First Right Of Refusal

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

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

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

Woman: No butter means NO BUTTER.

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

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

XOXO

Close Encounters from the Girl Kind

What are the five most awkward or nerve-wracking situations a girl can get herself into today? What are the things that make us lose sleep at night, or break into cold sweats at sweltering house parties? When are the times that you can actually see fear in our eyes like the look that a guy gets as he walks up the front steps of his date's house for the first time? (Always thought that was a hilarious and telling moment to watch.) Here are the top 5 situations that a group of women I polled at work agreed on as the things that we worry about the most, and the quick, sweet fixes for them. You're smart, you're pretty, now how about being a little less awkward?

Situation 1: Close Encounters of the Girl Kind

It's always awkward when you bump into a girl who used to see or sleep with the same guy that you're seeing. There's always that implicit understanding of who's doing what or who's done whom. I'm nervous and defensive by nature, but I learned quickly that being a bitch gets you nowhere-- it's always better to smile, say "hey," and ask them how they're doing. The thinking is that if you're nice, it's hard not to like you-- if something is still going on, they'll feel worse about it (believe me, I've been on both sides of this one), or if it's all over, it's always easier to concede defeat to someone you actually like. Make sure you always smile, wave, or say hi first. Ask them about something going on in their life. Be interested. Your confidence will shake anyone with lesser confidence off, and appears as if you're perfectly in control of the way things are, even if you're not. This can also be called "gesturing," "peacocking," or "being alpha bitch."

Situation 2: Hold The Phone

Even Ron Jeremy agrees that when someone he's with is texting constantly, it makes him, King Dong, worry about the presence of another dude. “If I see men’s cologne in a girl’s bathroom or if she is texting constantly, it’s a big turnoff." Same goes for women. Nothing makes me more morbidly curious than a cell phone vibrating on a nightstand at 2 AM. Maybe your dude friends are insomniacs too, but I doubt it. Maybe it's because I'm under the general persuasion that since bars close at 2, that's a late-night drunk booty call, because, let's face it, we've all been the one sending that text, but honestly, nothing makes me feel less likely to get in the mood than wondering what the fuck is going on and if someone else wants to be in my place on my side of the bed. So...if I can be cognizant enough to either tell the other men I'm talking to to stop texting me past midnight, or to turn my ringer and vibrate OFF, I really feel like for peace of mind and in an active effort to not kill the mood, it's not too much to ask that other people do it as well.

Situation 3: The Rag's a Drag

I think we can all generally agree that when you're turned on, you're turned on. For men, this isn't much of a problem. For women, Mother Nature has other plans for us a week out of every month. Some women don't mind having sex while they're menstruating, but for others, it's a definite "no." Unfortunately, biology fucked us ALL over, because when a woman is ovulating or during her week long of Bloody Sundays is when she's at her most attractive. Our faces get brighter and shiner. Our hips swivel more when we walk. We smell better and our hair is softer. And, to quote my drunk-ass self, we have "luscious tits." Understandably, men find us attractive. So, how do you turn away a dude who wants to be all up in your business when you're closed for business, without having to go into the gory details and make a pick-up a bad B-rated bloody slasher movie? Simple-- tell him that you'd love to, but you already have made other plans (for that night if it's not too late, like at 1 AM, or for the next morning, like a breakfast date), and then tell him you'd like to make a rain-check for another time. This implies that you're interested, yet not flaky, and are open to things happening...just at another point in time, like when Trojan has replaced Tampax as your best friend. Actually, in cases other than that time of the month, the sandwich of "I'd love to, but I already have plans for early tomorrow morning...can we make a rain-check?" is a winner. Memorize it. Practice it. Use it.

Situation 4: Don't Mention The War!

Speaking of sending 2 AM texts... So you sent a text you maybe shouldn't have. It was late; you were impaired; you were lonely; your vibrator had broken. You wake up the next morning after being either ignored or turned down flat, and you kinda want to kill yourself, or at least relinquish rights to your phone and your snatch. Rather than taking a vow of chastity, there's an easier and less sucky way to remedy things: Just don't call or text again for awhile. People forget things easily over time, and even if you were coming off as presumptuous or needy, NOT being in contact like it ain't no thang for awhile will rectify that view. Give it a week, live your life, do your own thing. Buy a new vibrator. Next time you see or talk to the text's recipient, act nonchalant, like it never happened and you, too, have experienced mild amnesia. Be like John Cleese in Fawlty Towers-- "Don't mention the war!"

