Back In The Saddle(bags) Again

There are a few things I really like about attending weddings: The look on the bride and groom's faces as they look at each other, the dancing at the reception afterwards, and the ruthless "time of famine and drought"-style drinking involved when the two best words in the English language get together-- Open. Bar. And then there are a few things I really hate about attending weddings: The fact I am ALWAYS over-dressed for the occasion; the feeling of desperation that settles in the air every time all the single women are rounded up onto the dance floor to make that leap for the bouquet; the fact that more and more, I'm attending the weddings of people that I've either grown up with and/or my age. First, it was my childhood best friend. Then, it was the older son of a friend of the family whom I've known since I was...I don't know...BORN. They're both a year or two older than I am, and now nuptially blissed-out, and here I am, still single, and while the motorcycle club I belong to may have a healthy number of prospects, when it comes to ones for my hypothetical wedding bed, there are NONE. Zip. Zero. Ziltch. Nada.

However, I like this show of priorities.

My last relationship involved living together, cleaning together, cooking and drinking together, exercising together (and if you know how much I hate to be seen sweating, you know how much that says about my commitment), and beginning to casually talk about weddings-- what locations we liked. What good theme colors would be. Who the bridesmaids and groomsmen would consist of. It was obviously serious when me, Miss Commitment Issues, started considering floral arrangements and the merits of hand-made wedding favors made by myself and my army of loyal (and handy!) bridesmaids. I could see myself spending the rest of my foreseeable 50-to-70 years with him, and somehow having us both miraculously die of old age and NOT of spousal homicide. It was a special union. He asked me one day if I'd still love him when he had a beer gut and had gone gray and to seed. I told him that I probably wouldn't even notice and still find him sexy, because I'd look like my mother. We laughed. We loved. And we parted.

So it was particularly bitter-sweet this past weekend, as I found myself down in Connecticut, open bar at the ready, single, condoms perennially-prepared in my cute little white clutch, and no single groomsmen to be had. People started asking after my ex. I started drinking more heavily, and eventually excused myself down the hill to the pond, so I could sit and willingly be eaten alive by the mosquitoes rather than have to utter the painful words, "Well, no one special..." one more time.

...And then, I heard the roar of a four-stroke engine.

Riding up the driveway came a refurbished custom Yamaha motorcycle, paint job pristine, chrome gleaming. It's rider was tall, dark, wearing plaid, and seemingly single. I wanted him. I wanted his bike. I was either in love, or very, very emotionally vulnerable and slightly sloshed.

So I did what every girl does when confronted with a really smokin' hot guy-- I watched him. Yes, I just sat there, and looked at him for the better part of an hour. He was pretty. It was easy. But really, I told myself, it wasn't quite enough. On the ride down to CT, I'd picked up the newest issue of Cosmopolitan, and for shits, giggles, and boredom, flipped to the last page and taken the "How Much Game Do You Have?" quiz. I got two points for professing that if I were out at a bar and saw a cute guy, I wouldn't just move into his line of sight and telepathically plead with him to come over and talk to me-- I would walk over and say hey. And you just don't lie to Cosmo. Was I really so sad and single and pathetic that I couldn't even brush the dust on my flirt off and go over and make a go of it? So I slung back my drink, adjusted my cute little summer dress, cursed being single and back in The Game, and grabbed my purse and lady-balls and walked down to where he stood next to his bike.

Now, if there is one very important life lesson I learned three years ago from having to un-Velcro Motorcycle Man of my college years from the thoughts of making me his girlfriend, it is that you DO NOT touch even a man's kickstand without asking his permission first. And thanks to the Northern Deathriders, I've acquired quite a comprehensive knowledge about motorcycles in the last few months. So I sauntered down to him, lightly touched his upper arm to get his attention (and for the hell of being able to touch him), and said, "Excuse me, but what model Yamaha is this?"

He turned around. He smiled. He told me. I told him about my friend's Yamaha. He asked if I was into bikes. I laughed and told him about my old lady status. "I'm more of a 'fetch beer, remind them to flip the burgers, and admire the bikes,' kinda girl," I told him. "Are you one of those girls who will polish her boyfriend's bike?" his friend asked me, leaning in. "No. But I'll tell him when it needs to be done."

Their eyes lit up in a way that told me that the only wedding bells that day had not just been earlier at the church. For the next 20 minutes, we talked bikes, business, and New York City, where he lived. It was like God had delivered me my perfect made-to-order man. The only thing missing to make it more obvious would have been a silver platter, hand-engraved. But after years in the dating trenches, I knew when to cut things off before the stink of desperation cut in and I went from being The Cute Girl Who Knows Her Shit to being The Crazy Girl Who Won't Go Away. Proud of myself for having the guts to approach him, and still buzzing from the intoxicating mix of wine, cute guy, and bike exhaust, I thanked him for talking bikes, shook his hand, and excused myself. I may have been out of the game for awhile, but this cat still knows when to play hard-to-get.

