be seen wearing clothes from the mall, even if she is only middle class. There's just no excuse for that.
68. I can't live without my camera. At the Marc Jacobs store opening last weekend, I shot eighteen full rolls of film. There are no less than thirty-two gorgeous pictures of me smiling over my shoulder, holding a martini glass, with Kirsten Dunst and Jake Gyllenhaal making out in the background, all taken at slightly differing angles to capture me in my best light. I wanted to post them all, but Kiki said something about keeping their relationship under wraps, and of course I respect her wishes.
69. My skin is perfect, like pure cream, with golden freckles floating on the smooth surface.
70. I can't stand people who talk endlessly about themselves.
71. In high school, I loved creative writing class, but hated English, especially when we had to read plays. I could never understand the irony.
72. My role model is Oprah. How can you not look up to a woman who has the courage to put her own face on the cover of every one of her magazines? Some people would call that narcissistic. I call it inspirational.
73. I have a beautiful rosebud.
74. Sometimes I'm referred to as "that self-obsessed, pretentious little skank", but always by people who secretly wish they were me.
75. The last movie I saw was Proof. Yes, I know it's not in theatres yet. It was a special preview for special people, obviously.
76. My sister and I have matching dachshunds, Calvin and Hobbes, and the dogs have matching leashes, one for each day of the week. Burberry, Prada, Dior, Gucci, Louis, Chanel, and Marc on Sundays. Calvin misses Hobbes.
77. I claim to like classic novels like Lolita, but I've never actually read it. I'd rather reread my own blog posts.
78. I once had brunch six tables away from Sean Penn. It was tender crepes with fresh fruit and lingering glances. I licked the whipped cream from my spoon slowly and seductively, and I even caught him checking me out once or twice, but he was obviously too nervous to approach me.
79. I won't date anyone who doesn't have the right connections.
80. Annie had a pet cat, Beauty, that committed suicide by running away from us and climbing onto the top of the garage door while it was opening. If only our legs weren't so plump, we might have gotten there in time to save her.
81. I've loved too many cocks to ever pick a favorite. I do, however, prefer circumsized to uncut. It's just so much cleaner.
82. I'm not afraid of men anymore; they're afraid of me. I don't hesitate to grab a dick by the balls (pun intended) no matter how many of our friends are watching.
83. When I was a little girl, I wore nothing but dresses until age ten, when I became too fat and had to switch to elastic-waist pants.
84. I love ice crystals. I also love cute ski instructors. I licked the post of a chairlift in Park City, Utah once, and my tongue stuck to it, just so one could come and rescue me.
85. Money has never been an object for me.
86. I once had two penises in me at once. I won't tell you where; that would be crass, and I'm anything but.
87. I could spend all summer in the Hamps with my chiclets, relaying gossip and licking homemade ice cream from my slender, newly tanned fingers.
88. Sometimes, when I'm too tired even to masturbate, I let my dog lick my bits, caressing me with hot slobber.
89. When it's cold out, my nipples instantly stand up and poke through my shirt, attracting all men within a ten mile radius.
90. When it's hot out, my hair becomes kinky and wild (but still gorgeous).
91. When I have the flu, my nose drips slightly. Sometimes I cough or sneeze.
92. My photographs of New York hang in every corridor, hall, room and closet of my sister's LA apartment.
93. Avril Lavigne songs move me to the very bottom of my soul. I once played "He Wasn't" on repeat for three straight days.
94. My eyelashes are 0.73 of an inch long.
95. The Little Black Dress is overrated. I like to create my own classics; besides, I look better in white.
96. If I could marry myself, I would.
97. I hate when people say TMI. There's no such thing as too much information, not when you as complex and fascinating as me.
98. I recently photographed a Prada show, and was seated in the front row next to Kristin Davis. She was very quiet, but sweet, and she smiled when I gave her my card.
99. I've taken pictures of many, many celebrities, but I don't like to drop names. It's so unclassy.
100. I don't understand people who can contain their personalities in a mere one hundred things. I could write a thousand facts about myself and still be scratching the surface of my multi-faceted soul.

I'll be adding more to this list soon, but right now, it's time for me to sink into a steaming bath full of Evian and champagne - with my sweet puppy, of course - and wonder why the men in my life never call me back.

Friday, August 26, 2005

comments, so long.

