A Woman's Plea

Please take me on a date. Like, a real one. Not one that later I will question if it was a pseudo-date, or merely you making sure I actually have two ears and two legs and one nose. One where other people will see us and instantly be able to recognize between your look of sheer terror at the thought of not entertaining me enough, and my full face of make-up that we're both hoping at some point in the near future to wind up horizontal and We Are On A Date because of this. It doesn't really matter where you take me-- I mean, as long as they serve beer, you could take me to a cockfight (not a euphemism), and I would still try to make sparkling conversation and validate your choice of venue. The key to impressing me is to ask me out in the first place, because, let's be honest here, from there, it's all downhill. Even if we were to go on a second date, or a sixth date, or end up together for two years, sooner or later, you will discover how I always leave an inch of drink left in my cups in the fridge, which I never plan on finishing, and I will discover, at some point, your love for either 80's power ballads or anime porn. It will never be as new and exciting as that first real date, ever again.

Please take me on a date. If we go out to eat, please pay for my meal. It's not that I'm a gold-digger; it's just that I've run out of edible combinations for the pickles, peanut butter, and fiber crackers that make up the remains of my kitchen cupboards at home. If I plan the date, or suggest eating while we're out, it's because I'm hungry at that moment, and I promise that I will pay for whatever I get, be it Starbucks, or lo mien. But if you're the genius who came up with the idea of going to that crazy-expense new sushi place because it boasts aphrodisiac sea creatures and the "romantic atmosphere" you hope will get yourself laid, please pay for my meal. I signed on for a date, not a second mortgage.

Please take me on a date. I promise to act like a normal human being. I will not ask you if you can do the M.C Hammer dance, because I really want the groom at my wedding to be able to do it with his groomsmen while wearing Stormtrooper helmets. I promise to stay off hot-button issues like politics, my lack of religion, and your pants. I promise to at least smile at your jokes, if not laugh at them, and only discuss things that I'm passionate about, like living in Italy and the Impressionist art period, so I light up from the inside and come to life, not things I'm passionate about, like sticking it to my ex and how I loved Mark Wahlberg even when he was Marky Mark. Especially in those magical white boxer-briefs. I promise to hold my fork the etiquette-class way, and not like I'm getting ready to spear your hand if you reach across to steal one of my fries. I promise to order more than the salad.

Please take me on a date. Make the first move at the end of the evening. Unless I've been blatantly yawning at you or texting through the entirety of our time together, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm giving you the female air traffic control signs to align your lips with either my cheek, or if you're feeling particularly dangerous, my own. Even if we don't kiss goodbye because I am hacking up a lung and possibly my left kidney, and though you're willing to swap cigarettes with me, you're worried that your immune system will not be able to keep it's shit together if it meets with my saliva, just know that I am wearing nice underwear. Though the chances of you actually seeing them at this juncture are slimmer than the chances of Nixon ever admitting to being the mastermind behind not only Watergate, but the Snuggie, too, just know that were we to somehow trip over a storm drain and a freak gust of hurricane wind were to rip our clothes off on the way down, and I landed on top of you...yes, these are from Victoria's Secret.

XOXO

Text And The City

I send texts. You send texts. We all send texts. Everyone's doing it. But are we doing it...wrong?

There is nothing quite so degrading as when you realize you're giving your phone the evil eye, waiting for it to ring after you send someone a text. I mean, for chrissake, it's an electronic lump of plastic, and here we're thinking giving it the look that would freeze hell over will galvanize someone miles away into action, manipulating them to reach for their similar hunk of plastic, and redeem all of human kind to us. We all know, I think, how often this actually happens. The opposite of what we'd like to happen happens more often than we'd all like.

Wow. Our expectations and misplaced steely stares are grossly over-sized. So, how do we learn how to text...better?

First, we need to recognize a fundamental fact to communication between the sexes: Women perceive their relationships better than men. A study done by Hebrew University of Jerusalem showed that after surveying 97 couples in the United States, women are more perceptive than men in describing their relationships. The study, which was published in ScienceDaily, reported that women were much more accurate in describing the perception of their partners than men. Sometimes this hurts more than it helps. This means that, technically, a woman texting should know the situation that she's getting into and the sense of decorum that it comes with. Is this always true? Fuck no. How many of you ladies have sent those texts that as soon as your thumb lifts off the "Send" button, you start cringing? I start shaking, myself. Like I have palsy. It is tres, tres attractive, I'm sure.