Situation 5: Bringing Up Exey

Sometimes, you just can't help it. Sometimes, you talk about your ex. Sometimes, it comes up in conversation-- they ask for more information or about where it went wrong, or, like me, you get people confused and end up looking at your current S.O and saying, "Are you the one who slept with night lights, or are you the one who's afraid of roller coasters?" Yeah. It can get a little awkward. Possibly MOST potentially awkward, however, is the fact that the memorial tattoo I'm planning on getting shortly partially includes the last name of a guy I was romantically involved with for awhile, though first and foremost, we were close friends. Things like that, however, shouldn't be hard to explain. You should be able to say, "I loved him, and I lost him, and this is my way of honoring his memory." If someone doesn't get that, then they're a jackass. What can be harder, however, is when the person you're seeing asks you, "Was that the best sex of your life, or what?" When this happens to me, I'm honest. I keep very close tabs on what I consider the best sex I've ever had. I don't suggest this approach to everyone, however. What usually is better in this situation is a non-committal "mmmm" or an "of course!" if it really was the best sex you've ever had...with them. Sometimes, white lies are fine. Generally, people know the best sex of their life when they find it. Lying doesn't cover anything in that aspect.

XOXO

P.S-- For more advice for anything from what cute flats to wear at the office to how to be a better friend, visit Molly at smartprettyandawkward.com.

Conversations With (Marginally More) Hideous Men, Part 2

The other day, I was downtown at Fuda getting Chinese with my neighbors Jamie and Adam after hitting 3 Needs for the end of Duff Hour and getting a little swasty before 6 PM. After my mouth ordered myself special lo mien (the origins of yesterday's lo mien in post,) and the cashew chicken combination platter instead of the special lo mien and the relatively much cheaper fried wontons, and mid-conversation while we were extolling the virtues of eating cold lo mien straight from the carton the next morning (it's seriously my favorite breakfast, and given half a chance with inanimate objects, I might marry it,) an absurdly cute 20-something guy who must be Vermont's answer to Paul Walker appeared at my elbow and offered his two cents with a totally disarming smile.

"I'm a chopstick person myself, but I bet you only use two fingers when you eat it."

He was right, and he was cute, but I was in the process of wrestling with myself before making an...interesting...phone call, and was a little drunk and scattered. We flirted a bit while Jamie and Adam receded and did the engaged-people equivalent of giggling and goading on match-making. But I was distracted, and cut off the sweet-talking pretty shortly, leaving him awkwardly standing next to me with nothing to do, so he looked around, locked in on the establishment owner's children playing at a nearby table, and went over to kibitz with them.

Sometimes men are so transparent you can literally see the cartoon character speech bubble floating over their head: "Now she'll see how great I am with kids, because don't all girls dig dudes who like babies?"

Well. I never want to birth my own, but yeah, I can appreciate a guy who doesn't make children run screaming, and I can also appreciate a guy who puts a lot of effort into winning me over more. Unfortunately, his order (and time) was up, and as I pointed it out to him, he commented off-hand, "Oh, it's not for me. I'm just the delivery guy." Short of calling all the independent delivery services in Burlington and saying, "Excuse me, do you have a driver who looks like Paul Walker's younger brother, with blonde hair, bright blue eyes, lots of leg hair, blue sneakers, and a small earring? And how might I find him?", I gave up on him as soon as he walked out the door wishing me a good night and I got my hands on (and in,) my lo mien.

Back at the apartment, eating on the back porch, Adam asked why I'd put my wall up about Delivery Dude. "I'm not looking for anything right now," I told him while twirling my noodles.

"Maybe he's not looking for anything either," he responded, and I swear to god I felt my lip curl in a silent "Eww."

"Not my style," I told him.

Adam's more or less appalled by my dry spell streak, but I have this theory about how when you're not feeling wanted, or after the end of something emotionally taxing, your libido goes on strike. And then I tend to just forget about it. For the most part. And I'm picky about ending it.