A day end update:

Traffic today has been absolutely insane. Thanks to everyone who is jumping on board with us...your comments and emails have kept me from going completely mad today.

Blogger has also cut off our ability to access half of our posts, the ones in "question". The plan of attack from here on out is to move to blog elsewhere, the first step being moving the comment and trackback hosting over to the folks at haloscan. please know that i saved down every last comment you guys made, and i will try to find a way to get them back up; it's not quite the same without them. I need to get out of my office, and will work on moving the blog tonight.

a public service announcement from the fabulous goldsteins

If you've read this far without realizing that this is a satirical blog, and you're simmering with righteous indignation about us plagiarizing or some shiite, here's why you can't sue our (tight and shapely) asses. First of all, parody is protected under the fair use portion of U.S. copyright law. Essentially, we are allowed to "borrow" the ideas and writing style of another blogger/writer/human being/self-indulgent twat for the sole purpose of creating satire (as opposed to, say, landing a six-figure book deal). Secondly, to our knowledge, we have not copied anyone else's writing verbatim, which would constitute plagiarism. Thirdly, we're allowed to be this bitchy. Satire is considered free speech, even when it's done cruelly and anonymously. (That last part is kind of an inside joke. It just never gets old.) Finally, let me say it again: free speech, people. FREE PHUCKING SPEECH.

I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. I was hoping that the average blog reader would be smart enough to catch on after a while. I was hoping that the target of our little parody - who TOTALLY deserves it, by the way - would at least be grown up enough to take a joke.

But apparently not. So let me just take this opportunity to say that if, despite our best efforts, this blog gets shut down, it was all a big joke. Thanks for laughing with us. And go buy a shirt.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

being me

I see by the comments that you've all missed me terribly while I was away. Thank you for reminding me why it is that I write: attention.

Last week was vay-cay in the Hamps with my chicklets. The four of us bonded over Sex and the City reruns and masturbation fantasies. The weather outside was perfect, a jewel-blue sky with clouds like swirls of frosting, but inside I was cooking up a gourmet storm. We devoured Manhattan gossip along with our pesto and mascarpone on crostini. I told my stories, earning understanding smiles and a few shed tears. We sipped limoncello martinis on flowered patios and shopped the trendiest boutiques in East Hampton. I bought gold wedge sandals, a Prada handbag, two cocktail dresses, chandelier earrings, a multitude of scarves.

Sunday night, I came home with my suitcase full of silk and my head full of memories. Calvin stirred from sleep and leapt up, oozing fresh slobber and genuine delight. His shiite was all over my new Vogue, but I didn't mind; at least I didn't have to face that lonely ache by myself. I love my dog, but I want a man. Someone to unpack with, to help me sort out my life into drawers and shelves. I crave the order and stability of a relationship. Comfort food for the soul.

I spent all week soaking my brave face in golden sunshine and flirting with college freshmen. I flashed milk-white teeth at every camera. Hundreds of happy, perfectly-edited photos. My deep secret longings - a husband, a permanent Hamptons home, a flatter stomach - are submerged beneath the glossy face, Photoshopped to perfection. On the surface, I'm a free-spirited independent woman with loose curls and looser morals, but I carry these desires like gonorrhea, a permanent itch just below the skin.

In my bedroom, I logged onto my computer, began reading emails from agents and comments from fans. "Why no new posts?" Because I have a phucking life, darlings. And suddenly everyone's interested in it.

Yet despite all the attention I'm getting, I don't feel like I've changed. Sometimes, when I'm reading yet another email from an adoring reader, I realize that Goldstein has become a label, like Gucci or J.Lo. But underneath all the fabulousness and fame, I'm still the same needy little girl, just longing to be held. Wait, scratch that. I'm still the same needy BIG girl; my inner fattie refuses to shrink.

This is the real Steph Goldstein: a vulnerable woman, with barely visible flaws like my freckles under foundation, struggling to carry my Louis luggage up the stairs to my penthouse, just like everyone else.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

sock memories

I found a piece of you on my bathroom floor this morning. A single, sweat-stained sock, lying crumpled in the corner. Like my heart. It looked lonely on the cold tile. I picked it up, fingering the soft, nubby cotton-spandex blend.

My eyes were full of tears; my Kleenex box was empty. I crushed your sock to my face, inhaling a pungent aroma of sweat, dust, and toe jam. Suddenly, thoughts of you flooded the corners of my brain.

