Giving Up The Ghosts

Last night, I had a dream about the first boy I ever really liked and had a mad, raging, multi-year-long crush on. It was an interesting dream, because in it, he was just as blase and indecisive as he had been in real life. Finally, driven to the end of my proverbial rope by despair and out of my wits with frustration, I wrote him a letter, outlining the fact that as long as he couldn't choose to keep a monogamous relationship either between me and him or him and my friend, I was done-- I wanted nothing to do with him. I upheld my promise pretty well-- until we survived a life-or-death situation together, caved under the pressure, had sex again, and then I got to confront my friend while helping her move from her apartment about the fact he was playing us both.

It was an emotionally-charged, fascinating dream-- possibly made more interesting by the appearance of the ex at the tail-end of it, as well as the fact that I knew that my first crush was actually the symbolical representation of my last relationship. I woke up, utterly fed up, and started thinking about the lengths that women will go through to try to keep a relationship.

I have never been a fan of the ultimatums, unlike much women. I firmly believe that if you're going to make a "if...than" statement, you should be willing to stand by it under pain of death, dismemberment, or break-up, and, as my dream obviously revealed, I've never really been great at doing that. If a woman gives a man an ultimatum-- "It's done forever and ever until the end of time when the Universe is sucked into a black hole if you ever sleep with another woman"-- and then doesn't actually have the balls to stand by what she said in earnest, it teaches both of them that A.) A woman can say things that she absolutely doesn't mean, and B.) That he can get away with it. I consider both outcomes horrible things. And I'm always quick on the draw to call a bluff. So, instead, I stick to the "Do it once, shame on you; do it twice, shame on me, I'm leaving," mentality. It works, for the most part. In real life, not only was I able to walk away from my first crush when he perpetrated events much like the ones in my dream last night, but I also repeated my feat of fortitude and strength again when the ex repeated similar events, later in my life.

And yet, I find myself still dreaming of them both. What does this say about me; about them?

Despite the fact that we grew up together and still are in casual touch, I hadn't thought about my first crush in months before last night, so I happen to think he was just a handy vehicle for my dream-self to craft the morality lesson of last night's sleep around. As for the ex...well, that's a more slippery slope, but I can explain where the specter of him came from, too. Before I went to sleep last night, I was watching a movie when the dishy main actor suddenly smiled, and in a blinding flash of realization, I realized why I was drawn to him-- he very much resembled the ex, especially when he smiled. I started flipping back through my Rolodex of Previous Relationships, trying to put famous faces to my exes who resembled them. I made the same obvious match of Aaron Eckhart to someone as I had when I'd been seeing him, but, other than him, the only other one of my ex-lovers who I could pin similar faces on was the ex, and as I kept coming up with names of people who I thought looked like him-- the guy from the movie; Emile Hirsch; Adem Ljajic-- I started wondering why, to me, he was one of my most recognized faces. It wasn't the fact that he was my longest running on-again, off-again thing; it wasn't the fact that I truly loved him-- I truly love my most recent ex, but I was fucked if I could come up with a doppelganger for him, so there goes that theory. I will admit to the fact that in his heyday, the ex was certainly one of the most striking and handsome men I have ever seen, let alone been with, so maybe that was it. We human beings can be incredibly shallow, after all.

The ex was beautiful, and he and I shared a lot of emotional history-- and hysteria-- together. But does that, and the fact that I can still catch glimpses of him in other people mean that I in any way desire him back? Oh, helllllllll noooooooo.  Let's face it, I'm a little bit of a masochist, and a little pain never really hurt anyone, but I would have to be declared clinically insane to ever go back to him. THAT much pain and turmoil he put me through just isn't worth it; no matter how attractive he was, no matter what we had in common; no matter the fact that we shared friends, professions, and a common life. I remember how miserable I could be when I was with him, and in general, I tend to believe that there is one thing human beings should never actively seek out to be, and that thing is miserable. Learning that lesson through him-- and, in some ways, the baby starter steps to it with my first crush-- was possibly one of the defining moments of my life thus far, and it has always served as a valuable lesson every time another relationship starts to turn the same way. I am more important to myself than a man will ever be, no matter how much I happen to love him. And if he makes me miserable, well-- then someone has to go, and it's sure as hell not going to be me. One of the most important things you can ever learn is how and when to go about giving up the ghost of relationships failed, past, and never to be repeated again.

XOXO

"It's Not Me...It's You."

Here's the thing about pregnancy tests: You never quite believe that it's actually you holding them. They're like a Twilight Zone wormhole from which you look down at the box in your hand and ask yourself, "Is this really me standing here with this thing? Like, is this for real?" You know how in movies, when they do POV shots, it feels really uncomfortable to be the viewer, because you KNOW that that's not actually your body that you're trapped inside and seeing the world from? Welcome to exactly what buying a pregnancy test is like.

A little while ago, the universe conspired against me in a whole number of different ways to fuck with my body without my consent. My script for Zoloft ran out, and by the time it took the pharmacy in my hometown to refill and ship it to me, I was a few days lacking the serotonin my body desperately needs to keep me sane and level. Life was also shitty at the time in others ways-- stressful and full of drama that was neither mine, nor of my own making. It started to take its toll; I was constantly nauseous and dizzy. A morning hike turned into a battle to stay upright and cognizant. I also was probably a little anemic, due to the fact that living with a vegetarian was NOT doing my diet any favors in regards to my body's generous appetite for red meat, blood, guts, and protein. And I was having sex. Lots of regular, good ol' fashioned relationship sex. What a perfect Molotov cocktail for disaster and pee-dipsticks.

I first got my period when I was 12. I remember it vividly, because it was during the summer, and I was with my family and childhood best friend at our usual summer residence at the Jersey shore. For the rest of our vacation, I refused to go in the ocean, because I was SURE that I was going to end up the tragic victim of a shark attack based on the fact that I was now BLEEDING, dripping BLOOD UNCONTROLLABLY, from somewhere that I didn't quite understand yet. I was young. It was traumatic. I really, really hate sharks and their cold, dead eyes. But since that summer, my period had been something that came like Swiss clockwork-- you literally could have set Big Ben or international standard time to it, it was so reliable, down to the date and time of afternoon when it made its appearance. And there was none of this "skipped period" or "spotting" bullshit for me when I started out; my period RSVPed, and it made it its business to show. Punctually. Only once, the second month that I was on birth control when I was 18, did I ever spot between cycles. It was unsettling and odd for me, but I had a reason for it, so I sucked it up, bought more panty liners, and moved on. So I was properly freaked out when suddenly, last month, I started spotting a week before I was supposed to be due.

I let it go for a day or two, considering all the angles: Maybe my lack of Zoloft had impacted its buddy Ortho Tricyclin Lo, considering I take them both at the same time every day, and it was lonely and taking it out on me the only way it knew how. Maybe I had some internal trauma I didn't know about, a ruptured cyst or something. Maybe my lady bits where rioting against all this sex, as unused to routine as they were after all the dry spells of my life. Or, maybe, as I input all my bodily woes into the Mayo clinic's database of diseases and scrolled down the page, I was experiencing "implantation bleeding." AKA: Maybe I was well and truly fucked.

Small quantities of brown blood. Nausea. Dizziness. Higher Basal body temperature. I did the complicated and quantum physics and math of my menstrual cycle's peak performance and ovulation time and the history of my sex life and compared it to what not only Mayo, but WebMD, BabyMed, SteadyHealth, and Woman's Health had to say. It was not good, in the way that for the first time in my life, a mathematical equation coming out to equal the sum that it should was not something my mathematically-dyslexic self wanted to celebrate. I considered calling my mother to ask if she'd experience implantation bleeding when she got pregnant with me. I decided against it, and called a friend of mine who had been pregnant once before instead. We jointly decided it would be best to wait it out; see if my period made its real appearance when it was supposed to. We cited the Zoloft, the anemia, the stress as contributing factors. We didn't even entertain the possibility that pregnancy was a real option. I took my birth control every day with the fanaticism of a Southern Revivalist. We'd been careful. We'd been good. In my sexual history, if Ortho were to fail me and fuck me over, it would have happened before now. The ratio of possible pregnancy situations in my past compared to my present would have read something like 234:3. (That's probably not even a real ratio, and now you understand just how bad at math I really am.)

So I waited. The spotting waxed and waned, but nothing like my usual period showed. One day, at lunch, I excused myself to the ladies' room, and came back triumphant, sure that I had finally exited the danger zone, but later that night, the well dried up. Nothing. Nada. I was going on two weeks now refraining from sex because I may or may not decide to start bleeding. It was killing me. Finally, my friend convinced me it was time to do the damn thing and know for certain, instead of continuously directing disparaging remarks down toward my belt and being a general ostrich with my head in the sand. "I blame the Holocaust," I told her. "If it wasn't for Hitler, those fucking sperm wouldn't feel as deep a need to survive." We went to Shaw's. She shopped for the week's groceries while I deliberated between spending $13 on a pregnancy test, or $6. On one hand, did I really want to trust something so important to a cheapo no-name brand? On the other, I was really freaking tapped for cash, and if it was negative, well...that would be a totally un-cool way to have wasted what could have bought me two dirty martinis. I settled for a middle-range option, and grabbed another box of condoms, too. Optimism.