Later that night, he came back and found me before he left. I was sitting at a table, taking a break from the dance floor, when I saw him approaching me from the corner of my eye. I pretended not to notice him until he was right next to me, leaning over my chair. He offered his hand again, saying he was leaving, but thanking me for coming over and talking to him earlier. I took it, shook it, and told him the pleasure was mine, and that anytime he wanted to talk bikes, I was game. We didn't exchange numbers. I didn't know his last name. But I knew that I felt good about myself, and that this old-hand Single Girl still had some life-- and some game-- in her yet. And who needs an engagement ring or kids when you can flirt with all the hot young bikers with good manners in the world? Exactly.

22. College-educated. Self-employed entrepreneur. Confident. Sarcastic. Single. Fabulous.

XOXO

1+1= What Do You Mean, I'm Not Single Anymore?

For one of the world's happiest Single Girls, some of the weirdest moments of being in a relationship again aren't the big things you'd expect, like handing out your key or finding another person sitting at your kitchen table for breakfast in the morning when you surface from your coffee cup, but the little things that are hard to get back into the swing of again.

Take, for instance, the fact that dating can make a perennial Single Girl look like the most spoiled creature this side of the Mississippi, just for not realizing the social gap between the two statuses. I realized about two weeks into dating the guy that I'm seeing that I was always forgetting to say "thank you" when he took me out and paid the bill, something that would have shocked and horrified my mother, who raised me better than that, and definitely shocked and horrified myself. I realized it wasn't a sign of being ungrateful-- the exact opposite in fact, because I was so, so grateful-- it was just foreign to me. Not only had no other guy ever taken me out on dates, routinely or otherwise, but I was just used to paying the tabs and not having to thank anyone. I'd paid my own way for so long, it was hard to get used to the concept of having to thank someone else to do it for me. And that was just the tip of the iceberg of moments I started noticing that seemed...well, for lack of a better word...a little unreal for me. I spent my entire girlhood before getting all jaded and sarcastic and single dreaming about the little, mundane things that make a relationship seem so magical-- asking him how he takes his eggs, packing his lunch, TiVo-ing his favorite shows-- and now that they're happening in real life, I have to ask myself...Am I really cut out for this? Can I be part of a duo without losing my uno?

Sharing space is one of those things that's hard for me to get used to. Not only am I obsessive-compulsive, but I'm also an only child. I'm used to my space being my space, and things being juuust so. So when TGIS (The Guy I'm Seeing,) asked if there was someplace he could put his stuff where down from my molting down comforter wouldn't get on it, like possibly a shelf or drawer, I'm pretty sure I looked at him like he had three Cerberus heads. Remember that episode of Sex and the City when Aidan moves in and tells Carrie that she should make room for him in The Closet? It felt like that. Like someone had just asked me to realign my kingdom's borders, and even for love of them, money, or a relationship, I was unwilling to concede any space. Until I royally fucked up, and realized that having someone who wanted tangible space in my life was maybe more important than having three shelves for my shirt collection and worth making my tank tops live with my t-shirts. Needless to say, I gave him a shelf. (Some of it was partly an ulterior motive-- him having a place to leave clothing means I get to sleep in big, perfectly worn-in shirts that smell like Man. Which I must admit is one of the things I miss most and long for when I'm single.)

Being single is hard to stop being used to. I was extremely confused when I started noticing that girls downtown were giving me more dirty looks than I was previously used to, but a few weeks ago, I watched a pair of small blondes in Frye boots no older than 18 look from a spot beside me to giving me the hairy eyeball, and when I looked to my right, I finally got it: There was an attractive man there. He was walking beside me. We were obviously together. We were going out for brunch, where we'd sit together, and I wouldn't flirt with the host as he sat us, and the guy with me wouldn't flirt with the waitress when she came to take our order. At the end of the meal, he's pay for it all, and would kiss me as we walked out the front door, after I thanked him, and he told me, "Anytime." I had become a Lady Who Brunches. We have a weekend routines; a routine the likes of which I've never been a part of, short of a few Girl's Hungover Brunches Out With An Ungodly Need For Coffee that I've been a part of in the past. We have other routines that are new for me to get used to, which feels novel sometimes, and downright strange other times when I find myself in a room full of strangers, watching the Super Bowl with them instead of a few streets over, with my own group of dudes belching craft brew burps and smoking inside. We spend time with his friends, and I'm not always around to spend time with all of mine all the time because of it anymore. It's the push and pull of balancing two people's lives in the time that you share together. I consider it like taking a hiatus to cement foreign affairs. And my friends? They understand, most of the time. Men may come and go, but your girls know that they're forever.

