First Right Of Refusal

I recently sold my horse. It was EASILY the hardest decision of my life; for those of you non-horsey people out there, imagine it feeling as it would be like to give up a 7 year old child. It was the right thing for me to do at this point in my life, financially, but about the only thing that made me actually go through with it instead of climbing on my mare's back and taking off into the sunset, neither of us to ever be seen again, was the fact that I was able to include a legally-binding buy-back clause in the ownership/sale agreement. This means, that if the barn were to ever sell her one day down the road, legally, they have to track me down and ask me if I want her back before they can offer her up for public sale. This is called the First Right of Refusal, and it is a lovely, wonderful thing.

Which is why I think it should be an unspoken agreement in all relationship stipulations.

Look, don't lie to us. You want to make things as painless as possible? Than tell us the truth, instead of a convenient cover, so we can skip the false hope, the anguish, the want, the heartbreak, and the loss, and skip right the fuck to hating you, get it out of our system faster, and over with, so we can dust ourselves off and move on with our lives. It's really the only humane thing to do. If you say, "I think I need some time on my own," please best believe that we'll be keeping a weather eye to make sure that you actually stay that way-- on your own-- for a while, like you told us you were going to. If you say, "Maybe sometime again later after I've had time," PLEASE, BEST BELIEVE that to us, that is like the First Right of Refusal. If we disband because YOU want some "alone time," you best believe that we fully intend to be the first woman tapped for duty when you get tired of playing by yourself. THAT is how women work. THAT is what we assume. When we say, "I'd like some strawberry jam on my toast, please, but no butter," what we mean is, "I'd like some strawberry jam on my toast, please, but for the love of god, if you bring the butter near me, I will CUT YOU," when what a MAN seems to mean when he says, "I'd like some strawberry jam, please, but no butter," is in his thinking, a politer way of saying, "Yeah, I'll take that toast with some strawberry jam, but later, I'm going to actually go back for that butter that you just offered me, because I was thinking about my body muscle index and I really do need to eat some more fat today before I hit the gym."

Woman: No butter means NO BUTTER.

Man: No butter means maybe I actually am going to have that butter, after all.

I can understand it is hard sometimes; life is confusing. I mean, hell, some mornings I wake up and have no clue where the fuck I am for the first 10 minutes that I'm barely cognizant. And there are some tough calls out there-- pay the heat bill, or the electric bill?-- that I thoroughly understand if they take you a while to work through. But let me break this down-- when you tell us you've thought long and hard and not taken anything lightly to reach a decision...you sure as HELL better follow through with that decision. To the T. Perfectly. Textbook-style. Like the lawyer who was holding our Terms of Sale agreement was keeping close tabs on you and your movements. Because in matters of love and relationships, that sale was not of a horse, as much as I have loved mine-- it was the sale of our heart.

XOXO

And Lead Us Not Into Temptation.

As I may have stated previously, I am an extremely monogamous and loyal person. And though I'm currently not in any committed relationships, it genuinely makes me question my morals when feelings for two disparate people are happening at the same time. To me, the girl who always has a favorite of everything, and a firm opinion on why it's the best one, it feels like...emotional cheating.

The problem is, when things aren't "new" and "fresh" anymore, or, if you aren't getting what you need from someone, you're susceptible to anyone else who comes along and can offer you what's missing. This is where things start to get sticky. I have an incredibly fine line between "happiness" and "being kept occupied." It's hard for me to differentiate between the two, because, for me, being kept occupied makes me happy. What is always shocking is when I finally do separate if I'm happy from if I'm just spinning my wheels to be convinced that I am happy. Am I being kept occupied right now? Yes. Am I actually happy? No. Because I'm a big fan of the human connection. I like to be able to talk about random things, life plans, or share music, movies, or news with the people I think will enjoy them. In a functional relationship, this is great, because it means there's always something to talk about. But, when it's been awhile and the lines of communication are stunted for one reason or another, that's what I miss the most. And then along came an answer, and it sat down beside her.

What did I say? What did I say? Every time Juggernaut Ex comes into town, my current relationships are in for a change, either progressing, ending, or introducing someone new. Jeeesus. I'm getting too busy and too ambivalent for this shit.

Let me count the ways that women fall for looking elsewhere for what they're not getting:

All the women I know prefer to be pursued. All my bullshit about not wanting to be taken out is exactly that-- bullshit. I can't wait until some guy sees through it and just DOES it. Let's face it, if you looked at me and said, "Let's go get something for breakfast," or "Let me buy you a few dollar drafts," I'm not going to stop you. I am, after all, human, and therefore, need to eat and drink. And if I can eat and drink while casually talking without someone I am genuinely interested in, that sounds kind of like a win-win situation for all. And I do think that the definition of that example is a "date." And if you're clever enough to not say the word "date," and instead, ask me to "do something" or "see something" with you, well then...all the more power to you.

Though I was about 15 minutes of conversation, or one day (whichever came first) away from asking him out for coffee to get to know him better, he beat me to the punch when he suggested watching a highly contentious football game together. (I'm an Eagles girl who considers Michael Vick in his second-coming as the Jesus of football, and he's a Giants fan.) I knew that my love of football and Star Wars would eventually pay off with men. I mean, jesus, it took this long for someone to ask me to watch a game. What sort of inherent no-brainer is that? While I was perfectly comfortable and confident in asking him to grab a cup of joe, the fact that he put an offer out on the table first showed initiative and self-confidence. Both sexy traits.

They compliment you. Seriously. When was the last time that you said something legitimately sweet or complimentary, straight-out, to someone you've known or been with forever? You don't. That's the issue. At first, you're all about letting someone know that you're into them, and vice-versa. After awhile, you think it goes without saying that you think that they're the bee's knees, but we all still need to hear it sometimes.

Help. He asked about my writing program, and then went on to offer help facilitating contact with professionals in the food industry if I ever needed quotes or ideas for an article. Women, even if they say they don't need it-- and I'm a huuuge example of this-- still like to be offered help. It's like having a safety net behind us; if we fall, we know that someone's got our back.

Scintillating conversation. He had my interest at "microcosm." Once I find out that a guy has an over fourth-grade reading comprehension, yet is still kind and unpretentious, then he actually has a chance with me.

But how many players are you allowed to have on the field at once?
As my oldest friend Caiti said, "It's just ingrained in society that the man makes the first move. But girl, this is 2010. Welcome to the 21st century. I say if we can vote a man into office, we can ask him to be the only man between our legs."

What do you think? Where do you draw the lines of loyalty? Can you juggle being attracted to two or more people at once? What is your personal cut-off point when it comes to acting on it? How do you avoid temptation?

XOXO

High Fidelity

I recently saw "Get Him To The Greek," and if you haven't, you really should. I mean, I can't be the only one who thinks that Russell Brand is the secret love-child of Jesus and Devendra Banhart. (Not only am I sure I just severely blasphemed, I also admitted I have a thing for odd men-- as previously stated, the Joker; my strange fixation with Ted Nugent-- I mean, really, THE NUGE--; and I would happily eat animal organ meat for the rest of my life and live in sinful bliss with Anthony Bourdain. Is my dating life really any wonder now?) ...And yes, I know this photo is from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall."