In the checkout lane, specifically picked to get maximum hilarity out of what could otherwise end up being a pretty desolate situation, the teenage boy behind the register didn't even blink. My friend and I felt let down. When we got back to her apartment, I opened the box, and discovered that taking a pregnancy test apparently mandates a map the size of your average road atlas, and instructions as detailed-- down to the second and no-nonsense-- as taking your SATs or the bar exam in your state. After reading the instruction to DO NOT HOLD TEST UPSIDE-DOWN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, OR ELSE YOU'LL SCREW UP THE TEST AND NEVER KNOW AND END UP ON 'I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS PREGNANT,' I handled it like a grenade whose pin had been pulled. And always tip-down. We debated peeing on it the good old-fashioned way versus using the cup method. She pointed out that I would then have a cup of pee to deal with. We both pulled a face. I tentatively journeyed into the bathroom to try hovering over the toilet without peeing on my own hand. Through the door, I commented that it would be a lot easier for men to be the ones who got pregnant and had to take pregnancy tests. She instructed me to be sure that I didn't wimp out and got a good stream on the tip. I didn't pee on my hand as I feared I would, so I was feeling a little bit triumphant when I capped it again and laid it gently to rest on the sink's counter. If I could not pee on my own hand while taking a pregnancy test, I reasoned, there was no way in hell I could have actually fucked myself over even more and be pregnant.

My friend instructed me that even though the test said it could be checked as soon as 2 minutes after, waiting at least 4 to get a conclusive result was even better. She knew what she was talking about, so we set a timer, and found a Youtube clip of the Jeopardy "thinking" song to wait to. There is nothing that really raises the class level of taking a pregnancy test like the thought of Alex Trebek and people dressed in tweed. My friend got a call and stepped out for a minute, and then it was suddenly me, Alex, my thoughts, and the bathroom door that was open just enough to see the toilet, but not enough to see the hidden test on the counter, diagnosis yet unknown.

Here's the thing: I knew as soon as I read Mayo's diagnosis for me what I would do if it was true. So, in one aspect, I knew exactly what I was going to do. But the more I sat there and thought as Jeopardy kept playing and the timer was ticking down, I realized that this whole shenanigan wasn't about me. The stress that I'd been going through, the intense fear at the thought that I may be enciente was not my stress, or fear of what I would do; it was fear of what another woman would do. And that, I realized, was much more; ten times more; a hundred, million times more fucked up and ridiculous than me actually being worried and taking this pregnancy test to be sure for MYSELF. In a perfect world, devoid of any other players or pawns, the fact that I was 22, in a stable relationship, and taking a pregnancy test would not have been so scary. In that same world, I would have been allowed to be potentially excited, and entertain the thought of other options besides my cut-and-dried one of abortion. But this is not that perfect world. There are other players in this one, and there are pawns. In many ways, my own pregnancy would not be about me. What is supposed to be one of the most significant times of a woman's life would not be made of joy and healthy levels of both fear and excitement; it would be full of strife and more stress and drama and endless questions and phone calls and arguments, and not all of them would be about me, my relationship, or my child, but about another person, another relationship, and another child. What it came down to was not the fact that I didn't want a child; it came down to the fact that I didn't want to bring a child into a situation as volatile as the one I'd entered when I started my relationship. Because it wouldn't be fair. Not to me. Not to a baby. Not to my partner. And, a little part of my mind reminded me, not to another woman. In that moment, Jeopardy's timpani drums striking merrily, I knew I had my answer, regardless of the test's results. My friend came back into the room. I was white and drawn. The timer went off.

The test was negative. I laughed, danced, and ate a big steak.

XOXO

Figuring It All Out

At 22, I thought that my big Quarterlife-Crisis change would be starting to navigate the big, scary Real World, B.S in hand. Instead, the economy solved that issues for me by making me generally unemployable (who ever got a Liberal Arts degree, anyway?) and only a few months freshly out of college, my big life change ended up being a drastic switch from The Single Life to The Coupled Life. Between the two of us, self-imposed loners with a sarcastic, highbrow bend and a serious commitment to Netflix and alienating ourselves from decent society, we managed to take two fairly boring lives, combine them, and make one chock-full-o'-nuts life together. Hence why I have been fairly MIA for the last few months. Hence why I now have friends IRL. Hence why tonight, while he's gone from the nest and I am too mindlessly bored to continue watching yet another Katherine Heigl movie, I've decided to let you know that I remain alive, just a little bit less single than I used to be, and a little bit more grown-up.

All kidding aside, what have I learned about relationships in the past few months cannot be neatly summed up in a single blog post, or in any number of blog posts, for that matter. (Believe me-- I have tried. And tried and tried and tried. My Drafts box is both imposing and impressive now.) Our relationship, like most others, is too complex and nuanced to break it down into categories and subcategories: What I Think About Him, What He Thinks Of Me, When An Acceptable Amount Of Time Is In Which To Say "I Love You," And Who Said It First (neither of those actually happened to be good societal standard norms, but fuck it), How We Met Each Other's Families, The Fact That All My Friends For Once Agree I Have Met A Suitable Man And Would Probably Take Him Over Me Were We To Split, Our First Mini-Getaways As A Couple And How To Survive A Vacation With Your Partner When Your Forget Your Blowdryer, What To Say When You're Caught Red-Handed, How To Breathe And Just Let Shit Roll Off Your Back, What Happens When The Past Sometimes Doesn't Stay In The Past, How Cooking For Two Requires More Math Than You're Bound To Remember From High School Calc Than Cooking For One Does, and The Proper Way To Wake A Snoring, Blanket-Stealing Man Up.

Instead, I've gone back to my pre-schooling basics to make this relationship work where others before have failed. We share things: My car. His house. The grocery list. A full-size bed (built for cuddling when you're respectively 5'3 and 6'3,) and one blanket-- well, he has a tendency to get all Oldest Child about it and steal it, so I've resorted to His and Hers duvets. Colds-- he just got over one; kindly has passed it onto me. We compromise: He, a full-bore Mac Man, has learned to navigate around my PC. I've given up eating quite as much red meat as I used to to better suit his vegetarian diet and our shared meals. He's getting used to having to repeat questions. I'm slowly getting used to actually listening to the answers. The other day, I caught him kiss my cat on the head, not sneer and verbally demean him per usual. It touched me in a very special place. (No, not that special place.) Basically, as I am dying to tell all of my ex-professors, the things I learned in hallowed campus classrooms were NOT, in fact, the lessons that have helped me survive life after college; it was the lessons my parents taught me pre-K and everything else I picked up from dating in dorms, renting as a roommate, and romancing the reluctant and recalcitrant rascals of my previous Single Life that have got me where I am today: Happy, well-adjusted, cohabitating, and in love.

...And yes, still funemployed. But writing pro bono for a few publications, and one newly-created nationally-syndicated women's magazine! (I guess some of those publishing and entrepreneurship classes did come in useful, after all.)

Long story short, I spent 4 years of my life and nearly a cool $100K to learn that to make it in life, you have to be funny enough to ensnare a man's attention, quirky enough to keep it, well-versed enough in the kitchen to feed him once you've got him, persevering enough to play hausfrau for him, relaxed enough to drink beers with his buddies, feminine enough to keep his blood boiling even after a few months in, well-read enough to read the labels on his shirts before laundering them, and educated enough from your previous Single Life to be able to introduce him to new things, places, and experiences.

He, in return, has got to love you enough to find all of this amusing and endearing.

In other words, stay in school, because that's where all the good men are.

XOXO

Things About Being The Best Girlfriend You Can Be That Nobody Ever Told You:

...Until now.

1.) Sometimes, guys get headaches, too. A night spent together without sleeping together is not a night wasted-- it's life. Just like you have "off" nights, men are allowed to have "off" nights and days, too. Don't take it personally. Enjoy your night of restful sleep. And if you're really torn up about it...there's always the next morning.

2.) Nannying was a really useful summer job to have as far as a skill-set for relationships go. There is absolutely no harm in asking before leaving for a trip if your partner has remembered to pack the essentials: toothbrush, deodorant, underwear, something to sleep in, cell phone charger. If he has, great. If he has somehow overlooked an item or two in his packing, he'll think you're a godsend for remembering what he didn't. It's easy, too-- just think about the things that are REALLY needed for a day or two away; while we may not be able to function without our trusty blowdryer, that's the way he feels about his deodorant. And when in doubt, just as when I was SuperNanny I always had tissues in my back pockets and a big red Mary Poppins purse full of tricks, there are a few things to always carry in your purse to make your union even smoother: tissues, band aids, breath mints or gum, cough drops, a condom or two, and water. Toys to keep him occupied while you're shopping optional.

3.) It's ok to get mad. You have emotions, too. But realize that when you start to withhold affection because of something that you haven't shared with him, you're doing more to damage your relationship than to move past the anger. If you start withholding, he'll start, because he has no clue what's going on unless you tell him. 9 times out of 10, whatever ticked you off was one of your little personality quirks or pet-peeves, and he didn't mean to do it, or doesn't think it's a big deal. You have one of two options: Address it with him, or move past it and let it go on your own. Your sour mood has the ability to affect not only you and your partner, but everyone else around you, too. I realized the other night that my tetchy mood after I felt like my significant other had been ignoring me in a social setting wasn't only dragging down my night out; my bad mood and surly attitude was dragging down him and our friend from having a good time, too. It wasn't fair to any of us, so in a quiet minute alone, I addressed it, we hugged it out, and the rest of our night was fabulous. A quick chat and a hug can repair far more than going an entire night or few days in a funk can.

4.) Let it go. Your past relationships are over, and shouldn't affect your current one any more than your elementary school friends affected your college life. Sometimes, when my ex hadn't shaved in awhile, he reminded me so much of my first boyfriend that I would get completely turned off. Other times in relationships, all the emotional bullshit and trust issues that the ex had put me through resurfaced, and undermined my current relationships, for no reason other than the fact that I was scared what happened to me in the past would happen again, just with another guy. If it's over and done with, let it be over and done with. And if it's still present, the best thing you can do for EVERYONE involved is to set boundaries. Twice now I've had my exes calling and/or texting me after the relationship ended, trying to get with me or see me. For the sake of my current relationships, I set very firm ground rules with them:

A.) Acknowledge the fact that you are in a new, committed, monogamous relationship.

