Boys Will Be Boys, And Girls Will Be Like Boys.

I learned a fun fact this evening while I was talking to my roommate Alli about the fact that I'm starting to think that slightly larger than average amounts of testosterone in my biological make up would explain a lot about me, paramount being my sex drive, natural aggressiveness, tendency to dominate, and the fact that a lot of the time, I feel masculine despite my 36C breasts riding on my 5'3" frame and 36 inch hips. It's not anything...I don't know, abnormal, like I'm going to bust out a beard at any moment...it's just that despite my love of shoes and the fact that I tear up over ASPCA commercials and reflexively smile hugely like a butter-hearted idiot at cute babies, I still feel like in a crisis, I'd be the one picking up the rifle and trekking into the woods to go kill shit to feed the family.

Maybe it's because I'm a Vermont girl. The most romantic thing I could get for Valentine's Day would be a remote car starter. A remote car starter on a nice bracelet.

Or maybe, it's something else. "Let me see your hand," Alli asked, and then held hers up to explain. "See how my index finger is longer than my ring finger?" I dutifully held mine up. She went "YEAHHHH" quickly in a tone of voice that I'm sure they train out of doctors in pre-med. "Look at how much longer your ring finger is than your index finger." She's not lying. It's probably nearly a quarter of an inch longer. "They've linked longer ring fingers in women to higher doses of testosterone in their chemical make up. So that explains it for you."

Think this is all bullshit like how a man's hand or foot size denotes the size of his dick? Then try this on for size: "Unlike men, most women have ring fingers that are shorter or the same length as their index fingers. Only a few have longer ring fingers. The finding adds to evidence that the ratio between the two fingers - not the length itself but their length relative to each other - is associated with a number of different personality traits, which include sexuality, fertility, intelligence, aggressiveness and musical ability. The difference is believed to be linked to the level of the male hormone testosterone, to which the foetus is exposed in the womb."

Whelp. That not only explains my merit as a sprinter, but also my sex drive quite nicely. "But babe, I know you're tired...don't blame me, blame my finger!" Think it would fly or hold up in a court of law as an argument? However, I can also guarantee that all the women who just read this are looking at their hands right now.

XOXO

Playa Hater

In many aspects, I'm not your typical girl. I don't know many Lady Gaga songs, I'm really not into jeggings, and I'd rather watch a football game than Glee and go to a dive bar than a nail salon. I've never had a manicure (waste of money when you use your hands as much as I do), and I didn't have senior portraits taken, or professional prom photos done. So it really shouldn't be any surprise that there wasn't any photographic evidence of me with any of the guys I've dated or been in relationships with.

I mean, yes-- there is a horrible held-at-arm's-length cell phone quality snapshot of me and a guy I was with freshmen year, and there's a photo of my on-again, off-again guy and I in a group of our friends, but that's it. No official "hello world, we're a couple, and can't you tell?" photos. I was thinking about this fact today while watching SATC reruns and thinking about how anti-girl that fact is. Also, about how slightly sad it is that I'll have no photographic reminders of how I felt together while I was with a guy.

Until now. Low and behold, not 30 minutes later, an image taken of the boy and I on his birthday surfaced on Facebook from his friend's cell phone. I knew that his friend had been taking photos of the shitshow taking place, and was expecting some hilarious Leaning Pile of Drunken Man photos, or possibly, ones of me standing in front of him with his chin in my hand, trying to get him to focus on me long enough to find out if he needed more water. Instead, what popped up was a photo of the two of us casually sitting on the end of the couch closely together, my arm around his neck, hand resting on his collarbone, his arm around my waist and hand on my hip, both our eyes focused down at some point on the floor in front of us as we talked about something. Or he slurred and I listened intently.