Case In Point: Last Friday night, Emily and I went out for a Girl's Night. In the middle of Ake's

Place, I laid the gauntlet down-- "Our goal for the night is a phone number or a free drink. May the best woman win." We shook on it and drank to it, and apparently stumbled upon the magical sports bar secret, because not 20 minutes after finding a table at 3 Needs (yes, it's my favorite bar), Emily came back from the bar giggling. "There's two guys up there, and I just got a phone number." They came to sit with us, and soon numbers were exchanged all around, (along with me telling the drunker one that Emily was from "Amish country, but she believes in electricity!") and they were eying our drinks. "I'd offer to get you another beer, but you already have one."

"Is that a promise?" I asked. He agreed, we shook on it, I pounded the half of my bottle left, and true to his word, he got me another one, insisting I belly up to the bar with him and snaking a polite arm around my waist. Italy taught me a lot of good life skills, one of which being the foresight to see in which direction men are thinking, and halt it in action. Unfortunately, while in Italy, telling someone you're engaged (because having a boyfriend doesn't mean bullshit to them,) only elicits the mildly more respectful response of (and I quote from numerous Italian men,) "Where is your man? America is very far away," but here in the good ol' U.S of A, it's easier to stop a speeding train. I asked our beer-buying gentleman where he lived, and promptly responded with, "Oh! That's near where the guy I'm seeing lives! He lives on _______ Street!"

Lesson #1 in bar and club safety for women: If someone's coming on to you who you're not interested in, yet you don't want to totally discount them because they're a nice and gracious person, make up a boyfriend, and sprinkle tid-bits about him liberally through the conversation. "He lives (here)." "He took me (there)." "Last night, we went and saw (this)." "He's out with his guys tonight, so we're having Girl's Night." And the killer: "I think you two would really get along."

"You're cute, but you're difficult," he told me later as we walked to Mr. Mike's. I snorted, and told him, "You don't know the half of it. I'm sure my exes would agree with you. I'm making that my new tag-line."

He bought us pizza, and insisted on walking us home even though it was on the complete opposite side of town from where he lived. On the front porch, I gave him a quick and perfunctory hug, thanked him, wished him a good night, and then shut the door on him and tripped lightly up the stairs and passed out in bed. Alone.

Well, not quite. Nicco has cemented his nighttime abode as my pillow, and wakes me up in the morning by stoking my head with his little paw and preening my hair, which is really alarming sometimes when you're dreaming about Bourdain or Shemar Moore and wake up to someone fondling your head. But at least he never leaves the toilet seat up.

XOXO

P.S-- I recounted that bar story to a guy that one of my friends is dating, and the look of sheer terror that came across his face as I described how women will make up boyfriends so we don't have to flat-out turn you down was telling, yet hilarious. I guess the lid has now been throughly blown off of that one.

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

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Exes Undercover

Seeing people you used to be with is always really awkward. Like Miranda once said on SATC, I'd love to be one of those very forgiving and karmically correct people who can be all "We were; you enriched me; thank you," but I'm much more along the lines of her "You were in me; now you're not; you need to not exist anymore."

It's a small town, and it's bound to happen. But when you do finally bump into them, it's not like you can prepare for that sort of thing, especially if you're still smarting. I mean, you can have a general idea of how you want it to go-- no crying, no screaming, no resorting to physical violence; act with class and good manners, be a bigger person. But as for the minutia...no one ever manages to plan for the sudden shortness of breath, the shaking, or the feeling that due to the fact you are suddenly more aware of your massive heartbeats than you've ever been before, you're just going to keel over right now, into your Creme Caramel JavaKula, while an old tranny sits across the cafe in direct line-of-sight from you, meaning that he/she will be the last thing you ever see, and your headstone's epitaph will read: "Died before her time for her choice in men; but she had a glorious vagina."

No one, no one, not even decedents of Hitler or whoever invented Spam, deserves to go out that way.

So you end up reverting to some pretty (and petty) asinine behavior. Yesterday, while perfectly happy minding my New Yorker and coffee in Borders, I had one of those moments in life where something makes you look up just as someone else looks away from you. We both knew the other was there. And we both knew the other knew. But, instead of even looking up and waving through the window, I feigned massive ignorance and totally avoided doing anything altogether. It may have been a shitty move, and I realize this puts me back in the socially inept category of a 5 year old, but at the moment, I have no (civil) words, and my momma always told me if I don't have anything nice to say...