B.) Let them know that while you appreciate their interest in seeing you and/or newfound desire to communicate, it's not the ideal time at the moment because you have other, more pressing issues that need your attention. Like sleep, your job, or going back to date night.

C.) But tell them when it is acceptable. 4 AM is not acceptable; I'm not always alone at night, and I enjoy my beauty sleep. Be firm in telling them to keep their dialing to daylight hours.

D.) If they're not being nice, DO assure them you will not put up with their bullshit any longer, because you're not in a relationship anymore, and you don't have to.

E.) If they are insistent about wanting to see you and talk, do it somewhere neutral, and in public, like a coffee shop or a city park. Having witnesses never hurt-- someone would be bound to see them drag your body away.

F.) Be nice, but be firm. It never cost anyone anything to be civil; remember, at one time, this person meant the world to you. If you can't at least be friendly and/or treat them like a friend, something's wrong. If they need to leave you alone, tell them that. Though it's flattering to hear that the ex wants you back, your priority now should be your new relationship, not your old ones.

5.) Everyone has a different bank account balance. Sometimes, what one partner can spend is different than what the other is capable of, and, as money is very fluid, sometimes that changes from person to person from month to month, or even from week to week. If you can't be generous in your spending, be generous in other things, instead, like in your time or your effort in the relationship. I spend a lot of time at my significant other's, so, to thank him for the nights we spend there and not at my place, I clean his house. It's easy, it doesn't take much time, but it speaks volumes that I value his space and his things as much as I do mine, and he appreciates it. If you've got a little cash, treating your boyfriend to drinks or late-night delivery is always a great "I appreciate you and like taking care of you" gesture. If you are absolutely tapped, a fun time out can be hard. However, it costs nothing to go to a local high school sports game and cuddle in the bleachers, or take a blanket and drive out into the country and go star-gazing. When in doubt, keep track of the things he mentions wanting or needing-- they can be little, like a new pair of sunglasses for summer, or big, like a new bike or the special collector's edition of his favorite TV show. When you DO have cash, referring back to your secret list of his desires will give you a shopping point to start from (great for birthdays, Christmas, and Valentine's Day presents he'll actually care about).

6.) Health issues aren't embarrassing; they're your body. If you can share your body in an intimate way, you should be able to talk openly and freely about why your period isn't going to allow you to have sex for the next 5 days, why the Chinese you just ate is sending you running for the bathroom every 15 minutes, and what a UTI is and why you have one. Women pee, shit, barf, sneeze, fart and cough just like everyone else. A fart during sex isn't the end of the world; please learn to either ignore it and move on like adults, or how to laugh it off together. A good girlfriend can talk about body issues and things relating: her birth control habits, because it's important that he understands them, too; why a clean bathroom at his place with a trash can in it is needed; any body hang-ups she has and how they affect their sex life; and any outstanding health issues that he should be aware of-- if someone needs to accompany you to your doctor visits and your parents aren't in the area, guess who should pony up? While explaining your cycle to your guy may not exactly be like asking your best friend for a tampon, both are people who should understand you, your insides and out.

7.) All girls are taught that when a guy asks you what you want-- for date night, for your birthday, for lunch-- you should say "nothing" so that he thinks you're a laid-back catch of a woman and values you more for that and ends up pulling out all the stops to make you happy. However, we've failed to take in the communication differences between men and women into account. When we tell a guy that we want "nothing" or that we "don't want to do anything special," he's going to take you at face- and word-value, and you'll be getting a whole lot of nothing instead of that whole lot of SOMETHING that you really wanted. And then guess who's going to be the one sulking? Not him. He did EXACTLY what you told him to do. So, take it into account-- while if you ask for nothing you're bound to get nothing, if you ask for EVERYTHING, you're also bound to get nothing. A nice dinner out is perfectly acceptable to ask for for your anniversary. An all-expenses-paid trip to the Taj Mahal is not. If you want the turkey club, or a dinner out, or that bracelet for your birthday, ASK. Don't make him try to read your mind. He'll appreciate your up-front-ness, and both of you will end up winning.

8.) Sometimes, when you ask him what he's thinking while he's staring at you with a goofy grin on his face, and he says "nothing," what he really means is, "I'm honestly not engaging in any brain activity right now, so stop asking me for the answers to life," NOT "I'm thinking about how you're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen and if I were to ever meet her, I'd tell Megan Fox to get a face-lift to look more like YOU, not the other way around," like you want to hear. So stop asking him what he's thinking...just let him veg peacefully.

9.) If asked about your ex's endowment, DO NOT give solid measurements in inches and diagrams. Be vague, but truthful. Say "You fit me better," or "It wasn't all that great." Penis envy is real, and just like how you REALLY don't want to know if his ex gave better head than you do, he really doesn't need to be thinking about how he measures up to The Hammer.

10.) One of the best things you can do for your relationship is realize that the time you spend annoying each other (and it WILL happen!) is always less than the time you spend loving to be around each other. (If it's the reverse, I think you need to get out-- NOW.) If he's being chipper in the early morning before you've had your coffee and all you really want to do is tell him to shut up, sit down, and leave you alone, remember that this too shall pass, and in the next 10 minutes, he'll go back to being your average, normal, lovable boyfriend. A little memory of the good times together, and a LOT of tolerance goes a looong way in relationships. If he doesn't think he drives you mental at least twice every day because you keep it to yourself and work through it, he'll think you're Mother Teresa's hot young kid sister.

XOXO

A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

While my ex seems to be content with popping up on my cell phone's screen at all hours of the night, now plagued with a need to reconcile after all this radio silence, my S.O's ex didn't seemingly take to the news that he was seeing someone new so well, which has resulted in such jewels as "Makes more sense now; Carissa is a whore's name :)," popping up on HIS cell phone's screen.

I Googled. There seem to be no whores named Carissa. At least, none with websites or internet access.

While it's not the first time I've been called a whore-- let's be serious, this blog's name is "Sex and the College Girl," not, "Aeronautical Nuances of the 21st Century and How They Effected Young Women,"-- it still bothered me more than I thought it would. I think the hardest part for me is that I've been on both sides of the equation that I currently find myself in, and so, I have empathy for my S.O's ex, even if she did call me a slut. Her life was torn apart when she realized her ex had moved on and started seeing someone else, and I've been there, too. While she feels emotionally (and maybe physically) cheated on, I've also been both cheated on, as well as the cheatee, in previous relationships. All in all, it leads to a confusing war of emotions-- part of me wants to land a good right hook on her nose for calling me a whore when I have done absolutely nothing wrong (or whore-like,) while the other, greater, more Gandhi-like part of me wants to help comfort her and work her through this, since I have the knowledge and experience on how to survive something like this from before. If we were men, it would be so much easier. We'd have a good rough-and-tumble fist-fight, and then we'd be best bros. Instead, it all just gets to be awkward and I get to live in fear of opening his bathroom door after a shower, dripping wet, naked, and vulnerable, to find her standing there when I'm home alone at his place. Have I mentioned that she apparently has 8 inches on me? Yikes.

But maybe, it's not all so cut-and-dried. As I guiltily found out when the ex cheated on me, it's easy to hate someone you don't know. I was CONVINCED the girl he'd slept with was born with the express purpose to ruin my life, be a bitch, and look horrible in her Facebook profile photos. (There may have been many, many catty references to her resembling a wall-eyed bass. Not my finest moments.) But gradually, I started to realize that she probably A.) Had no idea I even existed, and B.) Was just looking for the same sort of love I was. Unfortunately, we were both looking for it from the same guy, but all the same, I couldn't fault her wanting her happy ending. And so, little by little, I started to forgive. The other day, thinking about her, about me, and about my S.O's ex in the current situation, I looked the ex's indiscretion up again. And you know what? She looked good. She looked happy. And not even the least little bit fishy. Maybe it had just all been me, being a cat-fish.

Then again, maybe it wasn't. The other night, at dinner, my S.O mentioned something inside-joke-like in passing about his mother, a different women than his father is currently seeing. I happened to be looking at his dad's girlfriend when he said it, and I saw a look flash across her face as quickly as it was then gone. But I recognized it. It's the same look ALL women, when the name of the woman who came before, or who they're afraid will come after, adopt as soon as the syllables hang in the span of air between mouth and ear. As I sat at our table in the dining room of the Woodstock Inn and looked at my S.O's father and his girlfriend, it hit me-- The ex-girlfriends of our past and present are only going to become the first, second, and ex-wives of our future. And it'll still be just as difficult, awkward, and confusing as it is now, so we just might as well get used to it, and get good at letting all the flack slide off of our shoulders. So here's to turning the other cheek and waiting for the day when she knows better than to think I'm actually a whore, or that I ever meant to hurt her. Because I, possibly more than most other girls, know both the exquisite pleasure AND pain that comes from these sort of relationships past-yet-still-present. I've been in those tight size 8 shoes, and it's not a fun trip, not in the least.