It's a great photo. I wasn't expecting it, especially from a friend of his. Totally candid, yet entirely truthful. I am now a believer in those body language experts who say they can tell if two people are sleeping together just by reading their body language as they interact. If a picture is worth a thousand words, than that photo only needed three: "So into him." I wondered, when I saw it, what the shelf life of it would be on the page of someone who is enjoying a Time Without Labels, and says that one of his favorite things about me is the fact that I don't ask about his business, yet has his own toothbrush on my sink and spent 3 of the last 7 nights at my place. As I expected, it lived live for about three hours, and then disappeared.

I'm not surprised because I know the situation. I know how refreshing it is to get out of long relationships and be single again, even if you're currently casually seeing someone that you really like. There's no rush to jump into anything, and the concept of not having to be committed to anything is intoxicating. I know that he's the sort of guy who wants to appear single on his page, even if he's into displays of affection in public, just like I'm the sort of girl whose Facebook relationship status is "In An Open Relationship" because that's how I consider myself-- in an open relationship with THE WORLD. I'm not into relationship statuses, or broadcasting it every time I start crushing on or seeing a new person. And while I'm not looking for any sort of label from him, and while I knew from the instant I saw it that that photo's shelf-life had a short expiration date, I have to admit, it did get me a little down to not see it there anymore. If you can show me off around town and to your friends, why don't you want to show me off in other aspects of your life, too? Because I honestly feel like I'm worth it.

Part of me, a very small part of me, took tiny offense to it, with a grain of salt. From the get-go when I saw it, I knew it would probably be removed because it would hurt his "playa image"-- the thought that he can flirt with whomever he likes online or in the real world because they don't know he's seeing anyone else. For three hours, that image was killed by any other girls who happened to see it, and the photo probably wasn't as well-received by him as it was by me because of that fact. In reality, he knows the difference between flirting with someone and trying to get with someone, and is very straight about it-- I have no worries that he's actively trying to get with anyone else. And hell, I'm a huge fucking flirt, so if he wants to get his harmless flirt on, he can get his harmless flirt on. But it got me thinking and couldn't help but make me wonder: Why do men always feel the need to be lining up the field? It's not just him-- it's the guy my friend is trying to see who has a ton of his "bitties", and what my ex who always had another girl on the side, just in case, did. It's what this guy explains in his "bottom bitch theory" video. This is dating, and as much as it seems like a game of chess or a full-body contact sport like rugby (but with kissing), IT AIN'T. I am not lining up my next starting line while I'm with a guy. As unnerving as it is, I play it play-by-play and day-to-day, and if it ends tomorrow, then it's gonna be awhile before I find another starting player to draft. Girls (sometimes, more than guys,) deal with periods of singledom and sometimes celibacy because of this-- when a girl is really with you, we're WITH you, ride-or-die style. And if a guy's not thinking the same way, than it's like you're dating on top of a trapeze of your feelings with no safety net underneath if he decides to drop you for the next Maria Sharapova or Mia Hamm or Serena Williams.

But it's easy-- in today's world, the internet and our presence online is what dictates how people who don't see us every day or regularly view us. And if he's flirting with other girls online, it just wouldn't do to have a couple-y photo at the top of his page. I get it, though I'm not entirely down with it. I run into the same issue every time one of my close guy friends posts something that could be considered especially intimate or overly interested-- I worry how other people will read into it. Granted, at this point, I'm pretty sure the guy I'm seeing knows they're my friends and he's the only one I'm currently seeing and/or sleeping with, but then again, whenever he leaves me a comment, then I'm always stuck wondering what my ex thinks of it. It's a no-win situation out there in cyber space.

XOXO

Stoplight Theory

There's a fundamental problem between the sexes when it comes to having the sexes: As popular television, the '50s, and hearing about your mother's chronic "headaches" may have led you to believe, we're very rarely in the same mood at the same time. Which can be good, or bad.

Men are kind of like stoplights when it comes to being in the mood for sex. There's "HELL YES," there's "You can convince me," and then there's "Get the fuck away." You can start a man out with "You can convince me," and get him to "HELL YES." It's all about waiting your turn and abiding by the rules of the road. Or, in this case, head. (You decide which.)