In any matter, it was a hilarious and poignant movie about the music industry. Scenes between Jackie (the salacious ex-girlfriend, played by Rose Byrne,) and Aldous (Brand basically playing himself,) were unexpectedly sweet and nouveau. In their relationship, Brand played the dweller, making nostalgic 3 AM phone calls and wanting to re-hash happier times. Losing his characteristic British snarl iconic in nearly all his scenes and interactions with Jonah Hill, he pleads, begs, wheedles, and waxes romantic to his ex, now living with Lars Ulrich, otherwise known as Metallica's drummer. I don't know. You may have heard of them.

In one scene, however, he and the recently broken-up-with Hill are discussing their respective relationships with women when after Brand's slam of the drudgery of monogamy, Hill brings up the fact that Brand spent 7 years with Jackie and professes to love her, yet was living the rock star lifestyle and banging nearly everything else in sight.

"No, I slept with other people, but I always told her about it," Brand says. "Monogamy!"

This line stopped me cold. Could this really be the evolving definition of monogamy in the 21st century? In the time of sleezy sleeping around and gray areas between friends and lovers and friend's lovers and what you said last month to your S.O changing to what tune you're singing this month, is monogamy really on the same out as BP's corporate team and last season's embellished shoulder trend?

Only less than 5% of all male animals in the world are actually monogamous. Off the top of my head, I can name penguins, wolves, bald eagles, beavers, and gibbons-- a very small, very cute monkey. At that rate, with 5 species down, it doesn't seem to bode well for us. Exactly, because the other 95%, including humans, are not naturally monogamous. Even wolves can stray from monogamy, though the alpha male of the back chooses one top bitch. But, just like in the animal kingdom, if you're not top bitch, you're fucked. Or rather, fucked over.

Let's have some more stats to back this up. How about:

- That the "sexual pursuit" part of a man's brain is two-and-a-half times bigger than a woman's. Hence the serial male dodging of monogamy.

But you know, it's not just all about the men. (After Tiger and Letterman and Jesse James and Bill Clinton and Michael Jordan-- YES. MICHAEL "AIR/SPACE JAM" JORDAN A CHEATER, and after all those fond childhood memories of him!--and Usher and Kobe Bryant and Jude Law and John Edwards and 3 of my exes, it can be hard to remember that they aren't the only sex.) Women cheat, too. Contributing this could be:

-That the more genetically diverse a woman is, the greater her number of partners will be. People are attracted to mates who are dissimilar to themselves (I know in the case I were to ever procreate, the father of my unborn children would need to have cheekbones and a chin genetically dominant enough to make up for my lack of both), so the more variation in a woman's DNA, the more appealing she is to a broader range of men. In humans, pedigree doesn't matter. We prefer good ol' Heinz 57 American mutts.

- That researchers have discovered that high levels of the hormone oestradiol make women more likely to cheat. Why? Because it apparently creates bigger breasts and smaller waists. As a result, these women tend to get more attention, and therefore, have more opportunities to stray. Now, I won't be shy. My 36C cups literally runneth over, and I have a 25-inch waist. That's an 11 inch disparity between my chest and the middle of my waist. That's nearly a foot. It may not be Jessica Rabbit proportions, but those are some curves. But despite all the "sexual opportunities" this presents for me, I still more or less manage to stay monogamous. So what's your excuse?

Regardless of how many facts can back it up, sentiments about monogamy or un-monogamy seem to remain the same, from men to women; to women and the Other Woman; to the way your and your friends discuss it. A letter to the editor of Glamour magazine from August 2009 charts the thought process that I guarantee you, is the same the world around, regardless of breast-to-waist ratio, ethnicity, hormone levels, or rock-star status: "Ten things that we are thinking when a guy cheats: 1. You have no self-control. 2. You have no willpower. 3. Well, obviously it just happened, you tripped over the rug and landed on her and...whoops! 4. You can't think with two heads at once. 5. You are a weak man. 6. No, hang on, you are not a man. 7. There are women who have the same sex drive you do-- but can actually control it. 8. Polygamy? Still not an excuse. 9. You are totally selfish. 10. Please bring her home and I'll make her dinner...laced with arsenic."-- Julie Worley

Which begs with the question: How do you deal with infidelity? Because I'm pretty sure the arsenic ploy can be considered Murder One, and though the sex may have been great, I highly doubt he's worth going to jail over.

So. Here are a few things that are perfectly within your rights if you find yourself in the unfortunate position of having found one of the 95% of living male organisms who think that sticking to one female is a waste of wild oats: Ask for answers, because you deserve them. Ask your S.O if they can understand how you feel, because dragging them over into your shoes makes them have to acknowledge the hurt that they caused you, and no one can be glib about that. KNOW you deserve better-- it's not your fault; it's theirs.

Meeting the Other Woman: It may happen. I know it's the stuff nightmares are made out of-- Will she be prettier than I am? Funnier? Smarter? More interesting? More outgoing? Have a better body? A better job? Better hair? A better smile?-- but if it happens, be NOTHING but nice. No cat-fights. No slapping and scratching. No hair-pulling. Know that she now has to deal with him, and that's not exactly a prize. If you want to say SOMETHING, a mild "I've heard so much about you," will suffice and let her know the jig is officially up.

I have one friend who was immensely surprised when a girl she didn't know existed contacted her and told her her boyfriend had also been sleeping with her. They ended up both dumping the chump and becoming great friends. A woman wrote an article for the July issue of Cosmopolitan about going home with a guy and finding another woman's new make-up remover in his bathroom. She left a note under the cap telling Make-Up Woman what her boyfriend had done and that she really should leave him, and peaced out herself. Men don't put enough stock in woman reaching out to each other.

I've become more or less Zen about this whole infidelity thing. The best advice I can give you is this: She is not a massive bitch. You are not a massive bitch, either. I highly doubt either of you is doing this to the other purposefully. Your common denominator, therefore, is the guy in the middle, the maestro to your diabolical little 3-part orchestra. That's the area you may want to apply some major thinking to, not another girl who may or many not even know if you exist. It's not worth your time, energy, or karma to hate on another victim if they're also innocent.

XOXO

Mad Men and Madder Women

I'm a little bit behind the curve with some things: I've (thankfully) never heard a Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber song; I've never felt the urge to pierce anything on my body; and before Sunday night, I'd never watched Mad Men. Despite being told numerous times that I should. I figured it was kind of like flossing-- everyone says you should do it, but when it comes down to it, if you brush as much as you're supposed to, it's not really necessary.

Well, here I am, bowing and scraping and saying "mea culpa"s and "You were right." That is one hell of a good show. It's smart, and fast-paced, and not too far-fetched while at the same time not being totally predictable. It is, in fact, a very human show-- it showcases the workplace, the home life, families, relationships, how men act with other men, how women act with other women, how men and women act together, and men and women behaving badly, either together, or apart.

In other words, it's truthful and realistic.

When I was in Florence, I realized, for maybe the third time, but the most painful and hurtful time, that the guy I had left behind at home was still seeing the girl he had slept with while we were together. I felt vindictive, and devil-may-care-and-take-the-hindmost, and like there wasn't some glass ceiling for him that seemingly wasn't allowed to me, who had just hit it, and why the hell was that?