I really, and I mean really hate the phone. This should be apparent by now. Which is exactly why I've spent so much time and off-the-mark texts researching what the best ways to compose and send them are. And this is what I've found:

We all have options about the way we have text. There are easy options, ambivalent options, and leave no pris...I mean, hard options. Most texts are usually ambivalent options. If he says he's got other plans when you ask what he's up to tonight, you probably won't be heartbroken. The general variety "Hey, do you wanna go get a drink?" or "What are you up to now/later?" are ambivalent options. Ambivalent option texts are usually safe texts to send and receive because the sender generally wants little other than some sort of contact with another life form for the sake of feeling not so bored and there's not so much pressure. Unfortunately, these are the sort of texts least likely to get responded to. It happens, though it still really pisses me off, primarily because like stated, they generally aren't threatening texts at all, merely curious and mostly seeking beer or other forms of entertainment of a purely friendly kind, no ulterior motives. (Well, ok, I mean, everyone always has ulterior motives of one kind or another.)

But sometimes, you need to hardball. Sometimes, you need to put you first. Maybe you had plans you need to know are definite. Maybe you forgot the notebook with your calc notes in it at his place after spending the previous night, and you've got a test in 2 hours. Maybe you really need advice on a matter, and value their opinion nearly more than your mother's. This is when you hardball. You don't want to force a no-options text when you think you want to spend the night. That's like using The Force for evil. That's turning over to the Dark Side of being one of Those Girls. (Pink lightsabers are not good lightsabers, people.) Text "I have to get my _____. What time will you be home so I can get it?" No options. You're getting that _____. Today.

A "soft option" or "easy option" looks like an ambivalent text at the beginning. It usually starts with a "Hey, what are you up to?" or something equally breezy and conversational, then it gets to the point after the "Not much, what about you?" response. A "soft option" then gives a time limit and easy out for the recipient to say either "yes" or "no" to, no pressure. "Can you chat for 5 minutes?" DON'T use "talk." NEVER use the word "talk" in a text in the context of "Let's talk," or "I want to talk to you" or "We need to talk." This makes sirens go off, and if you seem overly seriously, it's another no-no. They'll run for the hills. Seriously. Always stay light and informal. Now is a good time to be delicate about asking for things. This makes it a "soft in," because there are good chances that you'll get that in for 5 minutes or an invite. The main difference between an ambivalent text and an easy option text is that an ambivalent text is very direct and to-the-point without being overly polite or seeming like you're asking for a favor, like an easy option text usually takes the form of. The point of an ambivalent text is that you really don't give a fuck, which you do with easy option texting-- which is why you're making it an easy option.

Some other rules of texting thumb and phone etiquette:

- Always ask yourself, what am I trying to communicate in this text? Is it clear? Can anything be misinterpreted? Unfortunately, the answer to this last question may still be "yes," but at least by now you've done your best.

- Keep the text to one point. Abbreviate what you can, without it looking like a 14 year old wrote it. Keep it classy, and abbreviate using shorthand. "With" becomes "w/." "Because" is "b/c" or "bc." "And" becomes my favorite symbol, "&." "At" is "@." And although I really hate it, and it's the last thing I abbreviate, and only then if I really can't help it, "you" can be "u." God. I feel so awkward and tweenage all over again. And unless you're texting your best friends, keep it to one text page at a time. Getting slammed with a consecutive 2 or 3 in a row is so overwhelming.

- If you want a text back, a good place to end is on asking a question. A pertinent question. People are more apt to respond back to questions, even if it is only with one or a few words.

- Sass is hard to pull off without sounding like a bitch unless the other person knows your humor as well as you do. Watch ya tone.

- Use a fresh opener that other people won't. A "ciao" means it's from me. Conversely, using a gender-bending opener like "Yo" or "Dude" is great for fending off the advances of men you think of sheerly platonically, or alternately if you want to make your guy friend feel more comfortable with the informal tone of your text.

- Only if you call and don't leave a voicemail message can you text a "voicemail message" instead. I actually suggest this, as it's clever because it means your name is seen twice, and if they didn't answer the call because it wasn't an appropriate time, I think we all know that by now, texting mid-conversation, or at least reading a text, is considered de rigueur. That means twice the chance that they'll know to get back to you.

But always remember-- when in doubt, and if it's important: Call.

XOXO

The Ever-Elusive Hunt for Fireworks and Love. (Or At Least Something Easy.)

[“I have a loose interpretation of the word “easy”.”]