You always used to leave your socks on. I would tease you, pulling them off with eager fingers, tickling your tender soles with my newly manicured nails. I was touching your soul, too; I could tell by the way you looked up at me as you asked me to stop. Your gaze would pierce me and I would be transfixed, immobile, the sock slipping from my fingers to the floor.

These memories came in waves like pleasure. Cuddling. Kisses. Anal sxe. For the second time in a week, I was unprepared. I needed a life jacket, not the orange ones I was too fat for as a child, but a mental boost to keep me afloat. I needed my sister, but she was vacationing in the Hamps. I needed creme brulee with caramelized fruit, or a box full of truffles in dark rows, but I didn't need any extra weight. I was already sinking too fast. Drowning in recollection.

I don't phucking need this! The scream echoed inside my head as I collapsed against the wall.

Two weeks. Too fast. I still don't know what to feel, what to think. I don't know whether to call you or to forget you, whether to return your sock or keep it under my pillow. Maybe someday I'll figure it out, when the odor of your foot sweat has faded.

Thursday, August 11, 2005


I have a beautiful rosebud. It's pink and puckered and perfectly rounded, a tender ring of flesh nestled softly between my smooth asscheeks. My self-lust is so strong, sometimes it masquerades as constipation; I can feel it there, hard and aching. I stand with my back to the mirror and look over my bare shoulder. I like watching the hole twitch and pulse with pleasure. I inhale my odor, warm and pungent. The strawberry lube wears away, mingling with my own sweet juices. I am sxeually attracted to myself, to my asshole and its odor, the way I clench and itch. Usually, nothing turns me on like the sight of my gorgeous asshole peeping out from between those creamy cheeks; amazingly, however, that alone can't always do it for me. On these (extremely) rare occasions, I conjure up images to help me along. Recently I've been visualizing a large black dildo pressed between my buttocks. I can't see the dildo; I only feel the cool rubber and the hard, lifelike ridges below the smooth head. I fantasize about being crammed, repeatedly, and begging for mercy.

Nothing gets my juices flowing as much as the thought of a man taking what he wants. That giant dildo feels strong, aggressive, and upon a little backwards wriggling, even intrusive. I can escape, even as I write this, eyes closed and asshole open, in the blissful vision of a man with his brawny arms around my slender waist, his hands pulling my hips towards his groin. He doesn't just want to fuck me in the ass; he thinks it's beautiful, and wants to fully explore it. Only a real man, one with lube and anal fixation, fucks like that. And I’m afraid lube and anal fixation have way too much mental airspace in my head.

Don't get me wrong; vaginal is fine. Vaginal is slow and steady and usually wins the race. Vaginal is never completely fabulous. I'm admitting it shamelessly: I worship my lube and anal fixation. I gravitate towards anal sxe. That sweet, lovely asshole of mine practically makes my decisions for me. Sometimes it makes impractical ones, makes me want to wear a Gucci mini and leave the thong at home when I go grocery shopping. It makes me reach for the greek yogurt on the very bottom shelf, so I bend over slowly, tantalizing the shy restocking boy and scandalizing all those jealous, pear-shaped women. I don’t know how to get over the magnificence of my asshole. Maybe I need to go sxe shopping, buy a vibrator for my lonely clit. I can unfixate myself. I can.

Okay, I can’t. I’m stuck all day with my fingers in my rosebud, my back stiff from leaning over the bathroom counter, neck sore from watching myself in the mirror behind me, the pink spasms of my asshole as I climax over and over again. Maybe I do need a man. My fingers don’t ever reach all the way to that sweet spot.

I wonder if I’ve ever really loved a man for his personality. I weigh his wallet and the way he treats my flower, and if I'm satisfied there, I slide right into “I love you” faster than a dildo into a lube-coated hole. I've forgotten what it's like to really truly just like someone, regardless of their penis size or favorite flavor of lube.

Perhaps the only way I'll slide into real love is to slide into "like" first, but that's so... vanilla. It's right up there with vaginal. And, as you know, I prefer chocolate.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

break down

I realized this morning that I didn’t care about you anymore. I. Just. Don’t. Care.

Okay, I lie. I do care. I care so much that I feel like I want to throw myself under a train. Under a bus. Anything to dull the pain that's been chewing at the edges of my soul since you threw my feelings, my heart away, like you would an empty Snickers wrapper. A hotdog foil. A pair of cheap chopsticks. The freshness seal on a yogurt container.