It was my friend's 21st birthday, and after lots of sangria, we ended up at a club, with two Australian guys who were in town for the week around Easter. They were great. One of them was cute, and reserved, and funny in that smart way that's more about plays on words and maybe hints at humor than of sheer smacking wit. I was hell-bent on ending that night with him to settle my invisible score; to understand what makes you go from one person to the next; to have more secrets to tack on to my list so that inevitably, when all was revealed in the in digressions on the home front, I would have one more ace up my sleeve, one more circumstance to smack in his face and say, "This is what neglect and looking elsewhere so carelessly and blatantly will get you."

It was, and still is, very petty and childish. "Evening the score" is not exactly the answer to equations like this. But regardless, that night, just as I was about to make my move, my friend Kara appeared at my elbow. "Someone stole my wallet," she said, and just like that, the spell was broken. The Aussie walked me home that night, but in the moments between my insecurity and having to grow up and help someone else's crisis, I realized that my own sleeping around wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't teach my Lothario anything. And while the Aussie may have gotten a good night of fun out of the deal, he'd be gone the next week, anyway, probably to never be seen again.

So what, then, was it all about? Human beings are remarkably complex. Just as the characters on Mad Men are never truly translucent in their actions, but rather opaque, so are real people. You can see action-- you can watch someone jump ship, bail like a seasoned sailor, and pour themselves from one cup of their life to another for fear of becoming solid or stagnant. You can watch someone slip away from you, or lash out. You can watch someone burn bridges and go down in flames. And you can watch yourself do things you're not proud of, just because you're human, and you can't help it. But the logic behind the actions? That still remains in the dark, unknown even to your own heart.

Seems like we haven't changed that much since the '50s, after all.

XOXO

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

When we were young girls, we cared about what the other girls thought. If they liked us; if they liked our new dress; if they were talking about us. Boys had cooties, and we didn't care what the boys thought. Times passes. We keep the girls who are close and true to us, and we stop caring about what the rest think-- if they're talking about us, what they're saying, if they like our new dress. It doesn't matter anymore. Skin's thicker. Gossip holds less sway. You couldn't give a shit about what she thinks about you, but something curious has happened-- now it's about what he thinks about you. Boys don't have cooties anymore-- they have the sickness you desperately want to catch.

We care, desperately, about what they think. We want them to like us. We want them to think we're smart and funny and warm and genuine. We want them to like our friends, and our friends to like them, and their friends to like us. We want things to be smooth, but not too smooth that it gets staid or boring-- just smooth enough to be comfortable, like their old worn-in t-shirts.

We pretend, after it's done, that it doesn't matter, that we didn't care that much, that we're absolutely fine. You can all pretend, and you all can act, all you like, but when it comes down to it, this is usually a performance put on before a clever audience who knows your stage tricks, so about the only thing that you have left to perform with is your dignity and hopefully, a mutual respect for what you had together.

Even if this happens, we still don't want to believe curtains are curtains. We want to believe that we cannot be left. We want to believe that coming back is possible. We want to believe that we are special alone. But the truth is that we are all readily replaceable, like parts-- not the whole machine. True, without some parts, it won't work, won't function at its best. But others will suffice. It'll keep moving.

As Patience and I sat up till 4 AM last night and compared notes about this, we came across a curious phenomenon-- despite all this insight and all the fieldwork from dating for years, we still cannot makes heads or tails out of what the lies we were told were, and what the truths were. Is it that you care about us, or do you just want to bang other chicks? Was it the weed or beer talking, or did you really at one time think we were something special? How much said was a quick charm, and how much said was true? Were you sincere? Or are you just an extremely accomplished player? And will we ever know the truth?

When it comes down to it, it's just one huge game. Like dating chess.

XOXO

Have Some Patience.

This is my friend Patience.

Patience can play. See Patience play. Hear Patience sing.

Patience can write. Listen to Patience's lyrics.

I just got internet in the new apartment and need to do about an afternoon's worth of research before my next post, so, until then, I fully encourage you to check out Paish's stuff. Because she's kind of amazing. And I'm not just saying that because she barks like a dog for my benefit and is the sort of girl friend who always will appreciate the wackiest things you do, like hanging over the back of the couch and pulling funny faces and being publicly awkward. I'm saying that because her songs get stuck in my head and make me sing or hum along and then I feel like a really awkward personal friend groupie. So if it makes me a complete fool, guaranteed you'll probably enjoy it, too.

XOXO

Datepocalypse Now: A History Of Disaster.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with big blue eyes and French-braided blonde hair in a church's preschool room. There was also a little boy with a brown bowl-cut and long, long eyelashes. They were In Love. They talked about their wedding; how many kids they wanted. (Him, three boys. Her, none.) He was going to be a mechanic. She was going to be a vet, and was already resigning herself at the tender age of four to being the breadwinner of their two-to-five-person family. (She had always been a little pragmatic about life.) They played together every day, except the weekends, which always went by far slower than they should for someone who has just learned to tie their shoes, and still doesn't know how to swim or ride a bike. Monday would come again, and she would build with blocks and cuddle stuffed animals and he leaned intently over the Fisher-Price orange and yellow car's hood. It was bliss.

Until one day, when talking about their upcoming-upcoming-upcoming nuptials, the little boy uttered the words that froze the very still-warm and un-jaded blood in our little blonde practicing veterinarian's veins: "Well, I'd either marry you, or Sarah."

The cherubic child glanced across the room at the towering red-headed girl with the short and flippy hair, currently engaged in bullying another little girl for the rice table's shovel. "Ick," she said, and with that, slapped the boy right across his long-lashed face, stomped away, and vowed, "Never again! And NO MORE MECHANICS!"

I've never been great at sharing anything I particularly like, be it cardboard building blocks or a living and breathing man. It's one of my tell-tale only-child hang-ups. It was (hilariously, in hindsight,) awkward for the next 10 years of my life, as Alex, our fickle long-lashed wannabe-mechanic, and I shared the same pediatrician. Every grown woman's worst nightmare is to see an ex when they look like shit-- now imagine being aware of this sentiment at the age of 7, and hacking up a lung, stricken with bronchitis, as your spurned crush, covered in a particularly attractive and blistering rash, glares at you from across the waiting room replete with rocking horses, puzzles, and Highlights magazines. My mother would always point him out, and say, "Look, it's Alex! Why don't you go say hi? You used to play together all the time!" She just didn't get it. And I never forgot Alex, or that feeling that came over me as his statement sunk in and I looked across the room at Sarah, Carrot-Top's Miniature Preschool Bully.

---

Fast-forward 9 years later, and I was in a long-term relationship with what was by all accounts a highly unsuitable man. The problem was, I was 16, and bored, and really couldn't give more of a fuck that the only reason I was staying in the relationship was the fact that I honestly couldn't be bothered to work up the energy to dump him. That was, until New Years' Eve day, when I made the most influential discovery of my teen years until the one two years later in which I found same highly unsuitable man on a gay dating website. (THAT was the pinnacle of maniacal glee of my teen years.) Said boyfriend had been at my house the previous night, and had asked to use our home computer to check his Myspace page. (Ah, yes-- it was in THOSE days.) I had dutifully logged him in so he could Myspace away, remarking aloud that I didn't know he had a Myspace page. "Yeah; it helps keeping in touch with people I went to school with and don't see much anymore." (He was already a college graduate, if this clears up the meaning of the previous word "unsuitable.") I filed that piece of information away, and the next day, typed his name into Myspace's search bar to add him as--wait for it, because I was so excited-- not just my Myspace friend, but as my Myspace boyfriend.