XOXO

How To Not Meet The Parents

After over 6 years of dating, NUMEROUS relationships, and both some long and short distance flings, I have finally managed to stop dodging the bullet, and put my Big Girl Pants on and met a guy's mother. Mostly, I managed to accomplish this tremendous feat of chicken-shit-ness by either A.) Dating guys without parents (read: orphans, foster kids, or extremely independent children of nasty divorces who moved out early and aren't really "family guys"), B.) Dating guys whose family's live far enough away that it wasn't an issue or even topic to broach (read: Vermont to Virginia, hundreds of miles, etc.), or C.) Dating men who had no interest in either keeping me around long enough to deign meeting their parents a possibility, or dating guys who just didn't give a shit about the whole parent/family/girlfriend/girl-he's-sleeping-with equation. Mostly, it worked for me. The closest I actually ever came to suiting up for parental battle was agreeing to go to a potential dinner with TGIS's dad after we'd been together for 5 months, but mostly, that was because he was a foodie as well and I thought he and I would have no chance in hell that we WOULDN'T hit it off over our steak frites and vino.

Now, other than the occasional foodie daddy, I feel a couple ways about meeting parents, and in particular mothers, because when you think about it, fathers are just really grown up men, and I tend to do really well with men. We get each other. We have similar senses of humor. In general, I tend to know what a guy is looking for from me in terms of behavior, conversation, attitude, etc. Women, however, are a whole different barrel of slippery eels. Women are fickle, fickle creatures (and I should know, being one of them,) and if a woman decides she doesn't want to like you, not even an injunction from GOD is going to make her suddenly change her mind and give you the time of day. But with mothers-- MOTHERS-- here's the deal:

Mother-Law #1: If given the choice between meeting someone's mother or a psychotic ax-murderer in the darkness of my apartment hallway late at night while home alone, I would take the ax-murderer GLADLY, because one of those, you can kill in self-defense, where as no matter how badly it goes with the other, you can't.

Mother-Law #2: Now, if (god forbid,) I were to ever have a son, and he were to somehow make it to the appropriate ages for dating and copulation himself, and if he were to be charming and intelligent and pretty much all-around my child, and were to bring a girl home for me to meet, as she would be telling me how nice it was to meet me and how much she's heard about me and what a lovely home I had!, all I would be thinking is, "yeah, yeah, and all those nice words are coming out of the same mouth that sucks my baby boy's dick."

In two bulleted points, THAT sums up how I feel about mothers, and why, in general, I've tried to avoid them. But, after being told, very gently, that I might as well get it over with in a no-pressure situation, I actually entered under the threshold of a mother's front door with her son. And made it back out alive. She was lovely. She thinks I'M lovely. And since then, I've met nearly the rest of his family, including my first over-night stay at a parent's house, and he's met MY immediate and extended family. And Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, everyone seems to be doing just fine. Who ever knew-- I am really capable of growing up and getting over my emotional bullshit.

XOXO

Live, Single Girls!

After my third friend in a row was recently dumped by her long-time partner in lovin' crime, it started to put my ladies in the Burlington area in a bit of a panic. First, TGIS had gone MIA, then, one friend's 9+ month f-buddy called it quits on her while citing the need to emotionally distance himself before moving to Beantown, and to top it all off, one of the longest-running couples I knew decided it was time to part ways, effectively rendering everyone's general mood as if it were the end of Scrub's era again. At the beginning of the winter, everyone was shacking up. Now as the season is almost turning to summer, it seems as if they’re all shedding us ladies like winter coats and beards. It’s bizarre, but it’s biological.

When I came home a few weeks ago late at night/early that morning from a successful date #2, I realized then that I haven't been without at LEAST the prospect of a man for the last two years. I went from a summer fling to a feel-it-out situation, to breaking the feel-it-out situation when I slept with someone else who I then started an on-again, off-again relationship with for about a year, then finally ended up facing the music, the relationship's downfalls, and the lack of my desires being unfulfilled when I met and started hanging out with someone else, and just kept going from there. So much for being a "Single Girl." But it's not my fault-- there are men EVERYWHERE. The key to finding them, it seems, is to apparently not be looking for them.

While I may have achieved success (more or less,) in the really odd way of just continuing to date via the ex's friend pool-- not by choice; Vermont is just that small-- the lesson that I've learned here is that "the end" does not really start the sentence "the end of the rest of your romantic life." When I finally reached the conclusion on my own thanks to lack of any communication or response from him that my relationship with TGIS had run its course, I cheered myself up by doing two things-- remembering that he himself had been a random stranger I'd met while intoxicated at a party (true life,) and didn't remember until he popped up out of the blue and started talking to me on Facebook, ergo, that you NEVER know who'll you'll meet or click with, and secondly, taking my bed back by sleeping in the direct middle of it so it didn't feel quite so big and empty and pathetic and lonely anymore. (Wait, are we talking about me or my bed, now? Hmm.) Partially thanks to that, and partially thanks to probably my Zoloft prescription, it was the least painful break-up I've ever had, even though the relationship in itself was probably the most involved and serious to date.

And then I was asked out again out of the blue. I wasn't expecting it. It wasn't like I was planning on being a sex-kitten man-magnet right out of the emotional gate again. I actually intended to take some time off, be single, and re-evaluate myself and my life. But instead, I'm content to just feel things out, meet new people, and take things slow for now. Nothing, after all, is written in stone. Other, of course, than monuments, historical road signs, and castle dedications.

The other night, as the beau and I picked up the ingredients to make a late Sunday night dinner dressed in a motley assortment of "wow, laundry day needs to come soon" clothing, I looked across the self-check-out station at another young couple. He was in Timbz and sweats; she in jeggings, flip-flops, and an off-the-shoulder t-shirt that could have been identical to mine. She and I were bagging what was obviously going to be dinner for the night as the guys swiped it across the scanners, and suddenly, it hit me-- this isn't that weird; this is what people my age do. We date. We get in and out of relationships. We find out what we're looking for in a partner, and we adjust our thinking accordingly. So, while I may eternally feel like that Single Girl, what I really am is a Normal Girl, one who goes on dates, gets into relationships, still deals with her ex's drama, and more than anything else, is actively and eternally curious about learning what the words "love" and "relationship" really mean.

XOXO

---

This is also a massive apology for the lack of posts in the past month-ish. Between my thesis, finals, Senior Week, graduation, family, my new relationship, finding a new apartment, and traveling, I've been more than a little tied up. However, I HAVE still been taking notes and writing, so be prepared for a slew of posts flooding your RSS feed. Starting...now. Thanks for all your continued support and kinds words in my Comments box; I can't tell you how appreciated they were and how much they meant to me!

Just Friends...?

One of the hardest things about dating someone is trying to get an idea of the web of their friendships. While you may meet the best friends if you make it through the preliminary rounds of courtship, and while you may be taken to places, parties, or events where you meet some of the outer circle, the "good for a fun time" friends, you'll never get to meet everyone, or neatly sort out all the knots of confusion into neat, tidy little bundles of friendship strings. What can be hardest yet is qualifying the relationship the guy you're seeing has with his girl friends-- as a woman, you always have to wonder...is there something else there? What is the best way to ask if there's something more going on between him and his female friend he seems to be very close with? IS there even an easy way to ask anyone this without sounding like a total freak of nature?

Recently, I've been driving myself borderline insane trying to figure out the answer to this question. While I may currently be in a relationship, and monogamous, and everything seems to be going well, that question that shouldn't be asked seems to keep rising its ugly green head and begging to be asked: You've been talking a lot about a certain person recently; is there something I should know about? I'm fragile from the answer to this question being answered incorrectly in the past, and I need more reassurance and feedback on it than the average, well-adjusted woman does because of it. I get that I may just be A Little Crazy about it. But at the heart of the matter lies an even deeper-seated question: Can men and women Just Be Friends?

My friend Robin doesn't think so. Robin and I spent 4 months studying abroad in Italy together, and hence got very close. Robin, coincidentally, has been the guy most despised by every man I've been in a relationship with since. When I got back from Italy, my current flame questioned me up and down about Robin, then snubbed him at a party later on when he showed up to say "hi" to me. Very early on in seeing each other, the guy I'm currently seeing asked for the 4-1-1 on Robin, himself. Poor, misinterpreted Robin is a believer in Ladder Theory, himself-- the theory taken from "When Harry Met Sally" that a man and a woman are incapable of being platonic friends without one desiring something more.

Maybe I should be appeased by the fact that the guy I'm currently seeing thinks that Ladder Theory is complete bullshit, and that he has many perfectly functional friendships with women that are purely platonic...from his side, at least, he admitted, one morning when we went downtown and I asked him about it as we waited for our breakfast sandwiches by the beverage coolers. Or maybe I shouldn't listen to that at all, as not five minutes later, a girl appeared, and they hugged, exchanged pleasantries as all around were introduced, and after she and her friends left, he turned to me, slightly pink, and said, "Well, that was kind of funny. She's had a crush on me for over two years, but I just don't find her attractive at all." Hmmmm. So, CAN a man and a woman just be friends, or is all my round-and-round, hamster-wheel worrying actually energy spent on something worthwhile to ponder?

I try to temper myself by reminding myself that I am an undeniable Guy's Girl-- I always have more platonic male friends than female-- and that at one time, one of my closest guy friends, if not my CLOSEST guy friend, admitted he found me attractive and tried taking me out for dinner before we both decided it was maybe a little too awkward. But nothing EVER happened, or ever even ALMOST happened, and he and my other guy friends would ask me to come over and just hang because, sometimes, guys just like to have a girl friend around. I get this. I know this. I am usually That Girl that my guys call to come over when they feel the need to have a double-X chromosome make up in the room to balance out all the testosterone. The Older Brother/Younger Sister/Best Friends relationship dynamics are now firmly in place. There's no question anymore about the fact that I'm just a chill girl. Nothing makes me happier than to have a beer in hand, sitting on someone's couch, watching a movie and shooting the shit in a sweater and jeans. But am I always perceived as such, especially when I'm dressed in heels and a sweater-dress, or am I always like that? No. And when I found myself dressing (relatively) up and re-applying my make-up one night after I invited my best guy friend out to eat dinner with me, I realized that if I am doing it, maybe I should cut other girls doing it a break, even if the thought of another woman whom I'm still ambiguous about her intentions out at lunch with the guy I'm seeing makes me a little queasy.