Women are not like stoplights-- we're like taxi cabs. Either our light is on, or our light is off. There's no convincing us to flick it one way or the other once we've already made up our mood. So when a woman's light is on, and as plain to see as if we were actually holding a neon sign above ourselves that read "Open For Your Business," in the iconic words of Sugarhill Gang, jump on it. Because when a woman is closed, she's closed. There's no changing her mind. Unlike with men, there's no amount of ego-stroking or caressing that can make her change the way she feels about your chances for that moment. Keep in mind, for a week out of every month, we're bleeding, and there are also the nights we eat or drink too much or just aren't feeling all that sexual. Even I sometimes wind up not feeling all that sexual. I've been working lately on the whole not-getting-drunk-and-having-sex-thing, and without that cushy fog of inebriation, it's true what they say: it makes you feel better about yourself, and when I'm not thoroughly convinced by the beer goggles that I am slammin', I'm winding up a lot more in the "off" camp than in the "on" camp.

This is why it sucks for you guys but why we women think men are great. There has to be a moment in every guy's life when he realizes that the "no"s that used to come when he reached down to shimmy the underwear off of the girl he'd been grappling with for the past half-hour have changed to silent, unquestioning "yes"es. At this epiphany, there must be much celebration. Girls, thankfully, never got through that. When a woman wants to have sex, she can usually convince her partner it seems like a great idea. (Reason #324 it's great to be a lady.) However, on the flip-side, if we can't convince you to turn on when we are, it's like the Great Depression of 2010. There is much hair-tearing and emotional rending. In short, it really sucks (invisible) balls.

If you worry about mixed signals and accidents, it can get confusing. But what it basically boils down to is that you have to catch us when you think we're "on." And basically, if you think we're on, it's probably because we are, and short of posting it on the evening news along with the traffic report, we're doing everything we can to communicate this point to you. So, don't wait for the next-- make like it's 3 AM in Manhattan and raining cats and dogs, and hail us down.

XOXO

The Little Things, AKA: Why Do Men Hate Mirrors?

I know I'm incredibly self-righteous and preach about the benefits of making an Overnight Kit, and just ever-so-recently made a comment about how it would be really smart to carry one whenever you leave your house, among other things. But as you should know by now, I only do what I tell other people they should be doing about .012% of the time. And it seems to me as if every time you shave, put on the good lingerie, and bring the damn thing, you never end up with a reason for needing to shave, wear the good lingerie, and bring the damn bag, because you find yourself walking through your front door at a respectable early-morning hour grumbling about how that was a shave completely wasted. In fact, I actually have a card somewhere that says exactly that-- "Was it worth shaving her legs for?"

So, how does a girl deal when she does not have the needed amenities?

Well, first, we hide in bed and bitch, and consider crawling out your

window and over the dumpsters and hightailing it out before you roommates clap eyes on us and start shrieking about "Swamp woman! Tia Dalma has come to exact her revenge! Calypso! We're all gonna diiiieeeee!"

Then, we get crafty. I don't understand why men have an aversion to mirrors that rivals that of vampires, but it seems like they do. In the morning, I need to look at my head before I walk out of ANY door, be it a bedroom door, or a front door. This goes double for when it's hot, I've been sweating, and I'm pretty sure something nested in my hair during the night, like possibly, your cat, or a cockroach. Although I have heard some pretty creative and far-out excuses for why mirrors are not a part of the decor-- "I usually have my webcam in here and use that,"-- most people DO have something on them that's of equal use: the shiny, reflective screen of your cell phone. Granted, anyone with a slab-like Smart Phone has an advantage, and yes, the screen is small, so you'll have to inspect your hair and face in sections, but it works in a pinch. And believe me, this is one case in which you're not being pinched-- you're being grabbed.