Imagine how quickly that bubbly teenage naivety turned into a sickening feeling of betrayal when I found his public Myspace page, in which he chronicled the process of "soon ending all these girl problems", with helpful comments and a cheer-leading section from the woman of his affections. Who was decidedly not me. In fact, I was the problem. The problem he had been inside of the night before. Which didn't seem like too much of a problem to him at the time.

I got raging drunk at my best friend's New Year's party that night, in preparation to do What I Must the next day, because my very sophisticated 24 year old boyfriend was throwing a very grown-up New Year's Day party in his apartment with the missing slats in the Venetian doors and the posters taped to the walls. A party that his older brother was driving in from Rochester to attend. A party at which I was supposed to pretend to be 18 and going off to NYU in the fall, like I always told his friends I was. (He was the one who actually propagated this rumor in the first place. I played along because I was a theater geek in need of practice, and plus, I already liked the beer that his friends brought over.) A party at which I was supposed to be as sophisticated and sexy as possible. Because doesn't every college grad want to show off his six--...eighteen year old girlfriend?

So I woke up the next morning, shook a hangover off, got dressed up in something that showcased what was already some pretty phenomenal cleavage for someone so young, and picked one of my best friends up who was also invited/was my emotional support. We walked up the back stairs and into the apartment, party already in full-swing, and my boyfriend quickly spotted me (I think I was in something teal?) and waved me over to where he and a guy who sported the same red hair and could only be his brother were standing, holding bottles of Honey Brown. His brother and I shook hands as he said, "Hey, it's so nice to meet you." And then, turning his gaze to my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, added, "I've heard so much about you."

"So nice to meet you, too," I told him, and as soon as he relinquished my hand, turned to my unsuspecting boyfriend and dropped the A-bomb with all the aplomb of a particularly trigger-happy ARA member-- "Oh, I saw your Myspace page. I know all about her. It's so over."

I swear time briefly stopped as I spun on my heel, grabbed my smirking friend's hand, and flounced out, leaving my stunned now ex-boyfriend to explain to all of his slack-jawed and still guests exactly why his trophy girlfriend had just dumped him. I will say-- it was deliciously empowering to my 16 year old self's confidence after being steam-rolled both metaphorically as well as physically by the same man for the past 6 months. I wish every woman could have a bad relationship they didn't care so much about with a shitty revelation like that, just so that they could have that One Shining Moment of Self-Redemption. He called every day for a month straight, begging to be taken back. I haven't talked to him since that New Year's morning over 5 years ago.

---

I've spent most of the day cooling off so I don't say anything totally off-base. But this is what I do need to say: It's not my fault, and it's not my problem. If you want to blame anyone, take a good and long look in a mirror and ask yourself why. You knew full-well. So man up and live with it. I'm not thrilled, either. Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think of the situation you were putting me in, the same situation I lived in in the reverse? And that's more than a little perverse.

It's only taken me 21 years to figure this out, but in the end, it's not, in fact, about what I want; in fact, I want remarkably little from you, if you had taken the time to actually ask me instead of jumping to conclusions. It's about what I need that you can't give me. I need someone who will be there when they say they will be. I need someone who would rather eat bull's balls in public than break a promise when they make one, because "I promise" needs to mean something more than a placation. I need someone who values me without having to look elsewhere to find what I'm missing. I need someone who accepts my flaws, quirks, sneezes, moles and all as much as I accept theirs. I need someone who isn't going to think that the red-headed terror of the sandbox is as much of a catch as I am and can't decide between the two of us. And therein lies the fundamental problem-- since I came back, I've been slowly realizing that you either can't or won't give me what I need yet. A "break" would imply that we were less than already broken, and I'll be honest and say that I've been feeling like it's been shattered beyond some major dedicated repair for awhile. So thank you for finally turning me loose. I hope that you find what you want and what you need, too.

XOXO

Some Like It Hot: How Curiosity Killed The Cat, And The Relationship.

A long, long time ago, some poor schmuck in the prehistoric era discovered fire. I'm willing to bet it was a man, and the vestigial love for grilling that you still find today in modern Joes is proof of that. But secretly, or not so secretly, depending on their actions, I think it's women who like playing with fire.

Maybe it's the elevated heart rate that gets us going, the feeling of "what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen, what's gonna happen?" Because I can not make a good relationship decision to save my life (I am convinced I am going to die at the hands of a lover choking me to death for saying "Would. You. Just. DECIDE!" for the last and final time that broke the man's already tenuous at best grip on sanity [if you doubt me or my taste in men, please refer back to my track record]), I doom myself to routinely playing Russian Relationship Roulette, especially during early morning drunken hours. Most women can blame it on the same thing: It was 1/4th honest emotion, 1/4th Mr. Boston Virgin Islands white rum, and a full 1/2 a desire to know what would happen. Curiosity killed the cat-- it's also been known to kill the mood. I'll admit to it-- sometimes, women can be known to test something out just to see if they'll get burned or not. Que diabolical snickering, and the ringmaster's entrance. Things are about to get hot.

There is a sick fascination with the things in our lives that cannot be changed-- things out of our control, things we wish weren't quite so cut-and-dried, things that we really think would be perfect a different way. Playing with proverbial (or tangible) fire is one of the ways that we know we can spice up what is our usual 9-to-5. How many times have you caught yourself engaging in behavior that you know, deep down, is wrong and petty and base and destructive, just because you can? How many times have you bemoaned certain character traits or situations in life, while secretly getting off on them because, hey, isn't life more interesting when you're pretty damn sure it's about to fall down on your head at any given second? This is why, for better or for worse, I can't really point fingers, make accusations, or demand certain things from other people. Despite being ravenously curious about most things in life and a consummate player of fire myself, I have been known to occasionally (often) take the ostrich approach to my own life. Not only do I like to bury my head and pretend things aren't happening, but I also procrastinate like I get paid full-time with benefits for it. At the moment, I am:

-Putting off calling my landlord to inquire as to if I get a cut on June's rent as I can't move in nearly 10 days into the month due to building issues (I hate asking monetary-relevant questions; maybe a hold-over from a middle-class family, but it just seems so rude);

-Deciding if I should/want/will make any changes to what could be called both my stagnant and frenetic love-life (a game I like to call, "Have I Finally Had Enough, Is It Time To Move On, Or Am I A Helpless Masochistic Idiot?");

-Going to the barn to ride my sadly neglected pony because, after crossing the New York state border and walking through the front door of the barn, I swear a rift in the space/time continuum opens up, and you NEVER get out of there by the time you want to, too pulled in by girl gossip, a good ride, and the existential ravenous search after a hard ride for something tastier than slightly liquefied carrots in the barn's fridge;

-And texting a friend as to inquire as to the state, livability, and happiness with his new apartment after moving in yesterday. (Yes. I even drag my feet when it comes to my friends and people who have shown that they certifiably love me. I cannot, A.) ask for favors, B.) ask for a place to stay, or C.) ask for some clarity concerning plans without feeling like a huge, huge imposition, and a massive, massive inconvenience. One aspect in which my confidence needs vast improvement.)