Fourth of July:

What I really like about being in college is the fact that you’re young, working, and starting to think about economics and how they pertain to your life for the first time. Which leads to all sorts of fledgling grown-up conversations. At this point, though, they’re mostly still about things like drugs and making money quickly the easiest way possible. (For awhile, I was planning on making a t-shirt that had a picture of a rotary road-sign in the middle that read: “I’m unemployed because I live on a rotary,” on the front, and on the back followed up with, “There are no corners.”) Tonight’s conversation dealt with the pyramid scheme of the drug world, and how when it comes down to it, it still follows the basic laws of economics and can learn from basic Human Resources.

“I went there because although the price was higher, the quality and customer service were better,” I told my friends of my favorite (now ex-,) dealer.

“But the customer service wasn’t as good as you would have liked,” Madison followed up doggedly, remembering the fiascos and escapades surrounding my infatuation with Jersey Blunt.

“Yeah, it wasn’t full-service,” Alli followed up.

Economics and innuendoes. Who ever knew they went so well together? This is one subject I could get passionate about if it lets me speak tongue-in-cheek. Flaccid economy, stimulus plans…really! My night was made when I was able to work “I’d like to horizontally integrate with him,” into common conversation.

Third of July:

Last night, on the third of July, I got to hang out with (almost) all of my old Soho Boys. They may be bona-fide juvenile delinquents, they may be terrors to society, and they make smoke and drink and swear too much, but they’re MY boys, and I love them all. Deep-down, they’re all really good people.

Some, I love more than others. Jersey Blunt happened to be up from, (you guessed it,) the Dirty, and it was the first time I’d seen him since I propositioned him stoned via text at the end of the school-year. It was interesting to see him again—I got the familiar jumpy stomach that indicated suspense and pleasure, but not the same rabbits-gnawing-on-my-stomach-lining excitement that Perfect gives me. We slipped back into Ebonics easily enough, something that I had to try really hard to drop when talking with Perfect as the confused looks indicated that words like “wylin” and my common greeting of “ayo” did not compute in his Vermont farm-boy language. While Perfect is wholesome and wheaty, Jersey is nefarious and so Italian white-bread his caterpillar eyebrows beg to be wiggled up and down insinuatingly, as they are so often.

This did not stop me from letting him give me the biggest and warmest hug I’ve received since, well…Perfect almost a month ago. This also has not stopped me from deciding that Jersey Blunt goes on my Sexception List. You know—the list of people you’re allowed to sleep with even if you’re with someone else. Though technically I may not still be “with” Mr. Perfect, I am a very monogamous (go figure,) girl and usually can only withstand deep and abiding and usually sexual feelings for one man at one time. Hence, why I am probably one of the safest girls ever to not be worried about cheating on a guy.

But Jersey. There’s so much unfinished business there—he wanted me, I deferred due to job circumstances (I may have been his advisor at the time…) and then by the time I rolled around to deciding it would be ok to sleep with him on the DL, he had gotten tired of waiting and moved on to greener and more easy pastures. Still, all it takes is one look to realize that that person would still love to go hog-wild with you.

Jersey is that person for me.

And speaking of Mr. Perfect…

The name of the game is LIMBO, as called by two outside witnesses. He’s got me totally bent over, and not in a good way that I like. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not 100% out of one either. We waver somewhere between 60 and 40. Some days, I am pretty sure that he’s absolutely trying to cut me completely out of his life, possibly to make room for one of the visiting French girls who took pictures of him stripping down to go skinny-dipping. (Every time I log into Facebook, I see his naked ass, clearly taunting me, saying “haha—you won’t be seeing me anymore!” On the up-side, though, I have now seen him naked from every angle due to this picture, so I suppose I should be thankful.) On these days, I am pretty sure he’s sexting them, saying things like, “I have never been with a French girl, but I have always wanted to!” (Just like my “I have never been with a girl who has garters, but I have wanted to!” that he sent me. Exclamation point for my heavy-heartedness!) Other days, when we’ve spent a few hours texting each other back and forth like normal, The “how low can you go” thing works really well, too, seeing as the man just makes me want to drop all of my standards and feelings to the floor to be allowed to keep some sort of closeness with him. A relationship? I was willing to sacrifice it for the sex. Sex? I was hesitant by coerced into letting it go for continued friendship. My dignity? Pretty much gone already.

