Why Crumb Cake is Better than Men

I weighed in this morning: 147 (10 stone 7). I guess my days of a binge and then rapid return to my pre-binge weight after a few days of super-clean eating are over.

I don't particularly like the way I feel at this weight, but nor am I feeling particularly inspired to try to lose the four pounds. I know, I know – I never thought I'd hear myself say that, either. Maybe I'm just tired.

Anyway, I'm much more interested in stopping the binges in the first place. They've gotten entirely too frequent for my comfort. So... it's been 11 days since my last one. I'm determined to get to 30.

***

Last night I had an excruciatingly painful date with an Australian guy who runs a funeral home.

Don't ask.

He was very impressed with his own knowledge of history and how little he pays for rent (gee, that's a turn on, as is the story about his roommate who was jailed for nine months for defrauding the NHS). He also thought he was hilarious (which probably tells you all you need to know about what I thought about his sense of humor). He had black crescents of dirt around his fingernails, and I couldn't help wondering what sort of macabre task he'd just finished. Thirty minutes in, when he said he needed to run to the bank and made a joke about whether I'd be there when he got back, I seriously considered doing a runner.

Instead I slowly sipped my glass of white wine – I consumed half a glass in the time he drank two pints -- and debated my options. Staying and drinking until I found him remotely attractive and/or amusing was not one of them.

Who could I text and what excuse could I ask them to make? I couldn't think. I remembered the Fig's joke about escaping a date by claiming a friend was locked out, but it was only 8:30 pm – surely the imaginary friend could find an imaginary coffee shop or pub for a little while.

I debated staying and being polite, but 11 pm seemed light years away. Besides, life is short and my own lately has been chock-full of obligation and work I don't want to do. I didn't want to spend an entire evening making conversation with someone I already hoped I'd never see again.

So I confess I pulled one of the worst ones in the book. I claimed work – a particularly demanding American newspaper editor demanding changes that would require major reconstructive surgery on my piece. (In other words, they couldn't be filed via blackberry.) I delivered the news when he returned and stayed – out of politeness – for another half hour, thanking whatever illness I had that caused me to have watched an episode or two of Six Feet Under so I could fill the time by asking him to make comparisons.

***

Speaking of gay sex (hmmm, probably not a phrase I'll be using regularly), last week I interviewed two guys who run one of the yummiest bakeries in London. Did anyone see that story about the woman who married the fairground ride? Well, I'm going to marry these guys' crumb cake. (At least I won't have to pretend I enjoy its sense of humor.)

The guys were vastly entertaining – entertaining enough for me to only be thinking about all the gorgeous concoctions in their kitchen once every seven seconds instead of once every three. I was asking them about any funny mishaps they'd had because of the difference between British and American ingredients, and then told them about a friend's hunt for Crisco when she first moved here (and her subsequent horror in having to use lard).

The guys looked at each other.

"Should we tell her where you can find Crisco?" one said to the other.

They smirked.

"Oh, go on," said the other.

"You can buy Crisco at any gay sex shop in Soho."

"Oh right," I said. "Because gay guys do a lot of baking."

They laughed. Can't wait to print that particular tip in the family friendly Southern US magazine for which I'm writing this story...