I pace. I wait. Nothing.

It doesn’t matter that I blocked you; there are ways that you should find me. I try to keep myself occupied. Work on a project, cook dinner, search for split ends in my hair. What I'm really looking for is a whole answer.

How could you misconstrue my genuine feelings for something else? I’m so confused. Hurt. Angry. Horny. Man, I need to get laid. How am I supposed to go to RokBar by myself? Who am I supposed to take home for Cara’s wedding next week?

I slip quietly to the floor, sobbing. I remember our conversation like it was yesterday; really, it was only just over an hour ago. The Conversation. It feels like it was an eternity ago.

(11:34:08) sethalexander: Can I ask you something?
(11:34:21) annabethgoldstein: Sure.
(11:34:33) sethalexander: Why do you have to be so needy all the time?
(11:34:52) sethalexander: I mean, I'm not trying to be a dick...
(11:34:53) annabethgoldstein: What? I don't understand.
(11:35:01) sethalexander: It's like - every five seconds you're IM'ing me.
(11:35:07) annabethgoldstein: but...
(11:35:15) sethalexander: I mean, wait 5 MINUTES at least.
(11:35:23) sethalexander: I can't get a thing done over here. Maybe
(11:35:25) annabethgoldstein: I just want to see what you're doing, how you’re doing. You know? I miss you.
(11:35:35) sethalexander: You can hold all your questions, and then write them down...
(11:35:37) sethalexander: then send me an e-mail at the end of the day?
(11:35:52) sethalexander: I'm just saying -- if I don't get stuff done here, I don't get paid
(11:35:58) sethalexander: And that affects you, ya know?
(11:36:09) sethalexander: Cause then I can't take you out where you "have to go to be seen."
(11:36:20) annabethgoldstein: but...
(11:36:26) sethalexander: But, but, but, but, but...
(11:36:27) annabethgoldstein: wow. I don't know what to say.
(11:36:28) sethalexander: Say SOMETHING.
(11:36:41) annabethgoldstein: I am floored.
(11:36:43) sethalexander: Look, do you get where I'm coming from?
(11:36:49) sethalexander: I mean...you're smothering me.
(11:36:52) sethalexander: And you're not even NEXT TO ME.
(11:37:16) annabethgoldstein: You call it smothering. I call it loving.
(11:37:21) annabethgoldstein: I CARE about you.
(11:37:23) sethalexander: Jesus.
(11:37:25) annabethgoldstein: Don't you get that?
(11:37:29) sethalexander: YES.
(11:37:36) sethalexander: I'm being clobbered over the HEAD with that.
(11:37:48) annabethgoldstein: So what are you trying to say, then?
(11:37:51) sethalexander: Look...
(11:38:02) sethalexander: How do I put this...
(11:38:07) sethalexander: Um.
(11:38:17) annabethgoldstein: what? SPEAK.
(11:38:18) sethalexander: Here, I have a great idea.
(11:38:19) sethalexander: Seriously.
(11:38:26) sethalexander: Let's just try something for fun here
(11:38:30) annabethgoldstein: Something fun? I love fun things.

11:38:33) sethalexander: Why don't you pretend I don't exist for a few days...
(11:38:45) sethalexander: Prove to yourself you don't NEED me 24/7.

11:38:52) annabethgoldstein: That doesn't sound fun. That sounds like you're breaking up.
(11:39:11) annabethgoldstein: I DON'T NEED YOU.
(11:39:13) annabethgoldstein: YOU need ME.
(11:39:24) annabethgoldstein: You'll REALISE that when I'm not around anymore.
(11:39:26) sethalexander: That's the biggest piece of bullshit I've heard all week.
(11:39:40) sethalexander: I need you like I need a bullet to the head.
(11:39:40) annabethgoldstein: I guess we're done here, then.
(11:39:49) sethalexander: Haha, yeah. Whatever.
(11:40:02) sethalexander: You'll be back.
(11:40:09) sethalexander: In 35 seconds.
(11:40:44) annabethgoldstein: I've been thinking, and this really isn't working out between us. I don’t think this is healthy, and I don’t think you appreciate how much I care about you.
I'm blocking you now.

I hit block. Prompted, "Are you sure?". Deep breath.

