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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

A Better Woman Than You

One of the bad parts about staying in the same town that you graduated college in is that inevitably, you'll run into people from your past who you would rather not see. Like today when I unexpectedly bumped into one of the ex's little slips in fidelity. It had been awhile since I'd seen her; even longer since I'd seen her in the same room as myself and the ex. If counting my two relationships since him was any indicator, I've obviously moved on. I don't wish her a quick slip and a bad fall anymore. I don't spend my nights obsessively checking her Facebook profile to see what she's been up to lately (answer then would have been, "having more of a life than you are obsessively checking her page, dipshit,") anymore, either. In fact, it was kind of a shock to see her and instantly remember that, well, she exists. So I did the natural thing, which, in this case, also happened to the the right thing: I smiled genuinely at her, and said, "Hi, _____, how have you been?"

And she barely looked at me. She said a flat "hi" back, and moved on with whatever it was she was doing. For a moment, I was PISSED. Look, I've been the Other Woman (with the same guy, nonetheless!) in the past, so I know what running into the First Woman entails-- You smile politely, but not too much, lest she think you're mocking her. You speak first. You say a genuine, polite "hello" or "hey." If she engages you in conversation after that, you stick to neutral topics-- the weather, work, school, recent plans (that DON'T involve the man in both of your lives). You DON'T just ignore her. Because here's the thing, if you don't at least smile and say hi, then you're being a bitch. And if you happen to the the First Woman, you end up having yet another reason to hate the Other Woman even more. Basically, I was mad because I slipped back into the thinking that if you have the balls to want to share my relationship's bed, you BEST have the balls to meet my eye when you see me. Otherwise, I'm going to think that you're a coward, not a threat, and start to question my partner's interest in you in the first place and if you're what he wants to run around with, than is he really the sort of man I should be with? There's a very particular sort of woman who lurks around the outskirts of your life, looking in, wanting what you have, and is all bark behind your back and no real bite, and those are the women I can't fucking STAND. And THAT is EXACTLY the sort of woman who doesn't have the social grace or class to actually buck up, be a big girl, and converse like an actual person.

All of this flashed through my mind in about a nanosecond, dragging with it all the old feelings of spite and envy and mistrust and haughtiness. Then, something else happened-- I suddenly realized that I had no right to feel ANY of those ways about her anymore, as I was no longer (obviously) with the ex, and neither was she, either. I realized that if she couldn't even look my in the eyes now, over a year after everything between all of us went down, well, that was telling. About her, about her character, and about how she felt about the whole situation. And so, I kept on walking, letting it slide, and feeling vaguely protective of her, and the innocence and naivety that she exposed by not knowing how to do the right thing. Because, when it comes down to it, there are always going to be other women out there who are either trying to get a rise out of you, or you are trying to get a rise out of, yourself. (I would be lying if I said I was currently engaged in a game of electronic "chicken" myself.) We all have it in ourselves to be bitches. We all know exactly how to hurt other women. But that's all rather childish, and should be behind us by now, like how I realized that what she thinks or does no longer has any impact in my life, not even if she refuses to respond to my greeting. What really proves who the bigger (and better) woman is is who smiles and says that theoretical "hi" first. And I am now DEDICATED to being that better woman.

XOXO

A Rose By Any Other Name Is Still A Slut.

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, See No Other Women.

The other week, TGIS (again, that's The Guy I'm Seeing) and I were chatting about a mutual acquaintance as we were getting ready to go out for brunch, per usual, when he let something slip that wasn't the usual. "Yeah, I went out on a date-slash-lunch date with _____ around Thanksgiving, and we were talking about him and how every woman is in love with him."

What I wanted to say was "Hold up, there, buddy, you were seeing ME around Thanksgiving! What is this disclosure, your rules to speed dating?!" What I actually did was meekly chuckle. To get the facts clear, we were not "together" around Thanksgiving-- we had just started hanging out. We hadn't had sex yet. We weren't monogamous or committed. But while in the long-run, it may not seem like a big deal because of these facts, it made me think back and wonder. He was uncharacteristically out-of-touch over Thanksgiving, if my and my cell phone's memory serve right. And while at the time, seeing other people would have felt to me like trying to cram more clothing into an already stuffed-to-the-brim suitcase, it seemed to him to be as natural as breathing. Which brought up the point...

What is the politically correct way to say "Are you currently seeing other women? And if so, STOP."

How come it seems as if men seem to have all the fun and never worry about "where their relationships are going," and women get all the stress and the suspicion and are the ones that feel all the desires to have "The Talks?" It doesn't seem very fair. Just one day, just ONE, I'd love TGIS to be the one to turn and look at me and say, "Hey...I've been thinking...You're not seeing anyone else, right? We're all good, right?"