The other thing I've noticed is that toothpaste, or a tube that doesn't require two people and a steam roller to get any gel out, seems to be a rare find. So here's another quick fix that can be found in most non-prepared purses, anyway: Gum. Just, please, if you're going to kiss goodbye, remember it's still in your mouth before that poor guy finds himself wondering a half-hour later when he popped a stick of gum in his mouth.

The only other words of advice I can give you are these: Use toilet paper to remove any excess make-up from the night before while keeping what's still good and hasn't run like a man who just heard the word "love" on your face. What's making you look like Gene Simmons in full stage make-up is most probably your eyeliner, falsely-labeled-not-waterproof-or-at-least-sweatproof mascara, and lipstick. Just use that as a guideline to swipe around your eyes and mouth for when you're mirror-challenged.

And, get dressed as much as possible. I mean, yeah-- if you were wearing a skin-tight clubbing dress the night before, people are gonna notice you traipsing back home at 9 AM. (And dammit, I don't care how much your feet hurt-- put the damn heels on again; don't carry them!) Just hold your head high. Pretend it's Vegas where dressing like that in early morning hours is perfectly acceptable. If you originally dressed more understated, re-create the outfit to the best of your abilities, if you can still find all your clothing on the messy floor or in the black hole under the bed. Chances are, anyone other than your one-night roommate and their roommates who saw you in what you were wearing last night aren't going to be seeing you this morning, so pretend that it's a totally valid new outfit that you put on specially for today. This means putting all your jewelry back on, tucking in your shirt again, and unrolling your pant legs. Just do it. You won't look so much like "Oops, Annie Get Your Clothes On! I Know Where You Were And Weren't Expecting To Be Last Night!" to everyone who sees you. Instead, they'll probably just think-- "She looked so well put-together until I got closer and noticed her hair. Poor girl. Should I try to comfort her and tell her that the starting phases of dreadlocks are a bitch?"

And can I please get some feedback on the phenomenon of how when you're ready for it, it never happens, but when you're all, "Jesus, I'm such a landscaping wreck, not even a Lowe's employee would want to rehab me, LOLZ!", you get hit out of nowhere like a freight train carrying a full load of "Don't You Feel Stupid Now?" Or am I alone and special-in-the-handicapped-way in that?

XOXO

Train Wrecks and Re-Doing Old Mistakes

"It's not good for me, but I want it."

It's probably the motto of my life. Everything, nearly everything I prefer the hard way, be it jobs, plans, or men. I have been known to end relationships that were "too easy." I've also been known to completely scorn the conventional way of doing something because it's too tried and true and lacking in excitement. But it's perfectly fine with me if I turn my life upside-down and bassakwards going after something slightly dangerous, more than stupid, and highly unobtainable.

"Sometimes I feel like my friends are my teenage daughters," I told my mom the other day. "They're doing all these things that just aren't smart, and I want to help them so bad, but then I realize they have to figure it out for themselves in order to learn anything. It's just so painful."

My mom lived through her 16 year old daughter cohabitating with a 24 year old dude. My mom knows where I'm coming from, and has put up with much worse. My mom said the same thing that she said to me when she watched me barrel out the front door with overnight bags: "It's their train wreck, and they have to figure it out for themselves."

We can see a friend's train wreck coming from a mile away and preach and preach and preach until we turn red and run out of breath, but when it comes to our own ongoing mistakes, we're deaf, blind, and dumb. Why can't any of us get out of our own way?

I have a theory. And it goes like this: Secretly-- like how we'll pour over our pores for hours behind the safety of our bathroom door, or how we believe that curling our hair and using hairspray makes up for not washing our hair-- we like it that way. I'm not 100% happy unless I have something to mull and churn over and over and over and over and over again in my head, like a washer of self-destructive tendencies on spin-cycle. And I've been told more and more recently that other people are exactly the same way. Maybe the perks that came with this highly-evolved human brain are just too prone to being used for obsession, over-analyzation, and drama than good.