The other thing that became blatantly obvious were the things that constitute my SSB, or Secret Single Behavior: Never before had I thought about how much time I spend naked or in various states of undress until he commented on it one day, mentioning that it was one of his favorite reasons for spending time at my place. It was flattering, but something I read in Cosmo years ago tickled my memory-- maybe being nearly naked all the time, in situations not related to sex, isn't the best for the fact it gradually desensitizes someone to your body, and while this may be a great tactic for friends and roommates, I'm pretty sure we always want the guy we're seeing to be excited when he sees your bare body, not thinking, "Oh...it must be laundry day."

There are also those moments during your day as a Single Girl that you never think of being odd or a Big Fucking Deal until someone else is watching you, like wearing your wet hair up in turban after the shower, mascara running all over your face until you wipe it off and apply a new coat; doing your make-up in front of him and how hard it is to keep your hand steady with the eyeliner while he's giving you the eagle eye from across the room, undoubtedly wondering if you're going to poke your own eye out, because that's what it looks like to him; the way you expend your arm over your head and stick your armpit out to put on deodorant (is it just me, or is that like, really, really weird to watch or have someone watch you do?); or all the other awkward moments for another person (who you'd like to still consider you sexy for at least a while longer,) to watch you become apparent. There is one time I wish I was single more than anytime else, and it's NOT when I find myself shaving my entire body for the 3rd time in a week-- it's when I'm trying to furtively apply deodorant and realize he just walked back into the room as I'm hunched over with my arm slung in my shirt like a sling, Secret Clinical Strength hidden underneath like a concealed weapon. And then I have another war/peace moment when he takes it from me and uses it himself-- on one hand, that's your armpit hair in my speed stick. On the other hand, you're secure enough in your masculinity to use my "fresh powder scent" shit. Awwwww...

I never thought that “Carissa, which toothbrush is mine?” would be one of the most frequently shouted questions across the apartment, in a bass register, not in Alli's voice. I never really thought about the fact that there could even BE a third toothbrush on my sink. But it is now. And I deal with it some days better than others, but no matter what reality I'm currently in, single or not, I think what's the most important thing to remember is to not lose the Single Girl even if you have a man-- to do your own thing sometimes, and don't be afraid to strut your stuff into the bedroom post shower with your Queen of Sheba towel turban proudly crowning your head, if that's the only way your hair is going to get dry-- we can't be sexpots all the time. And just because you have a man now doesn't mean you have to jump every time he says "pop"-- sometimes, doing your own thing and meeting up later after he has time with his boys and you go to a friend's party by yourself is sexier than being together the entire night, because he gets to see a glimpse of her, who you used to be, and who you will always be at your core: the independent Single Girl. Be your most fabulous self-- always. Remember, the name of the game is "Uno," after all.

XOXO

Honeymoon's Up

I'm ridiculously impatient. It's one of my worst character traits, and it always has been-- ask my mother. I was one of those kids who started digging my elbow into her side in the supermarket when I thought that the conversation she was having with the acquaintance she had bumped into in aisle 4 had gone on for long enough, and I was getting hungry. Maybe it's because I'm an only child-- I've always wanted the show to be about ME. I am my own circus. There's a fire under my ass, and I don't have time to wait in line for other people's side acts. At times, this makes dating and relationships-- with ANYONE-- extremely trying.

I try really hard to rein it in, I do. At first, in the honeymoon phase, it's so easy. I can be patient because at first, it always seems great and like it's the answer to all your prayers. I'm as chill as I can possibly be, because I'm out to prove that I am a chill girl who he wants to be spending his time with and on. In the starting phases of any relationship, the "Meet and Greet," if you will, he's excited about you, you're excited about him, neither of you want to leave the other alone. I live for this phase-- I love getting to know people and love spending night sitting up, talking...call it the journalist in me, but I love to know their dirt and what drives them and what they're passionate about. Responses are instantaneous. Someone wants to know what you're doing, all the time. They're asking to see you, making plans, taking charge. God, it's so exhilarating and hot, especially if your previous relationship's attitude on keeping in touch and making plans was decidedly not.

But if this sort of stamina could be kept up, we'd all be in grand romances. As I think we all notice when we look around, we're not. Suddenly, you realize it's been a week since he asked you what night you're free so he can see you. You sit in front of your computer or phone waiting for a answer to a question for 10 minutes, 20 minutes, and then give up and move on. And since you've already covered all the exciting shit about yourselves, conversations are a little more...mundane. After years of reading Cosmo and Glamour and women's magazines, we all know the little tricks to seem more endearing and make sure that you're still in the picture-- making sure to ask them questions about themselves and their day by bringing up specific details to prove that you listened and are interested, sending the cute little random "thinking of you!" messages, pulling your own weight by doing half of the communicating, surprising them with little things from bringing home that new action flick he's been dying to see to sending random sexts to make sure to keep things spiced up, yadda, yadda, yadda. We know we have to be nice. We know we have to be sweet, and entertaining, and patient. A week ago, maybe he was sweeping you off your feet, but this one, maybe he needs to lean on you a little bit. Or maybe you're both getting a little complacent, and there's not that fervent need to prove to the other that you're soooo into them every time you talk. But even when I know everything is copasetic, making me wait 20 minutes to get back to me about something I asked or abruptly leaving a conversation can really get me going and turn me all indignant. And that's when you realize, in a blinding flash of abject horror: Different guy, same shit.