It's possible I put things off because I want to pretend they don't exist, just like how women will play like fire to avoid the reality of a situation. If you're worrying about getting burned, you're not thinking about deadlines or buying more toilet paper.

Part of it probably also comes from the daredevil aspect of it. There's something so convincing in thinking of yourself as a fire-juggler that you can't help but feel as if the very act of it makes your helplessly enticing and attractive to the opposite sex. If you're so close to the heat, you've got to be so alive, so engrossing, so un-mundane. You must have, by now, heard the song "Bad Girlfriend" by Theory of a Deadman. It's on every pop radio station, and sounds kind of like a poor man's version of Nickelback, if there is such a thing and you can get any cheaper than Nickelback. But guaranteed, almost every woman reading this right now knows that song. We know the words. We sing along to, "Dirty girl, gettin' down, dance with guy from out of town. Grab her ass, actin' tough, mess with her, she'll fuck you up. No one really knows if she's drunk or if she's stoned, but she's coming back to my place tonight. She likes to shake her ass; she grinds it to the beat-- she likes to pull my hair while I make her grind her teeth. I like to strip her down; she's naughty to the end, you know what she is, no doubt about it, she's a bad, bad girlfriend."

Women like that song because it reminds us that there are aspects to our personalities or the things that we've done that drive men as crazy as we drive them; hence, the playing with fire. Sometimes you end up doing things that you know are wrong just because they feel so right. But what do you do with the guilt afterwards? After washing it down with two deep pulls straight from the bottle, I lay there…and I could still taste it. Maybe that's why we like it. Maybe it's what reminds me that I am, in fact, not great girlfriend material. Some of us are just always bound to want to rock the boat. Or the bed frame. Maybe that's why I'm single. Single? Singlish? Single with a chance of it's-raining-men showers? Single and stuck? Like I said-- eternally curious.

XOXO

Summer Music And Battle Of The Sexes

This is the face of a pleading man.

I love R&B. I love it like mellow and groovin'. I love it like it says "summer" and "beach music" and "slow evenings." So I was trolling the internet for some new summer songs when I found these two, back-to-back. They speak in the sort of men-and-women conversation that I find hilarious. The first is John Legend's "Number One," in which he sings,

"Ooh, I promise not to do it again; I promise not to do it! You can't say I don't love you, just because I cheat on you, 'cuz you can't see all I do to keep you from knowing the things I do; like erase my phone, and keep it out of town...Well I should have known one day you'd find out, but you can't go and leave me now. Now who is she? What's her name? You need to know about everything. We fight about this; we fight about that-- you hang up the phone and call me right back. Well I'll never be something I'm not, so please don't throw away what we got. You're making it hard for me; you're messing up everything. I promise I won't cheat, I promise I won't lie. I promise I'll act right. You can't tell me I can't have you; I can't have that. I said it the last time, but this is the last time. Don't make me over, 'cuz I can be faithful. Baby, you're my number one."

And then, in response (and going back a few years,) we have the funky female response from Honey Cone's "Want Ad":

"Wanted, young man single and free. Experience in love preferred, but will accept a young trainee. Gonna put it in the want ads, my man and I are through. At home I find myself, lost and all alone; he stays out all night, says he's with the boys, but lipstick on his collar, perfume on it too, tells me he's been lying, and when I need him most, he's never by my side. He's either playing cards, or drinking at the bar; he thinks that I'm a fool, I'm going to the evening news-- gonna put it in the want ads, tell you what I'm gonna do: Extra extra, read all about it-- Wanted, young man single and free."

Now that's sass. I love the sort of dialogue that these two songs create-- a man saying that though he can't change, it really doesn't mean much, and the female response of, "Oh, HELL NO." As smooth as he is, and as sympathetic as I want to be toward him and agree with his argument and laugh at the lengths and logic that men will try to go to, John Legend is no match for Honey Comb's sense of personal vindication. I think in this Men vs Women battle, the double-X chromosomes may have won.

Now go out and get funky with your bad self.

XOXO

Ghosts: Night of the Living Undead Relationship

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, when I was a freshman in college, new to smoking and growing my hair out, I danced around mutual attraction with a senior for 7 months. Toward the end of the year, playing indoor soccer in the hallway of the dorm, he knocked me over and gave me a massive bump on the head. A week later, I was in his bed. We swapped music, laughs, bodily fluids, and he told me adventures from abroad as bedtime stories. He was the first guy I fell in love with. I’ve loved other people since, but I will always have a somewhat softer spot for him, just like the tender and swollen flesh on the top of my head that he caressed after he picked me back up.

To this day, we’re still more-or-less in touch. If he comes back into town, he calls. We’ve met for coffee dates and spent a few evenings together. Usually, I’m busy and/or seeing other people, but if I can, I’ll make time to catch up with him. After the summer that he graduated and some hard feelings, I’ve gotten to the point where it’s not hard to pick up the phone or send him a message to contact him anymore.

It’s always a fine line between surprise and the inevitable when I hear his ringtone go off, usually right in time with the seasons. I can say to him, “Sorry—I already have a date tonight,” and he’ll respond with an “Ok, what about tomorrow night?” Unfortunately, at some points in the past, I was ambivalent about the person I was currently seeing as a full-time adventure, and so I said “yes” to his part-time adventure. Not one of my proudest moments. It’s not exactly fair, but it’s one of the complications of life.

In the past few months, he and I have finally progressed from the weird holding pattern we were in. He figured out that although I will always find his big blue eyes and puffy lips tempting, I’m not quite the same girl I was 3 years ago. And I’ve figured out that although the girl I am now has no problem moving past the past and keeping up with him, I’m also moving past him.

It’s always hard to see him. “No” is a word that I struggle with sometimes. As I once said to one of my roommates after coming home from coffee with him, “He was supposed to be fat and balding and unhappy, not tan and fit and cute.” But that’s how past relationships work—you’ll never quite get rid of them. They will always be people you look at and think, “I spent a month/2 nights/6 months thinking you were the best thing on Earth, and I know what you look like naked.” It’s a hard act to juggle. He came to Florence first. He was the one who first planted the seed in my mind, and I’ve been following his ghost all over Italy. It’s in the same places we visit and in the same photos I take that were hanging on his room’s walls. It’s something that I look for, almost unknowingly, when I’m out and about. My breath still catches when I think I see him. Ghosts haunt. Not all of us have exorcists on call. And like Casper, not all ghosts are unfriendly. But ghosts do hinder you—other people don’t want to come and play in your little fright-fest. It's not fair to ask other people to put up with your undead companions. So I have since been learning how to say “No.”

I made my choice (moments of weakness notwithstanding,) a few months ago and decided to keep on growing up and moving on. You can’t keep your future open if you’re still keeping your past on speed-dial as a crutch. We’ve more-or-less both moved on, but are still both past and present. In the past, he was my lover. In the present, he’s someone who I have no qualms asking for advice, or sharing coffee, a few beers, or laughs with again. We all have skeletons in our closets. The true test of character is how you deal with them and bury them again when the Bad Voodoo man comes to call and you know zombies aren’t exactly great playmates.

XOXO

Repeat Mistakes

I’m getting to that age where it’s perfectly acceptable to sit around with my girl friends and discuss marriage. And that’s scary. I would like to freeze time right here, please.