Oh, and as for that whole "learning from your mistakes" thing? Bullshit. I'm still re-making the same mistakes. And I'm still just as happy trying to rectify them, the hardest ways possible.

XOXO

Why Don't You Love Me? Yes, Why Indeed?

While I can joke around that yes, this is EXACTLY what I look like while doing car repairs or working around the house, what you can't joke about is Miss B's undeniable knack to produce music that women can relate to, even if we're pretty sure Jay is still pretty smitten and B isn't writing and singing about any current issues-- they're just still universal ones.

Fabulous, non? If at one point, there was a man who didn't love Beyonce, I feel so much better about myself, and you should, too. I'm still 99% sure marrying her was the smartest move Hova's ever made.

XOXO

The Peep Show Next Door

Last night, I inadvertently saw a naked man. I'm warning you now, this has nothing to do with me getting any. But everything to do with me feeling uncomfortable.

Girls are weird about seeing people naked. We get a kick out of it, and--unless it is someone we want to see naked and there is sex for us involved--then we want it to be over. Patience walked into my room with a shell-shocked-prisoner-of-war face on, and said, "I think there's a naked guy next door." As any red-blooded American girl will, I asked "Where?" and followed her into the living room to investigate. And yes-- there, across the driveway, was a naked thigh. Followed by a naked ass. Followed by a-- OHMIGOD, DID HE SEE US?

Paish and I dived for cover and nervously giggled for a few minutes. This seems to be the natural response of women to nakedness-- duck for cover, then giggle about it. Gradually, we crept back up to see if he was still there...

...And he was. Staring up at our window. Not trying to conceal anything.

He stayed there, flaunting his nakedness and our growing discomfort for over 15 minutes. It was at this time that I put 2-and-2 together about what Twan had warned me about the guy next door with a fetish for both blow-up dolls and not closing his blinds, and Mister Red Light wondering where we'd gone. It was worse than that time in Perugia-- well, I mean, the guy wasn't in at least his mid-forties, and had a better body, but it was creepier; Perugia Nudie didn't give a flying fuck if anyone was watching him. Jeepers Creepers next door wanted to know if we were watching. Twan had told me to call the cops the first time Peep Show creeped us out. I couldn't justify calling the cops yet, and at 3 AM, so I texted Twan instead. He didn't answer; Paish and I went out on the back deck to get out of sight and smoke a stress-cigarette, and when we came back, the blinds had closed again. All in all, nothing accomplished but feeling dirty.

As Patience asked, "Why does this always happen to me?" I feel like I too have seen an unfairly disproportionate number of naked men from across air spaces and driveways. And mostly, always men. Now, I know I'm no blushing daisy myself, of Naked Tuesdays fame, but when I realized on two separate occasions that our hot carpenter/next door neighbor-- not to be confused with Jeepers Creepers-- was the person who lived directly across the driveway from me on the second floor and not only was the guy who got to watch me cooking in a bra and shorts, but also was the same person closing the blinds in the kitchen that looks directly into my bedroom window every morning because I may-or-may-not-but-definitely-do sleep in just underwear and didn't have curtains yet, I started thinking about flashing my naked body around a lot less than I did in say, Italy. A little respect is all I ask. And respect is not craning your naked self out of your window to look up toward my living room and see if we're watching your

naked ass. Respect is shutting your damn blinds before we have to.

I guess this is my welcome to Mister Roger's Naked Neighborhood. Why can't all naked men over the age of 25 just look like Rusty DeWees, I ask you?

XOXO

P.S-- And yes, I'm going to use that image as much as humanly possible in the foreseeable future. I also, for shits and giggles, want you to guess how old that man is. Just, please-- guess. I can't wait to tell you the truth and blow your mind.

Mad Men and Madder Women

I'm a little bit behind the curve with some things: I've (thankfully) never heard a Jonas Brothers or Justin Bieber song; I've never felt the urge to pierce anything on my body; and before Sunday night, I'd never watched Mad Men. Despite being told numerous times that I should. I figured it was kind of like flossing-- everyone says you should do it, but when it comes down to it, if you brush as much as you're supposed to, it's not really necessary.