Newness always works like a Band-Aid for a girl's down-and-out dating ego, but feels like a bitch when it wears off and your current Prince Charming is just as late in coming as your previous one was. Are we really ever any better off, or is the grass just always greener on the other side?

XOXO

Photo Cred: http://i289.photobucket.com/albums/ll233/AshKabu/comic%20art/Bored.jpg

America's Funniest Home (Sex) Videos

I was having a conversation with a friend last night while procrastinating taking a shower and catching up with everything due in my Food Writing course that took a decided turn for the philosophical when home-made sex videos came up. As has been previously stated, I have no issues with porn, but there's something that really just rubs me the wrong way (pun intended,) about making your own sex video. Have we learned nothing from Paris Hilton, Pam Anderson, and Rob Lowe? (In researching this, do you know that Fred Durst, frontman of rock band Limp Bizkit, and the wet-dream of my entire middle-school years, had a sex tape leaked? Please believe...my research on this matter is FO' SHO' not stopping here.)

While Cosmopolitan preaches that if you were to create your own D.I.Y home porn star DVD, it's best to be sure that there is only ONE copy recorded, and that it is kept in YOUR possession. However, I have no idea what sort of man would actually agree to this arrangement. Not one like the sort of men that I date, anyhow. All the men I know would consider that a lost cause if they had to take it out on loan, like a sort of very naughty, decidedly not public library. I'd also worry about home invasion after you break up if he has the keys to your place-- funny how your cat burglar would only be interested in what was in the "Lady and the Tramp" DVD case that definitely DID NOT contain children-friendly material.

Then there's movie-quality issues...I am a snob about these sort of things.

Overall, though, my friend and I quickly sorted out the most paramount issue about becoming your own little movie star: That one session is out there. On the records. To be seen. Compared and contrasted to. Judged. It will be impossible to deny the truth of your sex-life from then on. You'll actually see how the interior of your thighs jiggle-- and do you really want to see that? Does ANYONE?

My biggest hang-up on this matter isn't quite so trite, but it goes hand-in-whatever you happen to be groping: My issue is with its repercussion on the future. Not just your personal future, but with all of humanity's future. Though popstars have shown us that you can weather a sex tape scandal, I'm worried about what society in 2125 will think of us.

"It's there.
For posterity.
Someday, an archeologist will dig it up, and that's what everyone will think sex was like in the 21st century.
That is seriously what I always think of-- someone will dig this up someday. And what does that say about myself?"

I'd rather not know for sure what I look like during the act to fulfill my dreams of becoming an actress than have to consider what anthropology students in the future think of my reverse cowgirl. Yikes.

XOXO

Sex with an Ex: Distressed, or Progress?

Over an extremely rare burger and extremely good beer out with friends tonight, I got a text from one of my exes. He was not, shall we say, one of the prominent exes in my life; rather, a guy I was with for the last month of my freshman year of college, just before he graduated and fell off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, until the next time he happened to come back to Burlington, and every time he stopped in again after that. He is, of course, the resident ghost of "Night of the Living Undead Relationship", and since I wrote that, has re-orbited around from the wild blue yonder twice, neither of which time did I see him. We'll see if we really meet up to discuss life post Firenze this Saturday or not. One way or another, it's still a bit shocking every time it happens.

But it got me thinking, as I pulled a surprised face when I saw his name on my phone's screen and showed it to my incredulous roommate beside me, about your relationships with your exes. Some of them I like to pretend don't exist anymore. Some of them are perfectly nice people with whom we both had bad judgement in dating and it just didn't work out, and we still are friends are periodically hang out in large groups with our mutual friends or chat for a good 15 minutes when we run into each other on the street and part with a hug, no harm, and no foul. And some of them are still around, (or, at least, cycle around periodically like this Space Cowboy) and defy both definition or a close to a relationship.

While I may not be doing anything other than having coffee and speaking Italian with this ex, there are other things you can be doing with your exes than meeting up with the crew for brews or occasionally catching up via Facebook chat or Skype or when you go home for the holidays. How bad is sex with an ex, really? Cosmo seems to want us to believe that after re-joining your genitals, you promptly go up in flames of shame and defeat. "It's hot, it's naughty...oh yeah, and it's a really stupid idea. You know it's unhealthy, and that's precisely what makes it so damn good."

I can get behind this state of mind, and I have in the past: It's basically admitting you haven't met any better men, which is depressing at best, and degrading at worst. I even used to think that "you could always do better than yesterday's old news." Believe me. Some of my past "issues" are more fit to line hamster cages than anything else, and I still feel this same way about them. But not all of them are equally horrendous.