Earlier tonight, five of us were sitting around the dining room table in our apartment discussing the fact that now that we’re in our twenties, the search for the Eternal Happy Ending, or, at least, a 2-point Engagement Ring and Iron-Clad Pre-Nup, is on. Though some of us aren’t actively looking, or some of us, in fact, aren’t looking for that storybook ending at all, we all could agree on one thing: Being with men is getting scary. It’s a total Goldilocks syndrome for your twenties: you’re scared out of your wits if you’re perfectly happy with them and see it ending all rosy and blissful, but you’re also scared shitless if it doesn’t seem like you’re getting anywhere with them.

“It’s so weird to think that the next person we’re with could be our potential future husband.”

“But I feel like every guy I date is just getting farther and farther away from who I would want to marry.”

“That’s why I like Sex and the City. Carrie didn’t get married until she was sure he was The One.”

“That’s the inherent flaw,” I interjected, having been over this thought a few times before. “Making the same mistakes over and over again isn’t called ‘failure’. It’s called ‘dating’.”

Two weeks ago, I downloaded the episode of SATC in which Carrie first says “I love you” to Mr. Big. When he doesn’t return the statement, she proclaims to the Ladies Who Brunch crew that unless he antes up within a week, she’ll have to end their relationship. When I watched it, I was initially floored. How could a woman end a relationship right after she admits to something like that? Isn’t that kind of the equivalent to Indian-giving or saying, “Oops, just kidding”? Isn’t that a bit quick to retract all those big emotions?

I get it now. You can say what you want and what you feel, but there are some things that you have to do because in the end, keeping yourself and your dignity is worth even more than anyone else is to you.

Maybe it’s because I’m an only child. Maybe it’s because I’m not good at sharing my feelings, or, in fact—sharing. Maybe it’s because I’ve been screwed over one too many times. But during my two day hike in Cinque Terra, I did a lot of thinking, because other than focusing on screaming calf muscles or the fact that my smoking has finally caught up with my respitory system, I had a lot of time to mull it over, and over, and over again. There’s nothing quite like being alone in nature with your thoughts. Coming back to Florence and civilization clinched it for me.

I’ve always been preoccupied with looking out for Number One first, something that I lost sight of in Italy, of all places. It’s not selfishness—it’s self-health-ness. My eternal problem is that I give and I give and I give and forgive and forgive and forgive, until the point where I’m not happy with myself, my lot in life, or what a push-over I’ve become. I am willing to do a lot for other people. But I’m done with the competing to prove it. The only thing I am not willing to do is sacrifice myself, or that maybe-unpromised Happy Ending in whatever form. I am young, and I am alive, and I am in Italy—quite possibly the Land of Love. If there is nothing else to love, there is always the sights and the sounds and the smells and the newness of living here for three months, which is not something I’m ever going to be able to get back. While there will always be some things you can work at, there are others that are fleeting and fresh and will never appear again. So it shouldn’t be squandered under dark clouds of doubt and regret and indecision and unhappiness. I’m not going to keep counting down the days until I leave. I am going to live instead for the Now and the Here and the Why Not? And if you want to squander, you can live however you wish.

If I can get out relatively unscathed, with my dignity still attached, then I’ll keep moving on and making my mistakes. As Passion Pit says in their song “Little Secrets” (on heavy repeat on my iPod), “Let this be our little secret; no one needs to know how I’m feeling.” There is no feeling quite like finally making up your mind. I feel lighter and more content with life than I have in months.

So maybe your twenties aren’t for being afraid of what’s ahead. Maybe your twenties are for wild abandon and enjoyment; late nights; new things; drinking and smoking too much; discovering yourself and new places; making up your mind, and brief moments of clarity and maturity. Maybe, as Carrie discovered, there is time later to go back and mend bridges if want be.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 4:

Italian Escapades:
Vespa Man, or Why Am I Such A Fuck-Up?

The dog is cute. It looks kind of like my best friend’s Australian shepherd, and it’s waiting patiently outside the small grocer’s down the block from my apartment for its master to return. It grins up at me, panting slightly, and, a sucker always for the canines, particularly good-looking ones, such as this one (just like with men and green-eyed people, or green-eyed men especially,) I smile back.

As I am smiling like a special type of fool at the dog, someone slides out of the door in front of me. I look up and see a youngish, stocky man in fashionable black leather-gear with sandy hair tucked under a helmet standing in front of me. “Hi,” he says, and thrown at the English with or without the accent behind it, I actually look back at him, catching his twinkling light eyes.

He reminds me, in the instant I really take him in, of the geeky Australian transfer student turned Eevil Keenival who was the hero of Grease 2. (Not such a great movie. That dreamboat and a young and always fabulous Michelle Phieffer were the only things that saved it.)

I take another pensive drag from the end of my cigarette, and he tries again. “Hello.” He’s careful to keep his body language open and friendly as I breeze by, not threatening or insinuating anything more than a greeting—maybe I’ll say something as I get closer? Maybe his magnetic attraction will just do the job and pull me right in to that black Italian-leathered muscular chest? I appreciate it—I appreciate all off it—though I don’t say anything back.

I walk another ten strides before it hits me. If Vespa man can see me like this, in a plaid men’s flannel shirt and bulky winter coat and my kicked-to-shit Uggs, desperately sucking on the end of a cigarette like it is my lifeline, hair tossed into a hot mess by the wind, and still think enough to want to say hi—what the fuck am I doing, walking away? If he is seeing me at one of my emotional lows, of which you conveniently get to miss out on the tempest that you’ve stirred up, and he wants to actually do something about it, even just greet me and chat with me on the sidewalk—why the fuck am I running away? Is that really the only mode I know how to operate on?

I look back. He’s still there, standing beside his Vespa, a vision in leather and nice hand-made shoes. I watch him swing a leg over the seat and settle in, turning the tiny engine over. He then motions to the dog, who rises from his watch by the shop’s stoop and jumps up into his master’s lap, riding in front of him. A man, his Vespa, and his dog. It’s such a picture of domestic Italian bachelordom bliss that it pulls at my ovaries somewhere in the same vicinity that really cute toddlers do. It doesn’t mean that I necessarily want one, but just for a moment, I think about what it could have been like if I actually said hi back. If we traded names. If I asked to pet his grinning dog and he told me it’s name. If I accepted an invitation for a ride on the back of the Vespa, something I want to check off the list of Thing To Do Before I Die or Before I Leave.

I think about it for a moment, watching his taillights fade. And then for another moment. And I find that somewhere in the space of these two moments, I’m less angry at you, and more angry at myself. I’m letting these moments go. These moments that I may never find again, great adventures, new acquaintances, and smiling European dogs. And for what? You’re having your moments at home, no explanations needed. I should be having mine. What I do here will mean just as little as what I didn’t do here when I get back, if not even less. Tit for tat. Vespa for Virginia.

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 3:

Women:
The Feminine Mystique:

In my Women in 20th Century Fiction class, we've recently been assigned reading material with a common theme: the idea of the central female character being "witchy" or "otherworldly" in some aspect.

As a woman, I can tell you that there is nothing that I hold more dear at my core than the idea that there lies within me something that even thousands of years into our being, has not yet been figured out or fully understood.