Yes. No. Block. Shiite.

I looked down; there was dog crap on the floor, floating in a pool of tears. I felt like I was the one floating. Lost, drifting in endless worry. I wondered, half-bitterly... is this how my life will always be? Crying while I clean up Calvin's poop? At least his crap is small, the size of doughnut holes. I can scoop it up, toss it neatly, spray Febreze and it's gone. Your crap is smeared all over this place, foul brown words on my white satin sheets. No amount of paper towels will fix the mess you left.

I just want to feel fresh and clean and loved again. I want things the way they were before it all started to stink. Before I blocked you. We'd only been together two weeks; it's too early for this to end.

Monday, August 08, 2005


I don't believe in love at first sight. It's a cliché, a desperate wish. Women who believe in such urban legends are all surface. I'm much more. Men who fall in love with me need time to reach past the fabulous exterior. Time spent sounding the depths of my personality, listening to me talk about myself. My favorite things. My not-so-favorite memories.

Love on a first date is another story, one interspersed with blushing glances over plates of pink ginger salmon tartare with steamed watercress and sesame oil. Your hand grazing mine, lingering hesitant. Diffused heat prickling my skin under the freckles. Unspoken knowing.

I had felt traces of this connection from the moment you slid into a neighboring stool at the martini bar. Words slipped out of your mouth like green olives, smooth and glossy with gin. "Hey, Red." Friday night and we were both alone, drinking. "Make it dirty. On second thought, make it filthy." You were talking about more than martinis. I could feel the spark, and I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with how soused we both were. It was lust and passion, yet somehow, more than just sxe. Suddenly I understood what they meant by "whirlwind romance". I felt dizzy already.

We exchanged names and blog addresses. You slurred, "When can I see you again?" I seized my opportunity: "Tomorrow night. Dinner." I named the most expensive restaurant I could think of, with no intention of picking up the tab. Call me selfish or a bitch (you won't be the first) but it's my favourite first-date test. A man who won't pay for the first dinner won't run fifteen blocks to the twenty-four-hour drugstore that carries my favorite brand of facial tissue because I'm crying about fat camp at four in the morning, either. I don't want to waste my time.

Luckily you passed the test with flying colors. Actually, it was only one color: green. As you pulled crisp, beautiful hundred-dollar bills out of your Italian leather wallet, I felt the unmistakable stirring of emotion. I felt tender beneath my still-tough facade. I wanted you to be there for me, always.

You sat quiet as I talked, your expression one of deep thought. When your eyes closed I knew you were imagining us together, cuddling naked in the velvety dark or taking long walks with Hobbes in the rosy morning. I could picture you at my door, smiling proudly with your hands full of small boxes, robin's egg blue with white ribbons.

Finally, you yawned, a clear signal -- it was getting late. On the cab ride to my apartment you came to life. You leaned in closer and kissed me, your lips hard and insistent. I surrendered as you moved in, your eager hands leaving a trail of dewy sweat up my inner thigh. My sweet moans filled the cab, but the driver didn't mind; you tipped him a twenty.

When I woke up this morning there was a swirl of cotton in the place you fell asleep last night, right after I finished blowing you. You must have had to go to work early - very early; it was five a.m. It was sweet of you not to wake me up when you left, but I wish you had. I forgot to give you my number last night, and you forgot to leave me yours. Still, neither of us could forget the unique beauty of what we shared. And I know you'll find me again, because when you fall in love on a first date, none of the usual rules apply. You don't need to call me. You'll show up on my doorstep one day, hands filled with blue and platinum, hoping to surprise me. But I won't be surprised at all.

Friday, August 05, 2005

being a lady

I have to admit, Steph had to convince me to be in on this blog. I was fairly reluctant about posting intimate details about my life on the internet, but she assured me that everything would be fine, and that people would love us (unlike that whole devastating sorority mess at NYU). And you do! You really do! Thank you all so much for the lovely notes and comments you have been leaving. Your support and love means so much to us, especially since we are having such a hard time right now, being so far apart from eachother.

I think that Steph is a little more traumatized by the whole fat camp/former fattie thing than I am. I sort of take it in stride now, whereas she never shuts up about it. It’s almost like a broken record sometimes…but it’s one of her quirks that is just so adorable, you know? I love you, Sissy! It’s also safe to say that I have my yo-yo under control a teensy-weensy more than she does. And by yo-yo, I mean my weight. She fluctuates a little more than I do, mainly because she just can’t seem to grasp the brilliant method I have down for contolling my weight: yogurt.