78% of Glamour readers also say that sex with an ex is a bad idea. Shanna Moakler, otherwise known as Travis Barker of Blink-182's on-again, off-again wife stands as the one lone vocal supporter of it: "As long as you go into it with a clear mind-set—knowing it’s complicated, knowing you have issues and knowing the relationship can’t go forward—I say yes! Do it! All of the pressure is off, and you can just enjoy each other as friends and lovers. [We’re] exes, but there’s still that substance there, that history."

Sure, this is still someone who you care a lot about. That's perfectly fine. You've spent a lot of time together. You know each other intimately. It's only right that you want to see the best for them. What I've come to realize is that you don't ever "get over" someone you were at one time in love with-- you just fall back out of love with them, gradually and almost unknowingly. The history and comfort that you have with each other can gleam in high contrast to the awkwardness of the mornings after or the futility of trying to meet new people who you like as much, if not more. But only if you have moved on enough in your own life that you don't still want to "be" with them can sleeping with them again really be called "safe." And even then, we can be back-stabbed by our very own brains, who believe that the release of oxytocin released during orgasm means LuV 4EvA, hehehe! So do yourself a favor so you don't find yourself back-sliding: DISAPPEAR.

Take a few days, a week-- whatever-- after the event and go all Witness Protection Program. There should be, at this point, nothing else that you need to talk about, so don't. Don't make excuses for it, and don't hang around. Go, enjoy your post-orgasmic bliss, and invest your energy and happiness somewhere else. (I hope by now you've learned that you can't depend on them as your sole source of happiness. It's all about YOU, sister.) Wait until you actually DO have a reason to talk to them to reappear. And no, "I'm horny again" is not a valid reason. Something like, "Hey, can I pick up the shoe I left there, and have you happened to find my car keys?" is. But then again, you have more than that one pair of shoes (I SINCERELY hope,) and you don't really need to drive anywhere for a few days. So give it some chill time. Do whatever it is you need to do to keep yourself balanced-- when I get lonely at night, I borrow my neighbor's amiable huge mutt Mason, who likes to spoon just like a human man (something I may or may not be coming around to), and give of just as much, if not more, heat. Mason, however, doesn't snore. As much.

Also, I find it really handy, when you are feeling a little weak, to remind yourself of all the hugely dickish moves they made. This is especially helpful in keeping you clear-headed if they're STILL occasionally slipping up and making the dickish move. In that case, I would almost be inclined to say thank them for making your life easier.

But strangely, it was Marie Claire's male blogger Rich Santos who encapsulated the whole ex-mystique thing so fully: "These days, I'm undecided on whether it's best to take someone back or swear them off after they've messed up. A lot of it depends on why they left your life or how they messed up... If you take someone back, they may think they can get away with treating you badly and they'll take advantage of you. When you have that familiarity with each other, it's so easy to fall into bad habits. For example, I've gotten back together with many women as a temporary Band-Aid for our mutual loneliness (which usually plays itself out in the form of sex with no real relationship). Usually, your heart is wrong and your head is right, but your heart wins out. Sometimes it's impossible to say "no," and that's OK." Or, as he then points out, it could be better than it ever was. Not being fully together anymore takes a lot of the pressure of a bona-fide relationship off-- my favorite part is that I am no longer obligated to answer to my exes. Problem is, that also means that they are no longer obligated to answer to you. See? Even out of a relationship, you can never win.

All in all, there's something to be said about your exes who are still current in your life. Whether or not you're into sex with an ex or not, get on with your bad self. Seeing my orbiting ex again always makes me realize how much I've matured and changed from when I was in love with him, and carrying on other relationships with exes teaches a delicate sort of teeter-totter between intimacy and friendship that you'll never learn any other way. I really think that the relationships you have with your exes AFTER the end of your "relationship" is the NEW relationship of the 21st century. It's your grown-up "we're all people here who have issues and needs" relationship. So embrace the ex. It's just up to you how full you decide you want that embrace to be.

So, what do you think? Ever been burned (a second time) by the same person? Are you one of the 78% against knocking some familiar boots, or are you one of the cool 22 who think there's something to be said for it? (Namely being, y'all know the bells and whistles {and emotional hang-ups} already.)

XOXO

Professional Opinion: The Case For Cliches

I just spent the last hour and 15 minutes of my life trying not to storm out of a room while listening to a man. It was harder than I thought it would be.

Periodically, for my Internship class, we have guest speakers come in and present to us what it is they do and how they have made their livings in the writing world. While I have thoroughly enjoyed some of these speakers and gotten new and innovative ideas on where I could potentially go with my career, some of them, like today's, signify to me all that is wrong with the writing industry and world.