…And The Future:

And oh? Did I mention? I get to see Perfect for the first time in both 22 days and since we decided to no longer be a continuing entity. But the best part of all this? It’s going to be in his hometown. And we’re going to be swimming. Yes. Me, tanned, toned, and slightly starved for both food since I’ll be wearing a teeny bikini and starved for sex—I’m going to see Perfect and his perfect body dripping wet and the second most-naked I’ve ever seen him (I don’t even need to imagine the rest anymore…I know what weapons he’s hiding). I’ll consider it a success if I don’t either burst into tears upon seeing him or scale him like a tree.

Star Wars, or Why Am I Single?:

Spike TV has been making my life lately. Yes, the TV channel “For Men” is really serving me up a great schedule of keep-me-happy programming. For the holidays, they’ve been Star Wars marathoning from 3 PM to midnight every day, and starting tomorrow at 9 PM, they’re playing the 100 Best UFC Fight of All Time.

Some explanations on why these things make me so happy I squeal with joy are needed. A.) My daddy raised me as a Star Wars girl. When the local movie theater re-released the original Star Wars movies a week apart when I was about seven or eight, on the way home, I’d sit behind my dad’s driver seat and hold on to the headrest, pretending it was the guns of a fightership, as he, the pilot, steered us through enemy territory in deep space, and we blasted out way out, sound affects and all. He also bought two retractable plastic lightsabers so we could duel on the front lawn on summer nights, which was my first foray into fencing. (My dad’s an accomplished ex-Marine. I always beat him in duels. He’s never let me purposefully win a single thing in all of my life. Needless to say, he’s a proud poppa.) When the newer trilogy came out, he was the one who drove me and my un-licensed best friend to the movies and sat a couple rows back from us. Yeah. Don Daddy—he’s pretty cool.

And B.) As for the UFC thing—really. They’re very muscular, very testosterone-fueled men grappling in tight little shorts and beating the fuck out of each other. I am a red-blooded woman. I love that kind of shit. I’m the kind of girl who tends to go for the tall and muscular guys because I’d secretly love to see them knock someone’s head against a table defending my honor or, you know, my stolen bar seat.

But during my recent Star Wars watching, an over-whelming desire has grown on me. It’s the weirdest little fantasy, but it’s tenacious like English ivy in old brick with crumbling mortar. (In this analogy, the ivy is the fantasy, the brick is my moral fortitude, and the crumbling mortar is my will-power when it comes to not mounting the next man, or chair arm, I see.) I really, and I mean, REALLY want to just go down on a guy as he watches Star Wars. Maybe it’s Han Solo running around on the screen (I’ve always had a soft spot for Harrison Ford located somewhere south of my belly-button and north of my thighs), but I find myself alone in my apartment, wistfully looking at the foot of the empty couch and wondering, why, why, WHY is there no guy sitting there who will think he’s the luckiest man on the face of the planet if I were to seductively slink closer and unzip his pants while he gets to watch Luke Skywalker defeat the Dark Side?

Though irrational, obsessive, secretly needy and easily jealous and angered, I am also small, cute, well-dressed, in shape, and very out-going about my sexuality. (Obviously.) Why is that invisible man not real and on my couch? Maybe it’s like an old elementary- and high-school classmate of mine once said: maybe I do intimidate men with my quick mouth, straight-talking, and zero-bullshit approach. (Eric was six-foot-four, well over 200 pounds of football and rugby muscle, and going into military college. Eric has been shot at. Eric is also no dummy—he was an honor-role student for the 14 years I’d known him. So him saying this to me was an accomplishment, although maybe not a good one for me.)

This may be something I have to look into. Am I really that hard to approach? Do I, gasp, need to soften up a little?

…This could be disastrous.

Also, about the title and a fun fact pertaining to the festivities of the holiday: All the women in my family supposedly see fireworks when the love of their life (and in most cases, future husband,) kisses them. My grandmother, my aunt—my mother stills claims she gets the same sky-rockets and room-spinning feeling she got the first time my father kissed her, 35 years of marriage later. I now spend every lead-in to a first kiss with a guy, that sweetly awkward few seconds where you make eye contact and start to lean in, hoping for the best and no head-bumping, closing your eyes and wishing your lips to find each other’s smoothly and softly, wondering, “Is this it? Is this going to be my fireworks” Talk about pressure. So far, the only thing I’ve seen is the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I will admit—Legs could make the earth move from under me with some of his kisses, but no bottle-rockets; not even any sparklers. Perfect gave me a sensation and taste of sugar and cupcakes and everything sweet. And so, the waiting continues.

Ciao, or, maybe to those French girls with the unabashed cameras, salut! (Please, you can’t go back home quickly enough for my liking!)

XOXO