I've been benign about this thus far, but I've been relaxed about this in the past and it's come back to bite me in the ass, so I'd just like to be clear about what's going on. Maybe I need to know that I'm not the only one really sticking my pale neck out there, trying this thing on for real.

XOXO

Boys Are Made Of Snips And Snails And Porn And Gay Tales.

Relationships are often hard enough contending with other women; when a girl gets mind-fucked and finds out that men are included in the mix, it's often enough to send anyone off her rocker. I remember finding an ex of mine on a gay website. He had been so manly, so masculine, so snide about homosexuals, so normal, so badly dressed, so straight. And now THIS. The love of musicals and ass-appreciation began to make more sense. I FRRRRREEEEAKED. First, about the deceit and wondering if he ever even found me attractive, and second, about the fact that now I knew that he had, or was looking to have, sex with other men I now REALLY needed to get tested for AIDS, considering I'd had unprotected sex with him. Long story short, I was healthy and clean, and it was better to find out post-relationship than during, but a friend brought an interesting, related question to me the other day that brought it all back up again: While snooping around, she uncovered a few random gay porn sites that her boyfriend had visited in the past. What if your (straight) boyfriend occasionally viewed gay porn while doing his internet porn thing?

Between the anonymous, impartial jury of myself, my Gender Comm. class, my best gay friend, and my straight best friend, we pieced this together:

1.) Sexuality is a flowing thing, and curiosity is natural.

This image is the Kinsey scale. It denotes the 6 main (seven, if you include being asexual, which I personally don't count as being sexual AT ALL,) different kinds sexuality. I waver somewhere between 1 and 2, depending on my mood, and if I'm in a relationship (straight, only ever been straight,) or not. I say a 1 or a 2 because of a few facts: I've kissed some of my female friends while playing high school games of Spin the Bottle and not wanted to kill myself directly after; I always am aware of my Sexception List, or where in rank a list of famous women I find stunning and would possibly after a few bottles of shared tequila and in the right mood lighting I may attempt to sleep with if I was feeling my most self-confident of my life, or had taken a shit-ton of E beforehand, but nonetheless, I know the women I'd volunteer to be sexual with; I watch lesbian porn on occasion, of my own validation (see below for more). Does this 2 rating mean I'm constantly checking women out? Yes...but only to see what she's wearing. Men are the only ones who I scope in a sexual nature. You could be the bro-y-est of the Bros and still find yourself rating as a 1 or a 2 because of the fact you can never keep your eyes to yourself in the men's locker room, or that one time after winning the homecoming game got too drunk and tried to confess your feelings to your team's tight end (pun intended)-- "No man, I really, REALLY love you!" while in reality, your high school sweetheart Jennifer who followed you to college and still cheers is your Tru Luv 4eva and the only person you want to be with. You, sir-- are you gay because you're a 2? No, you silly boy, you're straight-- not a 4, 5, or 6.

2.) Do you and he have regular sex, does he initiate, and is it passionate? These are all good signs if you answered "yes," to them, and he obviously finds you attractive. Bonus points? My gay friend pointed out that most secretly gay, closeted, or even man-leaning bisexual men have an EXTREMELY hard time enjoying giving a woman oral sex. (Hint: You can't fake enthusiasm.) If he likes and is eager and willing to go down undah, congratulations, because at most, he's bi or at least bi-curious. At best, he's still your straight boyfriend.

3.) As my "extremely blessed in the size department of her lovers" best friend pointed out, penis envy is real. For some men, there's just something about looking at a cock bigger than theirs that really just does something to them. Just like women can look at a really great rack in fascination, men can appreciate a nicer penis than theirs. We are an aesthetic society, after all.

4.) Porn is a fantasy land. What someone views in privacy is often very different than what they want in their own life. Some people have rape fantasies or watch simulated rape porn. Does this mean that they themselves want to ACTUALLY be raped? No, not at all.

5.) As my best gay friend said, "He could be intrigued, but may not act on penis desire." In other words, viewing gay porn is the best and most healthy way for him to examine his own sexuality-- maybe he's not the sort of straight man who runs screaming at the sight of another man's naked body, but he also probably isn't looking for any backdoor love of his own from another man.

6.) Don't point your finger-- my first, knee-jerk reaction was "Whoa! Normal straight men are so turned off by gay porn! Your boyfriend could be gay!" but then I though about it, empathetically, from the female perspective. As I've stated before, I watch what is probably more than my fair share of porn. And occasionally, when everything else feels tired and old and nothing else seems to be doing it for me, I'll turn to lesbian porn, and no, not exactly the soft-core stuff of heavy-petting, either. For porn viewers, once you've seen it, it feels like you've seen it all, and variety can be called for. Does this mean I am a lesbian? No. Does this mean I can find something sexual or attractive about other women? Yes; then again, some days, I am convinced our garbage can is a stunning piece of craftsmanship and damn fine. Does this mean I would ever have sex with another woman? No. Threesomes are even out of the question for me-- I can barely handle my own vagina; I want nothing at all to do with another one. So, if a woman can watch lesbian porn, TO GET OFF, and not be a lesbian, than logic states that a man can watch gay porn, be turned on, and not even be gay at all. I have always thought, as well, even watching straight porn means a man is looking at another man's penis being used sexually, in a sexual way, so one could argue that all bits and pieces are exactly that, bits and pieces, and a woman's ass is just the same as a man's ass. Bada-boom. Is your mind bent? Because this is my own thesis, and my mind still struggles to bend around it, sometimes.

7.) If you want to see how he responds, or what the draw for him is, suggest watching porn together that you BOTH agree on. Maybe getting into his fantasy land a little will help you understand his viewing habits more, or at least make you a little more comfortable by being present and included in them.

When it boils down to it, you have to remember that if you love someone, you love the whole of them, not just the parts that you agree with. Just like you may not break up with someone when you find out they vote Republican (then again, you might!), finding out that the person you're seeing has some eclectic viewing pleasures shouldn't be a deal-breaker if you love the rest of them as a person. (This can also go if you find out your S.O is into porn with foot fetishes or extreme anal or produce or latex or dinosaur porn, too.) If you can learn to accept it, and as long as it stays in the fantasy of the porn realm, there's no reason to worry about you and your boyfriend macking on the same hot guys at the club. He loves you still. And no, he's not "flaming gay."

XOXO

NOTE! While I am in full defense of the fantasy of porn, if someone tries to move from viewing pleasure to being an active participant in anything from cams, chats, or full-on meetings and liaisons, that is a problem. In that case, there is probably more than a passing curiously or fascination at work, and this is something you REALLY want to address with him/her, for BOTH of your sexual safety. Also, the amount of porn someone watches is a health advisory as well-- porn addiction is a real thing, and is just as painful and detrimental to a relationship as someone being secretly homosexual in what is a heterosexual relationship.

2011: A "Space" Odyssey.

I know I said I wouldn't do it, and I promised as much in about three different languages to about half a dozen people, but I broke first. Maybe it was from watching too much SATC over this very long long weekend and watching Carrie put herself out there and say "Women's magazine advice be damned; this is how I really feel!" but finally, yesterday afternoon, I snapped when I saw TGIS was online (yet still unheard from), and reached out first.

Damn.

I said "Hey." I know, STUNNING opening line, but I decided it was better than "Are we not talking?" or something equally confrontational and jumping-to-conclusions-esque. We chatted a little bit about totally meaningless things, all the while, I was waiting for him to say something, ANYTHING at this point, from "Sorry I've been out of touch-- I've been busy nursing African orphans back to health, but now that we're back in touch, I've been meaning to ask you-- would you like to move to Zimbabwe with me and save the world?" to "After some careful deliberation about what you look like when you sleep and the way you have a habit of inhaling sharply when you laugh, I've decided to end things with you. Never talk to me again, please," so then that way, I would at least be put out of my misery. And when neither of those extremes presented themselves, I then decided to cut to the chase and say, "So, I tried to get a hold of you the other day."

He said, "Oh yeah? My bad, I've been kicking it with the guys all weekend. You know, I obviously like hanging out, and I have a lot of fun with you...but if I don't respond to a text or message or whatever, then just don't worry. We spend a lot of time together, which I enjoy...but I also need my space, too."

Oh. Space. Alone time. Time to be the "uno" instead of the "duo." Well, I'll be damned.

So I said, "I totally get that."

Which, for the record, wasn't a lie, because after he explained everything that I needed to hear for the past 3 days, I really did understand. And, surprisingly, felt fine with it. Space, I can do. I give great space. Let me know you need space and, believe me, I won't be nagging you. I love space. I love space so much I've now started sleeping diagonally in my queen-size bed when he isn't here sheerly because of the fact I CAN. So long story short, all I really needed, in fact, was to hear that he needed some space to start actually enjoying my space.

...Why must he be so smart? And why must I be so easy to read?

I think the inherent issue here is that anytime I start to realize that I really like having someone in my life and, in fact, really LIKE someone, I start to panic that they're going to leave me. Like Madison mentioned, I have a really bad track record of this actually happening to me, so it's not an unfounded fear, and as soon as something in my current relationship starts to happen like it has in a previous relationship, it sends me into a spin. At which point, I start to look for signs of deterioration-- like silence-- so that I can at least cut ties and jump ship first before my ass gets dumped and I get burned, again. (This may be something worth addressing with TGIS at some point, as I really don't want to throw everything away, but my behavioral norm is to do so as soon as I start feeling like someone may be pulling away, themselves.) Is it fair to my current relationship? No. But it's all I know. That whole slippery, tricky "trust" thing has to be at work here, and while it may not be my strong suit, I'm trying, hard, especially now that it's apparent TGIS has caught onto this one.