Well, here I am, bowing and scraping and saying "mea culpa"s and "You were right." That is one hell of a good show. It's smart, and fast-paced, and not too far-fetched while at the same time not being totally predictable. It is, in fact, a very human show-- it showcases the workplace, the home life, families, relationships, how men act with other men, how women act with other women, how men and women act together, and men and women behaving badly, either together, or apart.

In other words, it's truthful and realistic.

When I was in Florence, I realized, for maybe the third time, but the most painful and hurtful time, that the guy I had left behind at home was still seeing the girl he had slept with while we were together. I felt vindictive, and devil-may-care-and-take-the-hindmost, and like there wasn't some glass ceiling for him that seemingly wasn't allowed to me, who had just hit it, and why the hell was that?

It was my friend's 21st birthday, and after lots of sangria, we ended up at a club, with two Australian guys who were in town for the week around Easter. They were great. One of them was cute, and reserved, and funny in that smart way that's more about plays on words and maybe hints at humor than of sheer smacking wit. I was hell-bent on ending that night with him to settle my invisible score; to understand what makes you go from one person to the next; to have more secrets to tack on to my list so that inevitably, when all was revealed in the in digressions on the home front, I would have one more ace up my sleeve, one more circumstance to smack in his face and say, "This is what neglect and looking elsewhere so carelessly and blatantly will get you."

It was, and still is, very petty and childish. "Evening the score" is not exactly the answer to equations like this. But regardless, that night, just as I was about to make my move, my friend Kara appeared at my elbow. "Someone stole my wallet," she said, and just like that, the spell was broken. The Aussie walked me home that night, but in the moments between my insecurity and having to grow up and help someone else's crisis, I realized that my own sleeping around wouldn't solve anything. It wouldn't make me feel better. It wouldn't teach my Lothario anything. And while the Aussie may have gotten a good night of fun out of the deal, he'd be gone the next week, anyway, probably to never be seen again.

So what, then, was it all about? Human beings are remarkably complex. Just as the characters on Mad Men are never truly translucent in their actions, but rather opaque, so are real people. You can see action-- you can watch someone jump ship, bail like a seasoned sailor, and pour themselves from one cup of their life to another for fear of becoming solid or stagnant. You can watch someone slip away from you, or lash out. You can watch someone burn bridges and go down in flames. And you can watch yourself do things you're not proud of, just because you're human, and you can't help it. But the logic behind the actions? That still remains in the dark, unknown even to your own heart.

Seems like we haven't changed that much since the '50s, after all.

XOXO

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO

Exes Undercover

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's the problem with dating-- carnage.

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

XOXO

Of Men, Women, And Italian Escapades, Part 4:

Italian Escapades:
Vespa Man, or Why Am I Such A Fuck-Up?

The dog is cute. It looks kind of like my best friend’s Australian shepherd, and it’s waiting patiently outside the small grocer’s down the block from my apartment for its master to return. It grins up at me, panting slightly, and, a sucker always for the canines, particularly good-looking ones, such as this one (just like with men and green-eyed people, or green-eyed men especially,) I smile back.

As I am smiling like a special type of fool at the dog, someone slides out of the door in front of me. I look up and see a youngish, stocky man in fashionable black leather-gear with sandy hair tucked under a helmet standing in front of me. “Hi,” he says, and thrown at the English with or without the accent behind it, I actually look back at him, catching his twinkling light eyes.

He reminds me, in the instant I really take him in, of the geeky Australian transfer student turned Eevil Keenival who was the hero of Grease 2. (Not such a great movie. That dreamboat and a young and always fabulous Michelle Phieffer were the only things that saved it.)