It can be the tangible that changes us: a new pair of boots, sexy underwear, a different haircut. It can be the intangible: love. Feelings and emotions and someone special in our lives, the novelty still there, the phone calls and butterflies still frequent. These things put a spring in our step and a sparkle in our eye, a feeling that we are not quite who we were yesterday, or even just a few hours ago. Women are constantly in flux. We are fluid and mercurial and we never quite feel the same way about something twice. We are made of leather and lace and contrasting actions and opinions. That’s the beauty to us: we are always new, always fresh, and ever exciting.

According to ancient philosophers, it worked something like this: "You see a woman. (Or a man.) You love her (or his) beauty. What you really love is the reflection of the beauty given to her (him) from above." But what does it mean to love beautiful things like this? Is it shallow? To what extent does my love of "pretty, smart things" reflect on me? Pausanias speaks of "vulgar love" in demeaning tones. Ficino speaks of "vulgar love" very matter-of-factly; as a way of life and natural human action that is to be accepted, or even applauded (i.e-- I see; I like; I get). Renaissance philosophers thought that one could achieve sanctity by their love for beautiful (i.e-- beauty given from above) things. If this is the case, if there is a higher level of being after death, I am all up in there. Often I have been known to say that if someone wasn't so beautiful, I wouldn't let them get away with half the shit I dismiss and decide not to pick a fight about.

The Audacity of Doing Nothing:

Speaking of not picking fights...one of my really good friends here in Florence has been with her boyfriend for two years. He's an active member of the Air Force, and was deployed for eight months to Afghanistan last year. They got to spend three weeks together, and then she left for Italy for 3 months. They're planning on staying together, and he's considering joining active duty, which means that she'll be following him around the world, moving every three years. As she said, "If he goes active duty, it means I go active duty, too." Over dinner after our Women in 20th Century Fiction class the other night, I asked her how she dealt with the distance and the fear and the worry and the missing him. She slowly pushed her penne around her plate before answering. "It's really hard, it is. I don't tell him a lot of what I think or what bothers me, because if he only has one 15 minute phone call to me a week, I don't want to spend it fighting with him, you know? So I try to be as supportive as I can be."

This is something that I have been struggling with lately. As women, we are taught that the best possible thing that we can do is ride a situation or argument out. But women operate on emotions more than men do. It’s true. While I shut down, close down quickly, I do feel harder than I’m sure most do. I hope for more. I want more. Things affect me deeper than I’d like to admit to. But even in cases such as these, I fall back on the same logic that my friend does: if you have limited time, you don’t want to rock the boat. It’s better to smooth things over, look the other way, or not bring it up in the first place. She just wants her boyfriend to not multitask doing his homework when he gets time to Skype with her. But will she make that demand? No. I want to say “I don’t like it.” But I won’t. I want to say “Stop,” but I don’t. Making demands appears to be something that we just are comfortable with. Being able to see things from both sides of the equation, as women can be good at, tends to make making ultimatums harder, or, in some cases, a moot point.

Women tend to be inherently self-less. We want to do more for others, especially those we love, than we would do for ourselves. And so we find ourselves avoiding the hard subjects; not asking the questions; not demanding the answers or courtesies. I was almost ready to give this trip up. I was ready to leave it up to Fate to decide if I was staying, or if I was going. I ended up going. For myself, I know it’s the best possible outcome. Already, I am discovering aspects of myself that I never knew existed. I can be fearless, opening cab doors and talking to strangers, not sure if I’ll be able to receive the outcome I engaged in the conversation for in the first place. I can walk into a store or market or classroom, and fight it out with finesse until I get through what I want, English or not. I will walk home alone at night, and feel confident enough in myself that I am not scared totally shitless. I am traveling to expand what I know, and how sure I am that I know it. I cannot hold on to who I was, because for that, I will always remain in the same place and be emotionally stunted. I should be feeling everything.

Not for myself, I worry about the repercussions that leaving had. I reached the conclusion last night that as far as I know, I am now the Other Woman. I am not dumb. I am not blind. And while I may not want to rock the boat and ask those questions, I can reach my own conclusions. Strangely, I felt better about this then I did when the roles in my mind were reversed. Perverse.

How horrendous is it that women will not stand up for what they want when they feel as if they’re stepping on someone else’s toes, or if we’re afraid of losing what we do have? Men, certainly, do not display this same characteristic. As I have noted, there seems to be a lot of having cake and eating it, too, in the men’s camp. And what are the women doing? Making those cakes.

Fucking stop baking and enabling. There is a place and a time to do nothing. You can play cool and wait it out, but only to a certain extent.

Doing nothing can be both good and bad. At home, doing nothing is no big deal. Burlington is Burlington. I’ve been there for awhile; I’m going to continue being there for awhile. I know what it is I like to do, and for the most part, I’ve done it all. I’ve settled into the sort of ambiguously lethargic relationship with the place that you have with something that you know will always be there. I can sleep the day away, wake up and sit in front of the TV or computer for the rest of the day, smoke myself silly, go back to bed, and rinse and repeat for days before I feel like I need to actually accomplish something. Here in Florence, temporarily (hopefully!) laid up by my knees that after years of cartilage wear from thousands of hours spent riding and galloping in two-point position and jumping decided to go on strike, limiting my amount of walking per day allowed, doing nothing is like wearing a hair shirt. It itches and irks me, knowing that there is a city out there that that Robin and I have already mapped out, but not yet explored, and it is only mine for a short amount of time. And I am sleeping until after noon so that my knees will hopefully let me get around Ultrarno before giving out again.

But there is a little-known side to the Audacity of Doing Nothing. It is the Beauty of Doing Nothing. Even just doing nothing here in Florence, making their strong café and going out onto the balcony to read and smoke a cigarette or two is better than doing nothing at home. Every night, I go out there and look over the city and clear sky at night, floodlights on main attractions, ancient chapels, churches, towers, and fortresses, full moon and familiar constellations, and am hit with the same overwhelming feeling: I am here. Even just doing nothing, I am existing here. And that alone makes it special.

XOXO

Cheaters, Inc.

I had one of the most beautifully ignorant compliments ever from a man given to me this morning. I must share. It made my day in a wonderfully ironic way.

I rolled into Tech Writing a healthy 15 minutes late this morning. Spinner buses were running a wonky 5 minutes early, so I missed both 8 AM buses. Love life. Anyway, I grabbed a coffee at Jazzman's on my way to class, because I figured, hell, might as well-- already late! and waltzed into Foster and plopped down next to Southern Charm. Who happens to be in my long report group. (He asked. Actually, he swiveled around in his chair when Warren told us to group up, pointed a finger at his chest, and then turned it to me while mouthing, "Me? You?" I may have responded with something like an empathetic head nod and a "Yesyesyesyesyesyes!" while daydreaming about other situations involving him and me and empathetic "yesyesyes"s.) This may be the reason I am now actually getting up to go to my 8 AMs, even in the cold and dark Vermont early winter. What can I say? I like looking at pretty, smart things. I am so easy.

Because I was late, So Charm turned and asked me for a stunning idea for our long report. I looked blankly at him and asked him what time he woke up.

"6:45."

Sami, our other group member, woke up at 7.

"6:20," I told them. "I am not responsible for any thinking."

"Why did you wake up that early?!" So Charm asked with shocked concern.

I just looked at him. "I don't just roll out of bed looking like this."