Again...damn. Nothing like being outsmarted at your own game. Or neurosis.

XOXO

The Shape And Size Of Relationships

Relationships come in all different shapes and sizes and styles, like any good department store's merchandise. Some relationships are only made to fit you for a season before you outgrow them, where as others are cut so versatilely to go from brunch with his mother to the football game with his boys. Some are itchy and uncomfortable and don't get worn for long before they're relegated to another home, via consignment shop, while yet others are so luxuriant and sensual that you can't help but wearing them over and over and over again, even when it's not an appropriate occasion. Some relationships are made to only fit one couple, while the tradition of dating seems to suit thousands, even millions, and be coveted by still others. The point is, however much we might think we look good in one particular style, no single relationship is the same as another couple's or looks the same on the people who are in it as it would with any other person in the same equation. They're all individual, all unique, all a wonderful one-of-a-kind piece of couture. No one can declare any sort of "relationship fashion."

Some of us need to see the person we're with everyday. Some people would prefer being single. Some iPhone couples run a constant chat conversation with each other, 24/7, even if they're just in the other room. Some couples only meet once or twice a month, and still see other people. Some husbands and wives sleep in separate beds, even separate bedrooms (though the idea of sleeping in a separate bed, let alone room, sends my insomniac bed-partner-loving self into a state of panic). Some girls prefer not to call their long-term partner their "boyfriend" because it sounds childish, even though some unmarried 40 year old women love calling theirs that for the sense of nostalgia. Some couples move in together quickly, after only a month or two, while others wait until becoming engaged, or married, to share a lease. One of my friend's fathers lived in an apartment in New York City for work during the weekdays, commuting to Connecticut from Friday night to Monday morning to live with his wife and children, whereas my mother, used to having my father around for the past 37 years, hates to spend a single night alone without him, feeling odd when he's not there. And as I previously mentioned, I hate sleeping alone, while I always sleep the best the night AFTER whoever I'm currently sleeping with leaves. Those are just examples of 11 different relationships, and none of them can be considered a "classic."

I'm currently seeing someone who demonstrates this point perfectly. We live in different towns, and have different circles of friends. I go to college; he works long nights. But I knew he was worth a little bit of impatience and the extra effort to see him when he kept making it a priority to see me, at least once a week, and despite of everything else. We now spend one or 2 day chunks of time with each other when we can; other nights, he can only make it into town for a few hours. The point is to maximize the quality of your time together-- if we're going on day 2 in a weekend of co-existion, I don't feel bad taking an hour or two here or there to go to my class on campus or do my homework while sitting side by side with him in bed in the morning. If we've only got a few hours, we keep things focused-- we stay home, eat together, catch up, spend time relaxing and talking, and watch a movie to give us some bonding time. In between visits, we keep in touch electronically, through either text or chatting-- though talking on the phone might be a more intimate ideal, I can't help but preferring the written word mediums; I am such a writer. All in all, we get to spend about a third of every month together-- 10 nights in 30, a few more days here and there. But it works perfectly for our needs-- while I have time to write so I don't miss (many) deadlines, he has time to do the things with his guys that he wants to and time to chill at home. I'm more happy seeing him when it's possible than I ever was seeing someone frequently a few days a week who while only physically 10 minutes away in town, was light years away from me emotionally and in terms of effort and desire. It shows. I look happier. I'm dressing differently.

I'm also learning new things, one of the benchmarks of any good relationship, platonic or otherwise-- the perennially Single Girl who struggles with feelings of independence when letting a guy pick up all of the tab, I'm learning how to wear the perfect balance of gratitude and grace when it's his Amex on the counter and back account digits rolling back; how to adjust to someone else's quirks and sleeping style and snoring and eating habits; and when to gracefully admit defeat and need of assistance and call someone to be waiting outside the front of the club for me because I am too drink, drank, drunk to get to him. I'm even learning when to take someone's arm when offered so I can lean on it, because there is someone I can finally lean on. And to my surprise, it's not even cramping my "single and fabulous" style. In fact, it's evolving to become part of myself, a newer version, this year's It model. And it looks damn good on me.

The point is, it is not the title on the relationship or the label that you give it or each other that counts-- it's the time, effort, and emotion that you put into and get from it that really matters. Never let anyone else dictate your style, either. If you're wearing a casual relationship when nothing but a wedding gown will do for you, you're always going to be uncomfortable, but as soon as you find the right match and become your own designer, I'm sure you'll find something that you can make work and will look beautiful wearing it. As Samantha once said, "...The true test of a relationship is if it makes you feel like this (frowns), or like this (smiles beatifically)." Be with someone who makes you smile, if not all the time, than most of the time, and I promise you that you will always feel like the luckiest and happiest girl in the world.

Other than me, of course.

XOXO

What NOT To Do In A Relationship

I've talked a lot about what you should do in a relationship. We've bonded over shared stories of where we all went wrong. We've even discussed how to make being single more fun and less lonely. But something that a lot of time hasn't been spent on is what NOT to do in a relationship. The bad news is, these things can only be learned after they go wrong, and some relationships don't snap back from these sort of things. The good news is, you can take my and my girl friend's sharp learning curves and apply them to your life, maybe before you experience these bad behaviors in yourself. Here are the 7 most important lessons we've compiled from our dating histories. While I have never snooped in a beau's phone, a friend of mine did, to disastrous results, which more firmly implanted in me a desire to never spring into action over that curiosity, and now, might nip your yearning in the bud, too. And while we all have wished sometimes that we could change a man, I'm here to tell you that sorry, doll, but you can't. What are these things that brand you in a relationship as brightly as a scarlet letter?

Never, EVER, EVER look in his phone or email or planner or what have you. Believe me. It is not worth it to you to put yourself in that kind of pain if you DO find something that upsets you. Women have great intuition, so trust it. If you think he's creeping, he's probably creeping. So, make like I do, assume the worst, and act from there. What do I hate more than nearly anything? When the guy in bed next to me is getting texts at 2 AM. Do I assume some of these are from other women? Oh, totally. So instead of snooping around and either making myself feel like an idiot or making me someone he feels like he can't trust, I assume that if I were to look at his phone, yeah, I'd see other women. I don't like it, but it gives me enough of a shell that were I to ever be there at the same time as another woman (oh, and but it happened TWICE,) I'm ready to act with class, and not distress. And if he really isn't creeping? Then you all can feel better about it. Maybe I'm jaded, but I've learned to operate on "plan for the worst; expect the best." I expect to be considered the best and that a man would have the decency to acknowledge this, but I plan because sometimes we need to remember that people are, in fact, just people, and therefore, fallible.

REMEMBER-- Until you have the discussion about it, assumption can make an ass out of you, but it can also prepare you to either be strong, or pleasantly relieved. Also, would you want him going through your phone? OH, HELL NO.

In the words of The Clash, do not NOT stand by your man. If your friend is talking shit, prove her wrong. If your mom isn't his biggest fan, tell her the reasons why she should be. (The best argument for this is that he makes you genuinely happy.) Basically, be as loyal to him as you hope he's loyal to you. I've proved loyalty more times than I'd like. I've stuck through legal troubles, some dubiously unlawful activities, infidelities, and long-ass distances because I feel that when you find a good man, you don't let him go so easily, even if there are learning curves that may be a little steep.

What does loyalty mean to you? Is it something you can turn your head the other way from, or is it a deal-breaker? I can tell you from experience that turning the other way is more painful than it does good, even if it does stave off an epic WWIII blow-out. But sometimes it's more important to stand up for yourself and have that blow-up than to keep letting someone disrespect you.

Don't be together every day. Take some time off from each other. You start to appreciate each other more for the things you do, whether it's the way you bring him his favorite ice cream for a night in watching movies on the couch, or the way he smells when he sleeps at night. The best times I've ever had in relationships are the times when there's a little bit of absence. I'm an only child, so I'll admit it-- I like my space. If I spend the night at a guy's house, I prefer not to see him or talk to him the next day after I go home. I'm under the impression that everything that needs to be said has been said, and done, at least for a little while. You both should get to chillax without the other. In a recent interview with Katy Perry, it was noted that she started reading now-husband Russell Brand's memoir, "My Booky Wook," after they started dating, but, she said, "...then I stopped because I was like, I can't eat, sleep, and shit you. I need to just experience you." I think these are incredibly wise words from someone who has made major bank off of the fact that she kissed a girl and liked it. You CAN'T, and SHOULDN'T eat, sleep, and shit anyone other than yourself.

This also applies to phones. I was smitten when a guy I was seeing called me on the days we didn't see each other just to check in, but then again, HE was the one calling ME, not vice-versa.Don't be the blowing-up-the-phone girl. Let someone else be her, because she doesn't get responded to for long. Leave some silence in hopes that he's the sort of guy who will want to talk to YOU when he has something he wants to say, or needs a secondary opinion. Or just wants to say hey. Conversely, when you're in a really comfortable, effortless relationship, it doesn't really matter who calls whom, because it's not that big of a deal. When you're into each other equally, you know it. You lose the stress. That's a really nice place to be.

Don't be a bitch. Don't be a nag. Don't put the other person down needlessly. You say something you shouldn't have, you take a quiet moment to apologize for it later. End of story. Same applies toward men. You too, sir-- don't be a bitch.