That’s right, yogurt. Specifically, smooth, creamy, deliciously tart yogurt. I refuse to eat anything else for breakfast. Every morning I wake up, slip out of my Dior nightie and into the steamy embrace of my shower. Then I wrap myself in a silky, fluffy, high-thread-count towel and head to my kitchen. In my stainless steel refrigerator there is a shelf filled with neat rows of small, gleaming white plastic containers. Strawberry Kiwi, French Vanilla, Mocha Latte, Key Lime, Apricot Mango, White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake: flavors as unique and delightful as I am. I choose one and peel back the top, exposing the shiny underside. Like the proverbial silver lining in every cloud, the seal reminds me to look on the bright side. I smile as I dip my gold-plated spoon into the container, and watch it emerge, dripping with thick white goodness. I trace the spoon's contours with my tongue, gently teasing, before I lick it clean. Delicious.

All that sweet fat-free yogurt keeps me in the fabulous shape I am in now, as well as having some extraordinary side effects, my favorite being that you don’t poop anymore. I don’t like pooping; futhermore, hot chicks really shouldn’t poop. EVER. It’s a disgusting bodily function that should never be performed by any beautiful woman who wants to be socially accepted. And you know what else? It makes my passion for back door action so much more enjoyable, and so much less embarrassing. I mean, who wants to deal with the awkward grossness of dealing with – quel horreur! – poop after a a fantastic session of anal sxe? Certainly not I.

I remember the day I discovered another use for yogurt. I was wearing cashmere, so it had to be winter. In a rush to get to work, I had skipped my shower that morning. My hair was piled messily on my head; my makeup was half-done. As I waited for my colleague Erin to meet me for lunch in the cafeteria, I unzipped my purse and pulled out three yogurts. Lemon chiffon, butterscotch, pina colada. Two too many choices. I was tired from my previous night's activities, and the labels blurred in front of me.

I don't remember how he introduced himself, or what I said in response. Maybe something about my yogurt; I'm not sure. All I know is that we ended up licking each other's creamy leftovers from the same spoon. Butterscotch, I think it was.

Erin arrived and the focus shifted, became less intense. Light banter replaced flirtatious dialogue. The yogurt kept coming. When Erin left, he said "I hope you're not going back to work, too. I want to keep talking." I said, "I won't leave", and he understood my deeper meaning. "Come back to my office, it's not as cold in there." We were, after all, in an airconditioned office, and I was, after all shivering. Okay, let's face it, had I been warmer than a bowl of chili on a hot stove, I would have feigned hypothermia to follow this man back to his corner office.

He's standing in front of his chair, I'm bent over the desk, facing him. He has a lovely view of my cleavage. I'm saying, "I'm a lady, you know. I'm not have sxe with you." When a lady says this, she means vaginal intercourse. Everything else is permissible; he knows this, and opens his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Astroglide. Ewww. Somehow, Astroglide just signals all the wrong things. He shook it and watched, frustrated, as a smattering of drops landed on his desk. "Damn, I'm out."

I left the room and returned with my spare yogurt, the French Vanilla I always kept a spare in my cubicle.


Afterwards we lay naked and sprawled out on his antique chaise lounge. We talked about everything, and this part I recall clearly, the details lodged in my memory forever like bits of licorice in teeth. Before I knew it, it was early morning and the sunlight was making kaleidoscope patterns across our bodies and the mess on the floor. "Wow", I say, gingerly walking across the floor. Our clothes are everywhere, like dirty dishes, and then I see the empty container of creamy white French Vanilla yogurt.

"Yeah, it's a great view, isn't it?" He's looking out the corner window. I stood naked, dazed and confused. At least it wasn't Wildberry; that stuff is impossible to get out of carpet.

a life lesson

In high school, my sister and I were nerds. Hard to believe, I know, but it gets worse: we were fat nerds. Waddling down the hallways, thighs rubbing, underwear riding up in the cracks of our plump bottoms. I remember it keenly, the hot sting of tears behind half-closed lids. Looking down at my bulging stomach, avoiding the mocking giggles.