I've been learning lately that the "Lemon Law" that applies to dating-- the idea that within your first few encounters with a new man, he will tell you exactly, but maybe not in so many words, what it is that is wrong with him-- applies to the professional world as well. Within the first 5 minutes of meeting someone in a professional setting, you can usually get an idea as to their bend rather quickly. Sometimes it's in their lack of interest, or in their blatant disclaimer that they hate hiring new people to do what it is they think they can do best themselves. Today, the head editor of a local newspaper that shall remain unnamed, along with the speaker, pronounced within the first 5 minutes of sitting down that "99% of what is on the internet is swill."

This may have understandably got my hackles up, but what ironies and flip-flopping proceeded to come forth from his mouth really cemented him as, in my mind, probably one of the least-favorite individuals I've ever met. And this is why.

"Get rid of your mannerisms," he told us. "The hackneyed phrases; the cliches. You won't unearth your personal style until you strip away this junk." You know, I've heard this enough from my professors and other professionals that I get the point. A lot of budding writers stick to the cliches and what they know is widely known an accepted because they don't have the tools to formulate those phrases or thoughts yet themselves. But just like some of the rules of traditional style have to be sacrificed for the sake of excellent poetry (e.e cummings, anyone?), and you have to know the rules of grammar in able to stylistically have the license to break them, I think that some of those cliches are so wide-spread because when used sparingly and properly, they can speak to people and be understood instantly and better than anything new possibly could. I use cliches. I actually really love the nostalgia of certain cliches. The turns of phrase are more elegant and sophisticated than what I'm capable of coming up with on my own sometimes, and they read more consistently across the board. "Misery loves company." "Footloose and fancy-free." "Free as a bird." "As subtle as a bull in a china shop." They're beautiful. Why shouldn't we be able to use them, when the right moment arrives?

Furthermore, your mannerisms, I believe, are what make your voice. My mannerism are what makes my writing unique and stamps it as my own like a thumb print. You cannot write with the same spin that I do. I can't mimic your writing, because I don't think the way you do. My vocabulary is not your vocabulary. We don't use those same phrases and cliches-- we have our own favorites. Strip that away, and you're left with what? Associated Press-sounding content. Yes. Because AP style is totally going to make my page impression count go up.

This came from the same man who handed out a packet of what he considered "excellent writing" in which the following lines were included in "Warrior's Requiem", which, first of all, is an incredibly pompous name for a news article. Ever since "Requiem of a Dream," I've been weaned off of liking that word. Anyway, here are a few samples of sentences: "convalescing from the storms and stresses," "like a sudden liberated vacationist," "the outpouring of the national heart," "under the wide and starry skies of his own homeland America's unknown dead from France sleeps tonight, a soldier home from the wars," and "Alone, he lies in the narrow cell of stone that guards his body; but his soul has entered into the spirit of America. Wherever liberty is held close in men's hearts, the honor and glory and the pledge of high endeavor poured out over this nameless one of fame will be told and sung by Americans for all time." Gag me. Gag me, now. I'm sorry. Was that clear? Concise? Direct? Not cliche? Was that good news coverage for the everyman? No across the board.

He then encouraged us to keep our writing to one thought per sentence, shying away from using commas to tack on another compound thought, and forgo using "and," "because," "therefore," "however," and "although." "Don't force readers to think [back in the text] by using words like 'latter' and 'respectively'," he then told us; personally, I think he could have stopped at "Don't force readers to think," and summed up his whole outlook on his writing profession succinctly and successfully. Scary, then, that this man is in charge of the content of local news, and champions charging fees for accessing archived information and moving some forms of electronic news over as apps for iPad and smart phone users alone. Maybe I'm just from East Bumfuck, Nowhere, and maybe it's just my radical, nearly Communist, liberal way of thinking, but I'm sorry-- is local news a right, or a privilege? When I hear about a shooting in the town I grew up in, try to access my hometown newspaper's website, and can't get any information from it because I refuse to pay a fee for what will be a once-in-a-blue-moon-or-disaster frequency, do you know what I have to do? Call my family and friends and ask if everyone is ok. Chances that they know exactly what happened to whom? Slim. This helps me, and communities, how? Turning it into a money-making venture from something that used to be so typically First Amendment American turns my stomach. I believe that that's one hell of a way to alienate your audience, as well as your community. Very few disillusioned souls ever went into the newspaper business to get rich. You pick your lot in life-- now deal with it. Not all of us will end up being wildly successful. If you're in the writing gambit, chances are, you should be more comfortable with the idea of living in a cardboard box than in a mansion. Or, at least, anywhere far above the poverty line, unless you have an incredible talent and natural proclivity.