The only flip-side to this is that sometime egos running rampant need a check. You should be comfortable enough with your S.O to provide that check, and know when to provide that check. They should also be able and willing to do the same for you.

Don't be a little piggy. I hope that you are not the only thing going for him in a man's life. I hope he has friends and family and a job and hobbies. I hope he has a favorite sports team and favorite TV shows and a favorite beer. I hope he plans vacations or at least road trips or hikes with his friends. I hope you're not the only person he goes out to eat with (in a non-romantic or dating capacity, that is. Then, I SINCERELY hope you're the only person he's going out to eat with). So, don't be little Miss Piggy and hog all his time. He needs time drinking beer and yelling at the TV screen with his boys. He needs to take his mom out to brunch and play with his nieces and nephews. He needs to work over-time to pay rent at times. Even if you don't needto do all those things as well, you need to realize that he does, and let him do them, sans you.

How would you feel if you had a girl's night planned full of cocktails and gossip and getting dressed up and going out to innocently flirt with other guys who you'll never see or talk to again (the girl's equivalent to a guy's game night with his dudes), and your S.O decided he was coming out with you? It'd just about put a dampener on everything, wouldn't it? So don't you be the dampener in his life! Respect each other's time and space and separate activities. (This includes cell phone privacy. If you want to tell each other who's calling, you can. But it's not obligational. I got into a spat with a guy over this. Same deal-- don't ask; don't tell.)

You can't change a man. I've been remarkably lucky in relationships for the past 2 years. The last 3 guys I've been with have all been the most intriguing, most considerate, and yes, most gorgeous I have ever dated. Last summer's was a virtual Greek athletic god on Earth; last fall's was ever so popular and out-going; and the most recent, well...the most recent has been not only quite possibly the most stunning person I've ever met, but also the most interesting, as well. But as attractive and impressive as all of these men have been, it still doesn't mean that they all were perfect. There were things about all of them that I would have changed, given the chance, and a magic wand. But as I learned, in the sleepy-and-whiny-5-year-old's-early-morning-hour's voice of the most recent, you "don't try to change meeeeeeee!" You can't change a man. You just can't. There are things that you can suggest-- like using a variety of punctuation, possibly investing in some boxer-briefs (the Wonderbra for men; I'm serious, they're like magic), or trying out some new positions in bed-- but you will never make spots into stripes. If you're with a leopard, and looking for a zebra, cut ties, and don't waste both your time trying to make an herbivore out of a carnivore.

Just like you can't really change a woman. I guess empathy is a big thing here. I know we're all guilty of making demands or suggestions that aren't the most graceful-- and here's my mea culpa-- but think of how you'd take it if a guy told you he hated the way you wear your hair, or wanted you to spend half the time it takes for you to get ready in the morning cuddling with him instead. I think we all know how that'd go over-- like a lead balloon. Like the Hindenburg crashing and burning. But with more fireworks.

For god's sake, don't let yourselves become boring! We all have routines. I'll admit it. After a lot of time spent together, we tend to develop habits. We're all guilty of this. You spend the night on Tuesdays, Friday, and Sundays. He makes lasagna for the two of you once a week. You have-- heaven save us all-- a sex routine down-pact. There is more to life than this! SHAKE THINGS THE FUCK UP. Don't spend the night on a Tuesday. Spend a Wednesday. Ask him to make something new, and tackle a different recipe together. Wear some lingerie to bed. For god's sake, try a new position. Variety is the spice of life.

But make sure to keep the things that you do love to do together consistent. Talk to each other about your favorite things to do together. (Yes, sex can be one of them.) Commit to doing those things with each other, even if it's a random, last-minute plan. (Not as in, "Hey, you're at work and on deadline with a really important project, and I'm grabbing lunch at our favorite spot-- wanna play hooky and come?" Even though that might be fun. More like, "Hey, I know the show starts in 5 minutes, but if you leave to come over now, you'll only miss the opening credits, and I can fill you in," or, "I'm at the bar, and the seasonal brews just came out! Wanna come down and grab a pint?") Watching favorite TV shows together is a great weekly bonding ritual. Spending a night together a week is crucial for keeping up with not only each other's lives, but also in keeping up your connection. Chemistry just happens sometimes, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have to be nurtured, just like everything else.

Feel free to comment with your own dating revelations and tips on things NOT to do, or the cases in which there are exceptions to the rules.

XOXO

The Mystery of the Missing Man in the Morning

Just when I was getting comfortable with the whole morning-after routine, the dealer throws a new card. Or, in this case, no card, no note, no nothing when I woke up the next morning, to not only find him gone from his bed, but gone from his house as well. There's this one extremely hilarious moment in which a woman, still fuzzy with sleep, reaches over to the other side of the bed, and feels the mattress palm-down to determine if it's still warm, or at this point, cold. It's like playing Sherla Holmes, Detectivette.

Sex and the City did not prepare me for this. Carrie never sat down at brunch one morning and said, "Hey, girls, the oddest thing happened this morning-- I woke up, and Mr. Big was gone to work, with no note!" We never discussed what to do when you are left with bedroom carte blanche! I WAS NOT EQUIPPED FOR THIS. No one, it seems, has ever given much thought to this situation before, or at least, not thought of it as an issue that needed any forethought. We all know, at this day and age, what to do the morning after. But what do you do when you're the last person left the morning after?

There are common-sense general perimeters for this sort of case-- don't still be there when he gets back, because that would mean that I would have slept in...for another 6 hours; pick up and lock up after yourself; and for god's sake, don't snoop!-- but I still was wobbling between secure and frantic now that my training wheels had been taken off. Good sign? Bad sign? Indifferent sign? Maybe he just didn't feel like having to go through any early morning shit-chat today, you know: "How's the weather/What are you up to later/What are the headlines?" Or maybe he just didn't want to have to share breakfast.

So, like Carrie does with Miranda and Charlotte and Samantha, I turned to what I supposed was my best hope for a second opinion: two of my girlfriends, one in a committed relationship, and one committed to having lots of relations with lots of different men, for advice on time frames for sleeping in more and if I should text when I left or not. After echoing each other-- "No note?! Well, at least he's comfortable enough with you to leave you alone with all his things," (I certainly would never leave anyone alone in my room for more time than they could get in trouble in,)-- they came through with the same answer: you should be able to sleep in for at least another hour, but after that, leave quickly, and text to let him know. Done, and done.

On my walk home in bright sunlight and the gently drifting downward leaves of late fall, I was caught between reveling in my extra hour of sleep and worrying. I liked it, being left to my own devices, to wake, dress, and go home at my leisure on my day off. Was I supposed to like it? Or did I really want to be woken up and said goodbye to, properly? Or do I really love uninterrupted sleep more than waking up and having to fit some logical puzzle pieces together to solve the mystery of the missing man? Was comfort a good thing, or a bad thing? And most of all, why had no one ever pulled us aside before, like your girl friends did when they first discovered orgasm, and gave you the play book? Why did they never tell us that this was a situation to prepare for? Who had the answers before this morning? Who still doesn't have the answers?

XOXO

What Have You Got To Offer?

The other night, I was engaged in a cathartic conversation with another person in which the things that drive us crazy about the other were pointed out. It got me thinking about how important it is to be self-aware and have an honest-to-God list of your shortcomings, limitations, and triumphs. You know, really figure out what makes you "you"-- why people either should love you, or possibly, can't stand you. God, that sounded so Zen I nearly can't stand it. Anyway... So here's my list of the Good, the Bad, and the Downright Innuendo-filled Ugly:

Why I'm A Great Person:

I'm a pretty relaxed, undemanding, and calm individual. Until I'm not anymore.

My self-esteem is not lacking.

I would totally help my friends bury a body or rob a bank. And you'd better believe I'd never snitch.

My sense of humor seems to go over well with most people. I already know that were life to become a sitcom, "Stuck In The Middle With You" would be the theme song.

I've got really big blue eyes.

My measurements are 36-25-36, which, coincidentally, is startlingly close to Carmen Electra's, given that she has one inch on me, and more of a dedication to the gym and about 3 more abs than I sport.

I read.

I'm pretty blunt. Believe it or not, this is a good thing, because I will tell you exactly how I feel about you, if you're making an ass out of yourself, or what you really need to do to get your life in order.

I give great...

...massages.

I also have great lung capacity for someone who was a childhood asthmatic.

I speak 3 languages, and am fluent in one. Yes. It's English.

I practice daily hygiene. Which is more than can be said for some people.

...Can you tell I'm really struggling for these good attributes?

I am strangely charismatic. I say "strangely" because I really wish I know how it worked, because then I would exploit it to my full advantage and actually do really well with sane men. As is, I skip classes, don't hand in work, and am a chronically late Dean's List student. Also, I generally feel the need to have this conversation when middle-aged men stare at me in public: "I have a very happy complicated sex life. Please go away." I don't know what about me is all Lolita to the 40-somethings. However, it could be worse. I could be Alli, and have all the octogenarians all over me.

I can get people to do what I want, 85% of the time.

...But when you hold out on me, it kinda turns me on. Even though indulging me is your direct line to God.

I am faithful. I am hopelessly monogamous. If I love you, I would move the world for you. And I totally would have your back in a fight with a mean right hook.

I have been told I make interesting, sparkling conversation. Also, that I'd be a great person to provide entertainment on a two-week-long drive across the country.

You know that phrase, "You must be a maid in the house, an angel in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom?" Well. I cook like Julie Child minted me, and I have OCD when it comes to cleanliness and where things go.

...I have purposefully left you out in the dark about that third one.

I have varied interests, from Batman comics to shoes to organ meat to Star Wars to diamonds to football to collecting unique ashtrays.