XOXO

Just Friends...?

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Secret Agent Relationship

I could, in my spare time (if I had any), probably moonlight for the FBI as a search-analyst-thingy-whatsit. Case in point: When TGIS got a job offer that seemed a little too good to be true and asked me what to do, what was my snap judgement call? "Google the SHIT out of the company and the employer." It ended up being a scam, so it was a win for the home team all around, but still, the fact that I openly shared my love of Googling "the SHIT" out of people was probably not the most clever character trait reveal in the world, or in my relationship.

So note to self (and rest of female population), if you have the power: Looking up the ex-girlfriend is not completely heartening, yet you will always, always keep doing so, you silly little sucker for masochism. It's like we're playing an imaginary game of "Me versus Your Ex" with an invisible scoreboard and everything, but the only problem is, there is no umpire to tell us what's fair, and what are are fouls.

I know there's the whole "it's in the past and ended for a reason; who's with each other now?" argument, but really, when a woman gets into the information-gathering bend or starts thinking about The Women That Came Before, since when is sanity or logic ever heeded or considered a pertinent fact to listen to?

The other day, it came up that the ex of the guy I'm seeing got him possibly the best, most ingenious, most perfect thing he could ever receive for his birthday back in the day. I sat in stunned silence for a minute, thinking about any way I could ever top that, and drew a complete blank. I laid down my sword then and admitted defeat to her-- I can never and will never be or replace her, but I noted some other things, too: I may never be able to come up with such a great present as that was, but I did just randomly pick him up two shea butter shaving cream samples, just because, and I can and do buy him drinks when I'm flush to repay him for all the times he buys them for me, and give him random, because-I-feel-like-it-and-because-you-need-it massages, and will let his friends come over and hang out, and not once but twice this past week he told me how nice I was to him and how much he appreciates it. And I LET HIM USE MY INSTANT NETFLIX (that's when you know it's serious-- sharing Netflix's viewing suggestions). So, in other words, I must have some redeeming qualities for him to have some reason to want to be with me, even if my idea of the perfect gift is a a bottle of men's facial moisturizer so he stops using mine, or a trip down to Atlantic City to visit the craps tables on the casino floor.

Hey. We can't all be perfect. And when I start feeling particularly masochistic about the women in the past, I remember a few things that always make me feel better: Just like I probably have some habits that annoy the ever-living shit out of the guy I'm with, they probably had some habits that annoyed him even more; and, when in doubt, I could probably whup their asses at writing grammatically proper sentences, or when to use a comma versus a semi-colon. It's really the little wins in life.

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.

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

Intimidation Street

NEVER let someone run you out. The other day, I was at a friend's house when I was told after an incoming call that someone else was on their way. What was I supposed to do, run screaming and crying in fear the very moment her name reached my ears? Naw, I don't THINK so. As Lafayette would say, "Girlfriend, it ain't no thang." And it really ain't. Make the point that you could either A.) Not give less of a fuck, or B.) Pretend they don't exist by staying for another ten minutes as conversation naturally comes to a close and you're leaving on your own time, as opposed to being thrown out right on your ass in mid-sentence by the mere mention of another girl.

XOXO

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

Datepocalypse Now: A History Of Disaster.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

XOXO

The Tell-Tale Heart

I know Facebook has ruined us. Do you want to know how Facebook has ruined us? Because for what was probably the past three hours of my sleeping life, I grappled with a dream which started out pleasant and involved two loves of my life: men, and pie, and yet progressed into something that made my heart-- literally, I felt my heart-- plunge to somewhere in the vicinity of my toes when in my dream, I saw It. That thing that all girls secretly dread. The terror of the internet. The scourge of Facebook. "_______ is in a relationship with _______." That little pink heart has never been more ominous.

When I woke up, I promptly lunged for my laptop, just to make sure it wasn't true and I hadn't been sleep-web-surfing like how I sometimes have to wake up and grab for my phone to see if I really was sleep-texting or so-fucked-up-you-might-as-well-be-asleep-because-you're-not-gong-to-remember-doing-it-in-the-morning texting. The rest of the dream I could brush off as kinda ridiculous-- running down the road, looking in houses for someone you have no idea how to find (oh, that's telling!) and who remains, decidedly, not a character in the rest of this dream, but instead, a blue and white profile with a new pink heart on it; an 18 year old, baby-faced, cowboy hat-wearing new girlfriend who kinda looked like Bret Michaels had actually succeeded in fathering a child with one of his Rock of Love floozies, having a traumatic breakdown on my shoulder while the only decent thing to do was hold a tissue for her to blow her nose while consoling her because, "I know how he can be, sweetie." It rang so true I couldn't even get mad when she blew snot all over my toes and her parents told me how perfect they were together over what seemed to be a feast straight from Henry the VIII's table. I mean, there was a woman ladling split-pea soup straight into her mouth, for chrissake. How am I supposed to take a dream like this seriously?