"Really?!" he asked, totally shocked. Stunned. Totally unbelieving and off-guard.

God. Bless. Him.

"...uh, no. I have to shower. And then blow dry my wet hair. And then straighten it."

"Why?!"

"My hair's naturally wavy. It gets in the way."

"I have never seen you with wavy hair."

"Exactly."

I love these little times in life when men realize how much effort women actually put into looking good...usually, for them. Again, it's the little differences between the sexes. Women like to look good. Men like to feel good. Who knows, maybe they're concerned with looking good, too. (Some more than others, surely. Other days, it's totally "I'm wearing the first shirt that hits my hand when I reach onto the floor," for them.) (I hate them for this. I'm forever thinking, "Who might see me in this today? When was the last time I wore it? Will anyone who saw me in it then, other than my roommates and close friends, see me today? Does it match these jeans? Do I look fat in it? Is it doing that weird thing to my hips? Can you see my bra? Do I need to wear a tank under this? Is this slutty cleavage, or "Yeah, my boobs are bangin'," cleavage? Do I really want to be dressed like this in front of my professor? Or that creepy kid in my class? And will my boss care about it? Do I even feel like wearing this shirt today? No? Yes? What are my other choices?")

Anyway. More serious things to talk about than my dressing decisions. Sorry. It's a Friday. My mind is scattered.

Recently, I found out the sad and rather angering news that one of my oldest and dearest friends has been emotionally cheated on by her S.O. Though he has since confessed to her, and pledged to reform, there have been three slip-ups, and though they've been working things out and he's trying his best, I'm still ridiculously affronted for her. Angry, upset, disappointed, pissed, sad, disgusted...these all aptly describe how I feel about this particular happening. Time, vows, and respect have to mean something. A man cannot have both feet in two different camps. There is no playing for two teams.

How can I make this clearer? Because I feel like this is something men just don't seem to get. My friend's S.O was wishy-washy about cutting off contact with the other woman for awhile. Perfect certainly made his choice deciding that commitment, or at least, the level of commitment I was willing to front, wasn't for him. Fine. Go play the field. But give me the same freedom you give yourself.

You cannot have your cake and eat it, too. Sorry. It just doesn't work that way.

I am so amazed and proud at how my friend is handling all of this-- it's almost super-human. In cases like this, the only thing that I can say is what I told her-- "You take care of you. At some point, you and your emotional well-being have to come before the two of you and the "us" and "we." You are the most important person in this-- not him. He made his choice-- now you do what's right for YOU."

The only other thing that I know to do to prevent something like this are the little, easy, stupid things: Don't let the spark die. Fan that baby, hard. Make time for each other. Stay childish. And possibly the biggest thing to do: compliment your man on one thing that you admire about him every day. It can be something as simple as "I love when you take charge like that," "That shirt looks great on you," "You're so smart," "I really appreciate when you do that," or just a simple "You are so hot," when you don't have anything else to say but drool. (This isn't just my wisdom-- I must admit, as a consummate Cosmopolitan Girl, I may have seen this tidbit, oh, two, four, maybe five times in the past 4 years of my readership. So apparently, it's important. And I don't think women remember to do it enough after the newness and honey-moon phase of a new relationship starts. [God knows I'm guilty of this.] Hence the wandering and susceptibility to women who will tell him how hot, how strong, and how smart he is. So you be that woman, so when she says it, he goes, "Yeah, thanks-- I know. My girlfriend told me this morning." Take that, BITCH. Now stay away from my man.)

I'm seeing a need for this whole "two camps= no-no" thing to be clearer and more understood lately. Last night, Gypsy texted me to tell me that we would have to reschedule our date-thing because he had a work meeting that came up. I am in the opinion that if a meeting title contains the words "Department of Defense," it is generally more important than I am. So I said fine, no problem-- life comes up; I understand. He then invited me over to his place to drink. I had gotten ABSOLUTELY SHWASTY Wednesday night (we are talking, falling down, laughing hysterically, swaying when standing, can't read shitfaced-- but still a good choice on my part after 12 hours on campus; came home to hold ice cream in one hand, and cranberry juice and raspberry Smirnoff in the other), so I wasn't feelin' it too much, due to the fact I was still feelin' the night before. I was still on campus, without my car to either get to his apartment or back to mine afterward, and told him my dilemma.

"You could sleep on the extra bed, and leave early in the morning," Gypsy told me. (Actually, he texted "eraly" because he was wasted already, but details, details.)

I looked at the text and wondered how truly naive he thought I was. I really wanted to ask him how dumb he thought I am. Maybe not quite like that. But really-- I have been told by so many men that I can sleep on their extra bed/couch/futon/sleeping bag/car/bed with them that honestly, if I had not been naive the first three times, I may still actually think that he meant I could sleep on the extra bed.

But no. That really meant, "Come over, get absolutely drunk so that you'll then sleep with me, in my bed, and do the Walk of Shame home when I kick you out in the morning, or when you have to go to class, whichever comes first."

...Actually, tempting, because I have never done a Walk of Shame, and feel like along with making friends with frat boys and going to a toga party, that is something I shouldn't graduate college without experiencing. Although I have done Drives of Shame and Running Out Of My Own Apartment in Shame before.

I begged Gypsy off with homework and not feeling up to it, although when he asked if it was his horrible spelling that was turning me away, I did admit that it was truly horrendous (Really-- do you know what "corguly" means? "Cordially," to the drunk, apparently. Also, "Awe. Well be sat," means something along the lines of, "Aww. Well, how about Saturday?"), although deciphering it was hilarious, but said we'd have to reschedule.

I didn't expect him to hop on it. I expected drunk and horny Gypsy to drop it and start humping the closest possible thing. God knows that what I would have done.

Instead, he cleaned up his act, and sent me this rather impressive text for mocking his typing abilities: "What are you doing on Saturday my dear lady, for I would very much so like to party with you."

Hmmm. So apparently Saturday. I am pacing myself. And I am not sleeping with him. Or sleeping on the "extra bed." I don't know-- I've been warned enough that he can be a player (actually, I believe the phrase so vehemently said by one person was "man-whore,") and I know it, too-- but this whole thing is bringing up the "two camps/two teams/eat the cake, too" metaphor. Yeah, it's flattering, but I almost want to say something along the lines of, "You are by no means the only one interested in me, so unless you're the one who can give me what I want or need, then you're not going to be the one getting it. Sorry." If you're going to be a player and I'm just going to be a conquest for a night or a few, sorry-- keep moving.

I'm going to make him work for it, like I suspect he never really has to. (This is where I went wrong with Perfect, who is remarkably similar to Gypsy in the luck/women falling at his feet category.) Again with the marketing-- supply and demand. There is only one of me, and I am finally, FINALLY, at 20 years of age, getting the concept that the highest bidder, (AKA: the guy putting in the most work, effort, and incentive,) should be the one I give it away to, not the guy who dropped out of the bidding halfway because some other shiny item caught his attention.

Yeah. I can play the players, because at heart, I love being a player, too, but at this point, I'm just tired of dealing with it. Step up. Go big, or go home. Don't make me waste my time. And don't make me give out to a guy who doesn't deserve it.

Oh yeah. I'm finally going to start doing things right. Whore reform.

...Hahaha...not really. Lord knows I never slept around enough to be a whore. Bummerrr.

XOXO