I appreciate the finer things in life. Like good beef jerky. (I actually really love good jerked meat.)

On a good day, I'm cute, witty, out-going, intelligent, kind, sensitive, well-dressed, well-heeled, well-mannered, and charming.

I've got a pretty decent singing voice and a broad range. I'll serenade you, if you let me choose the song, and have enough alcohol in me.

I can dance. Oh, but I can dance.

I don't take myself too seriously.

...Just don't fuck around with my medium-rare cooked meats.

Cases for Institutionalizing Me:

Actually, I can be pretty demanding. I just want YOU to be the best you can be, dammit!

I have an uncommonly skewed image of myself.

My self-esteem is rather inflated.

I hate it when people either don't hear me, or pretend not to hear me. Which leads to me repeating things numerous times until I feel it has sufficiently landed on Planet You. I think we all know how annoying this habit is.

I always want to have the last word.

I find bickering not only a great form of mental exercise and fun, but also, sexy. Others find this either off-putting, or get downright defensive.

I have issues with money.

For me, the thrill is not only in the chase-- it's in getting away with shit. Really. Anything from picking pockets to tricking people into situations that are not mutually beneficial. For them.

My morals and ethics may be considered "questionable" by anyone other than Long John Silver, Columbus, or Kim Jong-il.

I am slightly masochistic, and don't understand when other people don't feel the same way.

I coddle some individuals I should more fittingly throw under a rampant city bus. My taste in men doesn't quite match my taste in wine and beer, unfortunately.

When it's loud, or when I get overly excited, I am loud. As in, Helen-Keller-and-I-might-have-something-in-common loud. And yes, I did just go there. Which leads to...

...I am not the most politically correct person you know. I spend a large amount of time talking in double-entendres around the issues of "eating like a fat kid," fried chicken, everything South of the Mason-Dixon line (and hey, my Mom's side of the family has roots in Mississippi), and blatantly, carelessly, lumping all men together and making broad statements about how they're all the same and then objectifying them as sex objects.

...Women's Lib, baby. It works both ways.

I have quite an impressive shirt and hoodie collection, liberated from the closets of the men I've had relationships with. Some people call them "sexual souvenirs." I call them "comfortable."

While asked at the end of a recent job interview, "Other than writing, what is it that you do?" I had a brief moment of panic when I realized that I do exactly do much other than writing. It kind of defines me. Take it away, and I'm just another petite blonde with too much to say.

On a bad day, I'm too lazy to shower, snarky, anti-social, use my powers for evil, take advantage of others, am impervious to pain, dress in either sweats and Uggs or in Hell's Angel girlfriend attire, make jokes at other people's expense and bring up inappropriate conversation topics, appeal to neither man, woman, child, or beast, and skin kittens alive.

I am hair-racist when it comes to other women. If you're a brunette, good luck winning over my trust, and if you're a brown-eyed blonde, I'm pretty sure you're a freak of nature.

I've always loved prepping raw meat.

...I swear to God, I don't have a meat fetish. It's not like I'm going to go all Lady Gaga on Rolling Stone's cover anytime soon. I'm just...really far away from ever becoming a soulless vegetarian.

Not only am I temperamental, I'm judgmental.

I am what is cutely referred to as "sassy," "feisty," or less attractively, argumentative. But in a totally sexy way. Most of the time. I mean, at least I try. A woman with an opinion is hot, right?

I have a great habit of saying the most inappropriate thing by accident in just the setting I really shouldn't have said anything like that quite so loudly when the music suddenly stopped.

I get really red in the face and warm when I smoke and drink too much. This may be the only time I create body heat for myself.

...Because of this, I think it's totally appropriate for me to stick my freezing cold toes behind someone else's warm, unguarded, innocent knee. And that's really bad. It sucks, I know. But I still do it. I'm a bad, bad girl.

I'm extremely guarded. Fiercely independent. Also, jaded.

See? I know my shortcomings.

XOXO

The Liar and/or The Lover

Confession: I will read nearly every women's magazine I can get my hands on. I will even read magazines with women IN them, including but not limited to Playboy and Maxim. (Good articles.) So it should be no surprise that my mother co-signed me on for her free subscription to More, and when she and my father spent the night on our pull-out couch last night before flying out for Minnesota this morning, she left me July's O magazine. (Not, as some of you may think given some of my latest posts, "Orgasm" magazine. No, my confused flock, O as is "Oprah" magazine. Commence giggling here.)

Make fun of me all you want (insert hair-braiding, Nicholas Sparks movie-crying, Vera Bradley-loving snark here--), but when I started reading "How To Solve A Thorny Problem" by Martha Beck, I had a full-on, existential epiphany.

"'At first I thought Jack was just a rebound-dater wanting to make a conquest. But he's called every day since our first date, and he's really sweet. He remembers my favorite song, and he reads my blog-- I think we really connected.'

'Sounds like a dream come true.'

'On the other hand, he talks about his ex-girlfriend a lot, and he started hinting at sex 5 minutes after we met.'

'Bad sign. Don't let the whole "favorite song" thing fool you. He's just a player. He's thinking, Oh, yeah, I'm all that.'

'What if both things are true? Maybe he's a man-slut with a bruised ego trying to get someone in the sack, and he's a thoughtful person who really likes you?'" (All quote excerpts by Martha Beck, pg. 37, "O" magazine, July 2010.)

MIND. BLOWN.

I've been dedicating a lot of my (single) (precious) (unpaid) (non-White Collar-watching, though sometimes I space out during commercial breaks) time to doing the flower-NOT-included equivalent of "What The Hell Happened, And Did You Play Me, Or Play Me Not?" As evidenced in this post, I've been struggling with the repercussions of being with men like Jack, and having relationships in which, when they end messily, you look back and can't tell the forest from the trees, let alone the truth from the lies. So which do you choose? Was he a womanizing dick who "didn't care" what you thought, or was he the guy who would call to talk for over an hour "just because I didn't see you today"? And what happens when both actions come from the same man? As Beck says, "...Could they truly have the ideal of angels in their hearts and the morals of goats in their pants?" Is it split-personality syndrome, or just humanity? Which do you choose to believe in when actions and words cross, double-cross, and start knitting scratchy sweaters with each other?

As Beck points out, "If you scrutinize your own life, you'll find you do plenty of things that violate the dichotomies in your mind... We're considerate, selfless, and clever (except for the times we aren't). ...Are you good or bad, fragile or tough, wise or foolish? Your worst habits [are] both destructive and helpful." (Pg. 38 & 39.) We certainly can be our own worst enemies, and many a time have I either heard or said myself something along the lines of, "I wish I knew why I did this or were this way." "But," Beck points out, "things get complicated when you get... a mix IV drip of essential fluids and poison-- when a person or situation seems to provide necessary things like love and comfort but is also the source of pain and upset." Sound familiar? I'm sure we've all lived it. I know I have, over and over to no answered avail at all.

When we find ourselves in situations or with people who nearly seem to force us to choose between one extreme or the other-- love, or hate; help, or hinder; stick, or let loose-- it can be nearly impossible to reach one conclusion because one half of the equation will always be left with with an unsatisfying remainder-- he can't be all bad if he meant what he said here, and here, and here. I can't be too throughly fucked if I've gotten this positive feedback, and this, and that. It's not going to kill you if you learn this lesson, and so on, and so on. "What makes a both-and mind-set so powerful is that it takes you beyond the two choices you thought you had. It opens up new, previously unseen possibilities and opportunities."- Beck.

SO MUCH ZEN QUALITIES. SO MUCH FORGIVENESS. HOW CAN I POSSIBLY MANAGE IT? I'M ONLY HUMAN, WITH AN INCREDIBLY GOOD MEMORY FOR EVERYTHING THAT WAS SAID AND DONE. I'm not (unfortunately) a superhero. I am not the Incredible Forgiving Woman. I am not Buddha Girl. And you're saying I'm going to have to learn how to be? For my own happiness and good? And that of others? So I stop torturing myself endlessly on the mental rack?

Sound like a whole lot of talking yourself in circles so you end up with the conclusion you want, a la Greg Behrendt of "He's Just Not That Into You" get-your-head-out-of-the-sand tough-love? I was thinking this to myself cautiously when I came across this: "...One caveat to all duel-emma relationships: If you or the other person involved can't or won't admit the whole truth-- 'Yup, I have a Dr. Jekyll side, there's also a Mr. Hyde in here,'-- the relationship will become increasingly dysfunctional."

So, does this mean I didn't have a dysfunctional relationship? Does this mean I --gasp-- had a totally normal one instead? There was a lot of admitting going on. There were a lot of big, hairy, ugly truths. But I didn't fully admit to everything. I didn't fully admit to my bad behaviors, and my feelings, and my lies. Was I the dysfunctional part? Admittance is the first step, you say? When is it too late to start admitting? "It wasn't all you; some of it was me, and you should probably know about it, because I'm sorry it made me a raging, judgmental cunt, and I don't want you to spend the rest of your life thinking I got a partial personality lobotomy while abroad"? Something along those lines might suffice?

We're supposed to accept people for all that they are-- flaws and quirks non-withstanding. We do this with our friends, and our family, and our less-than-well-behaved pets, but don't seem to extend the same lax attitudes to our romantic relationships, while completely by-passing it for ourselves in the process. So instead of asking "Which is which, and what are you, really?" should I be instead saying, "This is all that makes up you, and this is all that makes up me, and this is the shit we have to address, talk about, and deal with," once I stop pointing fingers and take a long, hard look in the Morality Mirror myself?

So. The Liar and The Lover. You, or me? One in the same, or just a hopeless case? How does one decide?

XOXO