The point is, I did. The point is, I woke up with a start, gasping and bolting upright, and then scrambled down to the foot of my bed and grabbed my laptop to check-- just because. Just because it felt so real. Just because I am that terrified. Just because it brought to my attention that any day, that could be a real possibility, and I am, as evidenced, nowhere near prepared for that. I guess what they say about dreams bringing out your subconscious fears and desires is true-- in which case, I am a mess. Facebook, you've finally fucked me over.

XOXO

P.S-- In other news, you have 5 days to become my 48th, 49th, or 50th follower. (Which is a great birthday present to me.) And there's $1.14 that stands between me and a check from Google, which would really be appreciated as I am currently investigating the laws of prostitution for some gray area and not quite the same severity as a sentence for robbery/forgery/extortion/embezzlement, as those are my 5 options at the moment to afford summer rent.

Beauty Or The Beast?

Women, I think, more than men, tend to be territorial. While men may have classically been the hunters and warriors, you better bet that while the women stayed home and cleaned cave, sweet cave and cooked and watched the hairy little kids that they had to protect their fair share from the saber-tooth tigers of lore. In fact, in a poll taken asking who tends to be more territorial, men or women, 7 out of 10 answered in the affirmative for women, in one case, with the answer "...Women are like tigers guarding their kill." And so, the vestigial feeling remains in all women-- but what happens when the instinct in women is raised by another woman? While half of us is groomed from the cradle to be sugar and spice and everything nice and sweet, the other half is still thinking, "Bitch, get close enough, and I will sink my teeth as far as they can get into your eyes like grapes."

Is this really any surprise? In 2003, the FBI conducted a statistics report which showed that assault by women had risen 41% since 1992, in contrast to a 4.3% increase among boys. I myself, if this blog's content is any proof, am much more of a lover than a fighter, and yet, I'm not ashamed to admit that around the same time as this census, I was involved in two locker room fights in high school. And won. And if girls are willing to fight like cats and dogs over things like a bathroom stall to change in before gym class, how driven do you think we really are to fight over things we really want? Grown-ass women come to tooth and claw over discount Prada at sample sales in the sterile and soothing atmosphere of Barney's. And that's just Prada.

Like the sort of marks that wild animals leave to assert their presence in nature, women leave subtle clues for other women to see when they're marking out their territory. (Guys, prepare to have the lid blown way off.) Facebook provides a sort of "soft" surface to scratch on-- among especially younger girls and women, it provides a place to publicly stake out your claim. Women may post numerous items on a guy's page to send off a "taken" message to other women, or to undermine others. If you really want to get all scientific about it, check out the timestamps on recurring poster's entries. Chances are, if there's a man-stomping-ground fight brewing, there will be a rapid retaliation time between two women's messages on one wall. She posted yesterday? The other will post today. It's a not-so-silent waiting game until one gives up or gives in. Or, just resorts to less public forms of communication.

Women, unlike men, are tactile creatures. We touch things to find out more about them. Watch a woman shop, and you'll soon realize this. In person, women tend to stake out their interest the way they know best-- through touch. If another woman is constantly putting her hands on the arm or shoulder or back of a man, she might as well have branded "TAKEN!" across his forehead for other women to read. Here is a classic example of this, along with some advice for women how to handle a situation like this. The number one response? Be nice, and if that doesn't work, just walk away.

Listen for name-dropping. Does someone's name in particular keep coming up? Bingo. People naturally want to talk about what they're excited about. Is someone in the conversation coming back with responses like, "Oh, that's so funny-- Andre went to Mexico for vacation last year, too!" Five minutes later, it'll be, "Well, the other day, Andre said..." Women, as you may have noticed, cannot keep our traps shut. So if we can talk about you, we will. And if we can talk about you in context with other people so that they know that we're all over your shit? Even better. Let the gossip begin.

And then there's just women's intuition. We know when someone's creepin'. We usually can sniff out pretty quickly who they're creepin' with. It's not like we're "snooping" or "being nosey"-- the best way that I can explain it is that most women have the ability to look at another woman and go, "Huh. Yup. She's totally his type, and you know what? She's been coming around a lot more recently. Hmm. Gotcha." If you really want to see how and what women think of Other Women, I highly suggest the movie "The Women" (the 2008 version). Women just know other women. We get them in the way that you guys generally tend to understand anything that has a motor. We know what she means when she says cryptic things to her friends. We know when she's trying to make us jealous. We know why she is taking 500 photos of you and her, or the life around you and her. And we know what those song lyrics really mean. In an ideal world, you'd be able to use the two women that you're seeing to understand the other, because chances are, they know each other far better than you do. In this world, unless you have huge vat of mud and a large inflatable pool on hand-- don't.