Cut to my first day at NYU. I'm wearing Calvin Klein jeans that hug my now tight and shapely ass. Smiling confidently. Tossing my shiny curls. Basking in the glow of admiring glances from cute college seniors. I was hiding my inner fattie behind svelte curves, a flat stomach, and best of all, my newly exposed collarbones.

Now that I was thin, I was finally ready to be "in". In with the sorority girls, that is. You know the ones: the Betties, the pretty girls with matching pink shirts and perfect manicures. Already popular and fashionable, I was well on my way to being acknowledged by the highest ranks of the university caste system. Not that I needed them to recognize my fabulousness. No, I wanted it like you want sweet, fluffy icing on an already delicious cake.

I mingled with the best of them, memorizing pretty faces, collecting names the way I used to collect candy and hide it under my bed at fat camp. But where the candy made me fat, these names would make me popular. "Oooh, nice shoes, Tiffany. I have the same ones in mauve." "Good to meet you, Kelly Ann." I was one of them; I knew it, and I knew they knew it. I spoke the same language, wore the same labels, sparkled with the same je ne sais quoi. Yet I was utterly genuine; I didn't have to pretend to be fab. How could they not love me?

But somehow, they didn't. And to this day, I can't understand why not. Looking back, it seems like a freak accident or an unexplained phenonemon. Getting hit by lightning, twice. Crop circles on a well-groomed suburban lawn. The kind of mystery even Sherlock Holmes would struggle with. A tragedy, even. Senseless.

Okay, I'll get to the point: I, Steph Goldstein, was a sorority reject.

All the other girls got bid envelopes. Yes, even the fat ones, the ugly ones, the dogs and hippos. And I, no longer fat or ugly, was cast aside like an empty chocolate bar wrapper.

For years, I've kept the pain of that awkward rejection letter to myself. I never told anyone except Annie. Instead I said: "Sororities are for desperate girls who want to prove how popular and fashionable they are. I'm too fabu for that; I don't need to prove anything." But inside, I felt that familiar sting once again. Not good enough, not thin enough, not pretty enough. Somehow, despite all my best efforts, just not enough.

So why am I breaking my long-held silence, out here on the world wide web where everyone can see my heartbreak? Why now, at 1:43 p.m., on a steaming hot day in New York? Because I'm older now, and I'm wiser. I no longer need hide my inner fattie, or hide in my dorm room crying.

Now I can say: Look in the mirror.

Realize that you're thin and pretty, and that's all that matters. Forget what other people say; the only person who should be handing out rejection slips is you. Reject the bitches, the haters, the dogs and the hippos, and realize that they're the ones who aren't good enough for you. Realize that there's a whole world out there, full of people who will love you for the popular, fashionable woman you are. Not that you need their approval either; all you need is to make yourself happy -- just you, no one else. Do you whatever it takes to feel superior, and enjoy the view from the top. How do I do it? I write. Not in a group of pink-and-white sorority sisters, but with my own sister, on an amazing blog, for everyone, but really, just for us.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

warm fuzzies

Apparently some people think this is a joke. It is not. This is not a place for negativity or evil thoughts, people – this is for us to share the utter marvelousness of our lives with the world; with people we may not reach otherwise.

Meanies will not be tolerated.

ANYWAYS, snap back to reality, shall we?

Our mother is a beautiful, strong woman. She stands about five-eleven, and has utterly stunning, long curly hair. She is, undoubtedly, the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.

My sister and I were both lucky enough to inherit the curls and the height, but we were a bit of a disappointment because we were also fat when we were kids. Four consecutive summers at fat camp in Hamilton, Ontario fixed that – and although, by our fifteenth birthdays we were living in new, smaller bodies, it took a while for our mindsets to catch up. All that time, though, she never verbalized how frustrated she was that she had reared two sea lions instead of daughters.

On the outside, people were gushing over us. Boys were noticing. The cheerleaders wanted to be our friends; on the inside, we were still the same chubby kids. The taunts still haunted us. But I digress.