I guess what got me the most up on my soapbox about this dude was the fact that he seems to be instilled in the fact that you must condescend to your readers, and maybe more so, finds this appropriate. This flies in the face of all that I believe and hope to achieve. Reading Cosmo isn't fun anymore. I've moved to Glamour for my monthly glossy reading, with supplements like The Atlantic, The New Yorker, ELLE, and Vogue. Reading Cosmo, in fact, makes me feel stupid-- like I can literally feel my brain cells screaming out for a compound sentence and shriveling up. What I'm trying to offer here, at its best, is an alternative to the recycled dumbed-down content for the thinking woman, and honest intelligent insight into women's thinking for the everyman. Is this achieved in every post I write? Certainly not. But I do my best. The wait between posts is a real-time example of the amount of time it takes for me to find, research, mull over, and develop a new idea, or a new spin on an old idea. It's not easy. It's not to be taken lightly. What it is, I hope, is fun, sometimes innovative, and thought- or opinion-provoking.

Unlike our speaker today, I think that it is a writer's obligation to expand their reader's minds. To not cater to the intelligence slums of the masses, but challenge their readers to think. Challenge them by doing what other writers are too afraid, or too traditional, to do. Trust that your readers are people as intelligent as you are, if not more. Trust that they have interests. Trust in their powers to infer, or gather more information if they don't think they have all of it. And if absolutely nothing else, trust that your readers can always find somewhere else to read if they're not giving them what they desire. We're not sheep. You're not sheep. I hope I give you enough to stay interested. Please let me know if I'm ever not, and, unlike our speaker, I'll do my best to make sure to provide something eclectic and invigorating for you to read.

XOXO

High Fidelity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Everything A Girl Could Possibly Need

No, I have not seen SATC2 yet. I thought I’d get that out of the way. And yes, there are some people I enjoy far more when they're naked.

You may like to think that I have lots and lots of sex and the glamorous Vermont equivalent (HA. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!) of a Sex and the City lifestyle, but besides the inordinate amount of shoes and what will probably become a large money-management problem and lots of debt, it’s not so exciting. I only wish I were having as much sex as is commonly thought. I’ve only ever brought one guy home to my apartment. Whether this is the fact that I also treat dating as a kind of real estate viewing opportunity or if I just want to get out my own space and not have to clean, I don’t know, but the point remains: I can be a secretive little fucker. That, and I also don’t really want to have to explain the life-size cutout of the Joker in the corner.

Anyway, because I really have nothing to give you today vis-à-vis SATC2, I’m giving these little caveats, these bon mots, instead and hoping that you're appeased. Practice driving in heels or pouring a beer while I desperately try to come up with some better content, please.

-Insomnia? Orgasm. One will send you off to sleep gently like a baby; two will knock you out like horse tranquilizers. It relieves tension and stress and takes your mind off of everything else that could be keeping you awake.

-Driving a standard in heels? Rest the tip of your left heel so that it makes a V-angle with the floorboard near the clutch. That way, the stress when you decompress the clutch is on the heel, just like it is when you're walking, and it gives you better leverage.

-How to look like you belong anywhere: If you know what sort of event you’ll be at beforehand, it helps you in choosing the right attire. If you have no idea, dressing nicer than many be needed is preferable. Other than that, confidence is the name of the game. Engage in conversation, but not too much. People will notice if you’re the life of the party and start to ask questions, as in Wedding Crashers syndrome. If you sense someone is about to ask you a personal question, cut them to the chase and either compliment them or ask them a question. It will throw them off.

-Make friends with his roommates now so they’re more tolerable to your loud moaning later. Homemade brownies or cookies usually do the trick. Think of it as a very intimate and slightly bribing host’s gift.

-Get out of a ticket for speeding. This works with both male and female officers. Say, “I’m so sorry, and this is so embarrassing, but it’s that time of the month, and I think I sprung a leak. I really need to get to a bathroom.” If you’re in a non-populated area, ask for the location of the nearest public restroom. Look antsy and do the child bathroom squirm while saying this, and it’s very convincing. Being able to blush on command helps, too.

-For Guys: Special Teams. Never, ever, flat-out admit to a girl that she is your second hitter. That’s like telling her she’s only good enough to eat someone else’s leftovers. A good girl would never tell you if she were playing the field around you, and never forget—if she’s not on your starting line, she probably knows it and can always find someone else who will be more than willing to put her on theirs. As Franz Ferdinand summed it up, "Sometimes, I say stupid things that I think; well, I mean, I-- sometimes, I say the stupidest things, because I never wonder how the girl feels." All I can say is, think what it is about the girl that you’re saying this to that you like, because you may have to do without it after telling her this.

-Become the best damn barmaid that you can be. Open the bottle or can. Don't spill it-- if you do, your career is over already. Touch the rim of your pint glass, chilled stein, or SippyCup so that it is resting under one of the grooves that the bottle's cap screwed on, or along the under-ridge at the top of a can at an obtuse angle-- i.e: if the bottle or can were the hour hand on a clock, it would be around 5, and the glass you're pouring into would be around 8. Slowly tilt the bottom of your bottle or can up slightly as you pour so that the beer runs down the side of the glass, not directly to the bottle. (If you let it run directly to the bottom, as I did the first time I poured beer for an ex at 16, all you will get is shit-tons of head. While normally not a bad thing, in the beer world this is a very bad thing.) Go slow while pouring. While you may be chugging it later, there is no race about the pouring. Let it oxidize nicely so that when you finally do get down to the bottom quarter of the bottle or can and start to pull the glass you're pouring into from the 8 to the 6 or straight-up position, there's about half an inch of nice head. Or, you can skip all that and do what I do-- be a Bottle Girl.