There's ladies, and then there's not-so ladies. So how does a "lady" deal with a situation without her fists?

Girls are taught from an early age to assert themselves when they feel like they're being pushed around, and this is a lesson that sticks for both emotional and physical pushing and shoving, as well as leads to the phenomenon of cat-fights. The Catch-22 is this: If you actually assert yourself and your emotions and express your displeasure by saying something like, "Hey, I know what you're doing to me, and I don't like it and the way it makes me feel, AT ALL," you're in jeopardy as coming off as "needy," "overbearing," "controlling," "trying to change" someone, and yes, my favorite-- "a crazy bitch." However, this is the way that your mother and your public school education taught you how to communicate in. It's unfortunate that some men and other women couldn't give less of a fuck that approaching a problem head-on and distinctly is not considered the ideal way to communicate. You may be thinking, "What? You're crazy. No way. I want open and honest communication, all the time!" Well. Let's put ourselves in two scenarios, shall we?

Scenario One: You're a guy, and you've been engaging in some seedy and slightly sleazy behavior behind the back of a girl who you consider normally very sweet. But hey, whatever, right? Until one afternoon when she looks you dead in the eye and says, "Look, I like you a lot, and I think we have a pretty good time together, but I know what you're doing, and it makes me feel like shit. Did you ever think about how this makes me feel?" OH SHIT. Caught red-handed. So, what do you do? If you're even a half-way decent guy, you come clean and apologize and actually start doing right by her. But we all know, even in the most contrite individual, part of you is going "BITCH. You ruined all my good fun. And because of what? Feelings? Puh-lease. There are wild oats to be sown!" Because believe it or not, women have that same thought-process, too.

Which brings us to scenario two: You're another female roommate or coworker, when, one morning, your other female roomie/coworker approaches you and says, "Look, I love sharing meals with you, but I've noticed recently that you aren't contributing to the food supply, and, in fact, are eating some of mine. I wouldn't mind so much, but money's a little tight for me right now, and it's hard to do the grocery shopping for one person, let alone two." This is another situation where as the equal-opportunity snacker, you know you're to blame, but at the same time, you can't help but feeling a little self-righteous. So you generally come back with something like this as a retort: "Sorry, but I didn't see your name on that food." And then, for good measure, add in, "And could you clean your expired food out of the fridge? It's taking up space." Passive-aggressive female defense at its best.

Basically, with this first option, you're trying to assert yourself the best way you know how, but unfortunately, our society has stressed the ideal of the "sweet" girl to the point where many women are torn between the hard choice of feeling like if they express themselves, they'll lose a close relationship, or if they don't, they'll get continually steam-rolled. So, what to do? Pick another option?

Then there's the ultimatum-- "You can't have it both ways-- choose." Not a favorite. It backs people into corners and makes them do the one thing that all the previous behavior has shown an aversion to-- picking one option and sticking with it. Feminists would tell you ultimatums are an enlightened woman's friend. Men would tell you you're starting to sound like their mother. And women don't listen to ultimatums.

And then there's our third option, otherwise known as "The Girl Next Door." It balances a healthy dose of looking the other way with still being sweet to all involved. AKA: no bitching at him, no sinking your teeth into her eyeballs or fist into her jaw if you meet her, and crying only to your friends and pillow at night. Most men would probably tell you that they prefer this option. Most women, myself included, will tell you it's a recipe for pretty much one thing: an unhappy woman.

There are some people who can raise "The Girl Next Door" approach to kind of a cosmic and Karmic ideal, which involves realizing that The Other Woman is not all to blame, and, in fact, another wounded party involved; that the man in this situation is the one that has orchestrated this all; and that maybe there are reasons for him doing the things he does. There's lots of forgiveness and Zen-ness involved in this approach. I am not quite that good of a person. You can strive for it, but it's hella hard.

So, what is a girl to do if her locker room fighting days are past, and all forms of communication seem to be moot? Will an eloquent "This is how I feel" conversation ever truly give the satisfaction of a good right hook, or are women always doomed to be silent about certain things due to the fears of not being the quintessential Perfect Girl? You may say that you want the truth, but do you really want to handle the repercussions it may have? What do you think? Is there really any way to address these sorts of issues while both being strong yet not being a hard-ass?

XOXO