I have had this on my mind for days. Someone was blogging, a feminist which I once considered myself, about how we all hate Elizabeth Gilbert or whatever her name is because we secretly hate women…or some bullcrap. This is why I hate this book and I haven’t even read it.
When real women get a divorce, they don’t go to Italy and eat, they go on a diet because they realize that most men trawling for women won’t date you if you aren’t athletic and slim, or slender, or I guess emaciated. Real women don’t go to India to visit an ashram, if they are lucky they might be able to squeeze in a few days at church a year or maybe yoga, if the kids are young enough to not complain or old enough to leave at home alone. Real women don’t find love again right away, their ex’s do. Usually before their dicks are dry and the bed is cold. Generally while their dicks are still wet and the pillow still has your hair on it.
Real women don’t have the option of traveling around the world on a fabulous book advance, we usually have to sell or refinance a house, are scraping by to put boxed mac and cheese on the table, forget fresh pasta in Tuscany. I want someone to write a book about how real women cope with the loss of their marriages. How real women struggle with figuring out whom they are while taxi-ing kids to dance lessons and getting to work even though they can hardly get out of bed with their grief.
I want to know how real women find love when the single men over forty are single for a reason. They are broke, dead beats, porn addicts, losers, , drug addicts and alcoholics, at least the one I have met with nothing but the highest of hopes have been. There is no Mr. Right waiting for me in Bali, or in my driveway, at Barnes and Nobles, at Match.com, or in the park. And no matter how hard this woman tries I will never be athletic and trim or slender or emaciated. I am voluptuous, curvy, strong, fierce and I can go non-stop for about 18 hours. And yes, I eat. I like food. And believe it or not I have been eating for years, I didn’t just start to eat when I won a fabulous trip to Italy.
I love Italian, but usually I make it myself. Spaghettios are good for the kids too, if you are out late being Taxi Mom (cape not included).
I adore India, in National Geographic that I view while sipping lemon water at the bookstore. Oh and look porn addict drop your pants on the third date, in the public park, “just kiss it please”, just left me his phone number on the cafe table. How charming.
I think Bali are the best bras and I wait til they go on sale for half price or better yet hit the clearance rack (which is why I have two baby blue bras, a puce one, and one that is an odd shade of yellow, mustard? ochre? all for only 20$, cause I cannot afford Victoria’s Secret. And by the way the Secret Victoria has is that she was fucking my husband while he was still married to me.
Want to know why I hate the author of Eat, Pray, Love? Because all I have is Lean Cuisine, Drive, and Work. woo hoo.