-When asking for a favor, widen your eyes and blink once or twice. It works WONDERS. Also, leading in with something like knowing how busy someone is is an instant guilt-trip, and leaves them room to see that you acknowledge how busy they are, so doing this one little thing would be SO GREAT.

Others may pop up later, but I'm lazy and hungover right now. Happy Memorial Day-- make sure to thank all the veterans in your life. Love you, Dad! And speaking of glamorous life in Burlington, PMG Public Relations was recently featured as a quote in Cosmopolitan, and a study done by St. Mike’s students was used in a Glamour article. Burlington is getting to be a happening place. Hey, publications—I’M RIGHT HERE, AND I’LL WHORE MY WRITING OUT FOR THE RIGHT PIECE AND THE RIGHT PRICE. Move-in day: t-minus 8 days.

XOXO

A Hot-Button Issue

Yesterday, I was reading Cosmo's online blog, "77 Positions in 77 Days," I came across something disconcerting. It was not, as one might think, the Lusty Leg Lift. (I mean, ok, I can see where that could be disconcerting-- I am a contortionist, and even I know that it's not a good idea to try stretching legs up that high and balancing on one leg during sex. Something is bound to get broken, and if it's only your roommate's perfume bottle as you crash to the ground, consider yourself lucky.)

It was the fact that their blogger referred to her clitoris as her "button."

Excuse me. We're all grown up here. (At least you better be if you're reading this.) That is not your "button" or your "hot spot" or any other one of thousands of cute pet names you can give it. That is your clit. And I suggest you refer to it as such because it's pretty damn important. And if you aren't taking it seriously, chances are, other people aren't, either.

It never fails to fascinate me how people with an XY chromosomal make-up are so baffled by the clit. There seems to be a lot of movement going on down there, and a lot of missing the mark. Hello. It is that small nub of concentrated nerves going directionally toward our belly-button. It's literally at the top of the whole contraption. If I can feel it, why is it so difficult for you? I just don't get it. It would be like a woman misplacing a man's balls. It's. Right. There. However, every argument must have two sides, and one of my exes stands as Exhibit A: The Mutant. He understood my mechanics even better than I did. I think for the month I was with him, my toes were never unclenched. Talk about major foot-cramps. (Do not laugh. That's actually something I suffer from. "Toe-curlers" are not urban legends, and I can get back-up on the fact that there have been a few moments during sex when I've had to cry out "Stop! Stop! Owww!" and not in a good way. Orgasms can hurt too, you know. But it's generally worth it. Actually-- it's always worth it.)

A guy I slept with once (key word being "once") looked at me while I was on top and said, "Trying moving more up-and-down." I stopped and stared at him, shocked. Well, I'm sorry, but I have a clitoris to think about. You would not tell your pilot how to fly, just like you should not tell the other person you're having sex with to get out of their moment and into yours. Sex is, after all, a joint effort. Yes, I want to make sure you're having fun and satisfied, but I'd hope you also want me to be having the best time possible. Which means, when someone is having their moment-- DON'T MICRO-MANAGE!

If I am on top, chances are, I am being extremely selfish, just as chances are, when you are on top, you are being extremely selfish, as there is just about nothing I can do to control your speed or angle of penetration. When I am on top, I am more focused on what's going on for me below the non-existent belt than what's going on for you. So I suggest you men get a little more worried about helping yourself. Because in GOT, I am not being accommodating-- I am getting off. Maybe, who is on top is not just dominating, but also, dominating the pleasure spectrum. So, here is what I suggest: Take turns. Be generous. And please-- unless it's something that will be mutually beneficial, don't tell each other how to run the show.

There are some people out there who are instruction-givers. Frankly, I don't give instruction well. And I'm more of a go-with-the-flow person. Half of my favorite things I wouldn't have discovered if I hadn't just let the person I was with do their thing-- I have Mutant Hands Man to thank for showing me the best way to navigate below the belt. I just like to get lost in sex, not feel like it's a campaign for the hostile territory of our bodies.

So this is what I suggest if you really want to get serious about your clit: Take your man literally by the hand, and give him a tutorial. This is not the time to be shy or reserved. Be a show-er, and and not a tell-er. Ok, so, you may have to say, "To the left,"or "To the right," or "Faster," but the point is that you shouldn't be the speaking GPS unit for your vagina. A hands-on guide will be able to more aptly explain where and what and how things work than you could ever do by voice without starting to sound like Sue Johanson. And I'm sure, it will be a mutually beneficial lesson for both of you. Now that's some schooling you can really get into.

XOXO