We inherited many things from our wonderful mother, things that remind us of her daily. One of those things is making lists. We both love writing lists! It makes us feel so happy and in control! And organized! And not fat! And when we do feel fat, all we have to do it write a list and it makes us feel so much better. Here’s a list I started today, entitled, “Things That Are Totally Fabulous (Besides Us)”.

the smell of the first rain in spring

strangers smiling at you in the street; bonus points if they are cute boy strangers

valentine’s day gifts, especially when I get what I want

a good whiskey sour

everything new york city

almost nothing los angeles

boys that open the door for you

1970 dom perignon

magnolia bakery

snowflakes falling on my nose

manolo, jimmy and stuart

front-row anything

back door action

sweet smelling note paper, roses, love

the beatles, chick lit and power ballads

good red wine, snuggles and teddy bears

I just got busted at work and have to go now…but I’m sure Steph has stuff to add to this list. We’ll keep it going.


Update: More Fabulous Things (by Steph)

cashmere socks

the absolute euphoria of writing something so brilliant, so piercingly true, that I can't believe I wrote it (but then, at the same, I can believe it; I'm so complex)

waking up to the sweet kisses of my adorable dog, hobbes

extra-virgin olive oil

virgin college boys

tender, fragrant spaghetti, laced with fresh basil and swirls of parm

anything juicy - pasta, pizza, or me - is always a good time

feeling needed, not needy

watching a great chick flick, and realizing that the gorgeous, empowered heroine is really just like me (except my boobs are even bigger!)

the feel of a Lanvin silk skirt swishing against the backs of my toned calves

Hermes scarves, diamond-and-platinum tennis bracelets, a glossy leather Marc Jacobs handbag with the tags still on, hanging in my closet, waiting to become a part of me

Egyptian cotton on my bare skin and Kiehl's leave-in conditioner on my damp curls

being utterly spoiled

the warmth of my Powerbook, sitting on my lap and gently vibrating as I type sxey messages to my match.com lovers

Pam cooking spray, especially when used as a substitute for lube

and more...

it takes two

It seems my sister has beaten me to the punch of the first post; luckily, we passed our fighting stage long ago.

I think Annie & I really bonded the first summer we went away to fat camp. Don't look so shocked. We may be thin and beautiful now, but at age ten we were the object of cruel nicknames in the playground. "Elephant" and "rhino", "walrus" and "woolly mammoth." That kind of pain can't be faced alone. Even eating isn't that enjoyable when you have to do it alone, at a dirty corner table in the cafeteria, far away from the cheerleaders. So we stuck together, like two halves of a Twix bar.

Now, after two decades of sticking together, we find ourselves apart. Annie flew to LA about a month ago and is settling into her new job there. I stayed behind with my first true love, Manhattan. It's tough being so far away from my dear twin, the second most fabulous person I know. It's especially difficult when there's no one around to tell me how good I look, or make me stop devouring that carrot cake with lemony cream cheese frosting. Still, I'm hoping this new, trendy way of keeping in touch - our blog - will make the separation easier to bear.

I'm not going to pretend I don't have selfish reasons for starting this blog, too. I need a place just for me, a sanctuary, an escape, a garbage chute. I need a place to spill my thoughts like Pinot Noir on a pristine white tablecloth. Like my sister, I've always loved to write - words fascinate me, floor me with the perfect combination, fill my stomach like a huge bowl of macaroni and cheese - and now I'm going to write, every day. To my sister, to my friends, and to all of you who are going to read this and feel my words.

I'm not going to pretend anything on this blog, actually. That's just not me. I've always been honest, open, to the point of being vulnerable. Straight up. The kind of girl who just puts herself out there without giving a phuck what anyone thinks about it. Coming clean, even about the dirty things.

Thank you for joining us on our internet journey of sisterly love and self-discovery. It's going to be fabulous, darlings.

exposing ourselves for all the world to see

Last night, my sister and i were awake until the wee hours of the morning, chatting on AIM. Yes, us, the Fabulous Goldstein Sisters have become "geeks". Chic Geeks, I might add.

Our entry into geekdom came mostly out of necessity. In the month that I've been here, I've racked up a healthy phone bill. My phone has become permanently attached to my ear; my new boss is getting pissed. It is becoming harder and harder to make personal calls on company time.

Something had to be done.

First, it was cell phones and Blackberries. Then it was Powerbook G4s. Then it was AIM. Now, it is Blogger. Watch out, bitches.

Cue the Real World theme.

This is the true story of twin sisters, living apart and cross-country for the first time in their lives, to find out what happens if they really are still hip...even though they are no longer joined at the hip.

I know that Steph is going to head on over soon to say hi. For the moment I have to get back to "work". Pfft.

I look forward to sharing my (our) life with you! Kisses!