"At least," Alli pointed out, "you didn't pick up your magazine and block him with it as he walked out." Which I guess is true. It could have been worse.

But I'm glad to see I'm not alone in this. Later last night, while I was at Vermont Pub and Brewery, watching the Sox game and having dinner and a pint with Alli, she nudged me, and sotto-voice, said, "Look." I looked away from the screen, and immediately saw a wall of newspaper where the 20-something woman seated in front of us previously had been. Momentarily confused, I looked at Alli, wondering what about us the woman found so particularly offensive, then wondered if she was talking about us for some reason behind her improv screen, and then, as I was craning my head around, spotted exactly what made her go all Agent Undercover-- the waiter who was standing behind us. Despite her barricade, the waiter spotted her a few minutes later and went over, interrupting her and her new date, and through her forced, nervous, slightly-too-loud laughter and the "catch-up" chat, confirmed our suspicions. In an instant, empathetic moment, I got it. None of us-- none of us-- really know how to deal with this moment. This woman may have used the shielding technique that I maturely chose not to use in favor of the very classy "ostrich ignorance" maneuver (sarcasm is extremely heavy in that sentence, if you're not great on picking up on it), but from Burlington to Timbuktu, all of us are just freaking out alongside each other, and no one's mastered the art of acting gracefully under fire yet.

That's the problem with dating-- carnage.

So, I guess I'm sorry. Next time, I will actually acknowledge you and ask you how you are. But, if for some reason, I panic and you're met with a wall of newspaper or book cover instead, just know-- it's not just me.

XOXO

Pussy-Whipped: Not Just For Men.

Women, more so than any other creature on Earth, probably have the best hold on the sixth sense. Women have this knack for just knowing things-- like how your mother always knew when you were up to no good as a child, or how every woman, whether she plays deaf, dumb and blind or not, suspects when she's being cheated on. Hence, where women's intuition came from. Unfortunately for the holders of such intuition, as with any gift, sometimes you just try to deny what's right in front of you and kid yourself out of actually having to address what were formerly hunches into cold, concrete evidence. You know, the American way. Usually, this presents itself in perfectly sane and smart women going a little bit nutty when they don't want to admit to themselves that despite fighting the good fight, they have probably lost the battle. Not the whole war, mind you, but in this skirmish, their Custer fell. There will be no big calvary homecoming.

Last night, I found myself standing on the side of the curb in the dark, asking one of my closest guy friends, "How much of a fool am I?"

I like relying on men to back my hunches up because most men cannot lie in the face of a surprise question worth a shit. Now, I know you may like to think you do, but as an accomplished liar and someone who seems to seek out other liars for liaisons such as friendship, jobs, and relationships, everyone has their tell. Men's tends to be the widening eyes and flying eyebrows. The slightest slowness in answering tells you volumes. Also, rapid blinking, or lip-pursing once they have digested what you just said are are trying to give you the best and true advice possible without sending you searching for the nearest and highest bridge.

"I wouldn't say that you're a fool," my friend said, "but I think that you didn't need to do that."

About when the men in my life tell me that I've once again over-stepped the boundaries of sane human action is about when I start to admit defeat and face what I've been trying to hide from knowing inside my own head. My boys are my mirrors that I can't hide from. So I'll agree with them here: pussy-- either having one or getting it-- is enough to make you crazy. In the immortal words of the farmer in "Babe," "That'll do, pig-- that'll do."

In other news, the Hailey's Ungodly Comet of Exes (see: "Ghosts: Night of The Living Undead Relationship,") has cycled back around to Burlington and sent me an email, so something tells me that as always around this time, big changes are in the air. Every single time he has returned back to Burlington, regardless of if I decide to see him again or not, I am either settling into a relationship, or someone new is right around the corner, usually following on his tail by 2 or 3 days. And this is not any Red Sox statistics, here-- we're 4 for 4 with this sucker. Understandably, this fills me with a sense of impending doom-slash-skepticism. Nothing quite like being jet-lagged and having to say "No, thank you; go away," while keeping your wits about you. Again, past is past. On with the present and the future.

XOXO