I take another pensive drag from the end of my cigarette, and he tries again. “Hello.” He’s careful to keep his body language open and friendly as I breeze by, not threatening or insinuating anything more than a greeting—maybe I’ll say something as I get closer? Maybe his magnetic attraction will just do the job and pull me right in to that black Italian-leathered muscular chest? I appreciate it—I appreciate all off it—though I don’t say anything back.

I walk another ten strides before it hits me. If Vespa man can see me like this, in a plaid men’s flannel shirt and bulky winter coat and my kicked-to-shit Uggs, desperately sucking on the end of a cigarette like it is my lifeline, hair tossed into a hot mess by the wind, and still think enough to want to say hi—what the fuck am I doing, walking away? If he is seeing me at one of my emotional lows, of which you conveniently get to miss out on the tempest that you’ve stirred up, and he wants to actually do something about it, even just greet me and chat with me on the sidewalk—why the fuck am I running away? Is that really the only mode I know how to operate on?

I look back. He’s still there, standing beside his Vespa, a vision in leather and nice hand-made shoes. I watch him swing a leg over the seat and settle in, turning the tiny engine over. He then motions to the dog, who rises from his watch by the shop’s stoop and jumps up into his master’s lap, riding in front of him. A man, his Vespa, and his dog. It’s such a picture of domestic Italian bachelordom bliss that it pulls at my ovaries somewhere in the same vicinity that really cute toddlers do. It doesn’t mean that I necessarily want one, but just for a moment, I think about what it could have been like if I actually said hi back. If we traded names. If I asked to pet his grinning dog and he told me it’s name. If I accepted an invitation for a ride on the back of the Vespa, something I want to check off the list of Thing To Do Before I Die or Before I Leave.

I think about it for a moment, watching his taillights fade. And then for another moment. And I find that somewhere in the space of these two moments, I’m less angry at you, and more angry at myself. I’m letting these moments go. These moments that I may never find again, great adventures, new acquaintances, and smiling European dogs. And for what? You’re having your moments at home, no explanations needed. I should be having mine. What I do here will mean just as little as what I didn’t do here when I get back, if not even less. Tit for tat. Vespa for Virginia.

XOXO

Really? REALLY?

I normally feel like I need actual content in order to post, but I think this is honestly all the content I can handle today.

Doing my morning check of the blogs, I scrolled down SATCG to see if there were any new reactions (yes, I check those, too,) and almost died.

Why, you ask?

Well. I took a screen cap so that you, too, could experience that delightful, brief moment where your eyes send the information to your brain, it processes it, your heart stops for a second, and then you don't know whether to laugh or cry hysterically.

Men's sheer thongs are being advertised alongside my blog. I DO NOT CONDONE THIS. Not at all. Not one bit. Not even a little.

So, in the spirit of this morning, I am writing an addendum to my "Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One" blog entry. It is entitled, "Why Did You Even Make Me Need To Go Here?"

"While I will admit that VPL's (visible panty lines; proven to make gay men cry and women cringe,) are something no one should ever be subjected to, sometimes, you just have to suck it up and not wear jeans so tight we can tell where your boxers bunch. Men, this goes for you. Because if there is one thing I know, and believe me, know well, it is this-- there is a place and a time for a thong, and it is not, is never, will never be, on a man. At least, on one I'm trying to get horizontal. Or vertical. Or on any plane between the two angles.

I don't know how to spell this out for you any better than that a banana-hammock is not an attractive thing. Let's face it; some people just shouldn't wear thongs. I don't see what the big deal is in the first place-- a 24-hour wedgie is not the best thing in the world. So, men, WHY would you subject yourself to that in the first place? There are no leggings being worn; no ass-hugging dresses. Or, maybe there are, and then that mystery is solved. In that case, mozel tov."

(The men's organic underwear is only slightly less upsetting, as well. Isn't it enough to eat organically and recycle? Does your ass really need to be green, too?)

That's it for the day. Going on a last-minute trip to Burlington with the Twinny!

XOXO