First of all, I would love to send a very big, very warm “thank you” to Miss Molly Ford, the genius behind http://www.smartprettyandawkward.com/ . I started reading “Smart, Pretty, and Awkward” last semester, and it quickly became a daily thing. As you may have gathered by now, I may not be the most tactful person, and Molly’s tips, hints, and advice smooth out my rough Vermont girl edges quite nicely. (There are even rumors about integrating me back into normal society shortly!) Running a blog is never an easy thing—I wish I could convey to you what comments, page views, and feedback mean to (especially a new-comer like) me, but unless you blog as well, it’s hard to comprehend. When someone does you a solid, as Molly did for me today by featuring me on her blog, I only know one way to respond: heart-felt public appreciation. I swear to god, if you don’t already, start reading http://www.smartprettyandawkward.com/ EVERY DAY. It doesn’t even matter if you already have the social graces of an English aristocrat—if you’re a quote-whore like me, the quote headings each day will fill you with glee, too. So, thank you, Molly.
Second order of business: It has been brought to my attention, frequently, by numerous people, that my blog posts tend to be a little long to get through. The person who may have said it best would be my trainer Alli (not to be confused with my roommate, Alli,) back at home. I believe the comment was, “And you said Stephenie Meyer should be shot for killing trees.” Granted, I publish electronically and the only reason Alli was getting the printed-out version of my blog was because she doesn’t have internet access (yes! Places like that, where high-speed internet can’t even be brought to exist, especially in the Northeast!), but I get the point. (Apparently it totaled more than forty pages. Yikes.) I will try to get to-the-point in a more condensed manner in the future.
Another Alli, Alli The Roommate, started a wonderful Facebook group after being goaded to it by some rather wonderful people; namely, Yours Truly. “I Dated A Douchebag” is a group where survivors, regardless of gender, orientation, or level of significant other’s douchebaggery, can go to rant, rave, plot, and sympathize with other ex-victims. Here’s a link to the group—if you have something you feel you can contribute, be it an ironic, blood-boiling, or he-got-his-comeuppance story or if you need someplace to be the Crazy Bitch or Crazy Bastard you never let your Douchebag see, please visit and/or join. We love new people. (Some of us more than others.)” I Dated A Douchebag”: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=105042186747&ref=mf&__a=1
And I think that’s all for Bloggery Business, so I will get back to working on the next two columns I have in the works, and your previously scheduled programming. It looks like you can check back within the next twelve hours for a column on tips, hints, tricks and anecdotes about being the most stellar girlfriend (or boyfriend) your significant other has ever known, as well as another column on what is happening in the Perfect world, as people (even other than myself!) are starting to get confused. Plus, some recent developments on the Hostage Relationship front have panned out, so we have to delve into that, right? (Dear readers—holding a relationship hostage—it apparently works! Shocked, rather pleasantly.)
Until then, keep your pants on and stay close to your monitor. Also, tell your friends about this blog, really. I’m an attention-whore, if not any other type of whore. (I am also not shy, or shy about complete strangers knowing the inner-workings of my love-life, or lack thereof.)
XOXO
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Speak Softly, But Carry A Sharp Stiletto
If all’s fair in love and war, and love is a battlefield, then that must make dating a full-contact sport. (Hehehe—yes, it is!) Like any good tactical game, it needs battle rules. Even in war, there are certain things that are strictly adhered to. Maybe I wouldn’t get myself so emotionally vanquished if I actually followed the rules that sane people must when in a relationship, rather than being a sort of kamikaze lover, quick to jump in, and finding it very hard to get out alive, let alone in one piece.
The following are rules taken from the art of war and transferred to the art of love. Although you may not always follow them, like I don’t, there’s valid points to be made, and lessons learned.
Rule of Combat #1: Don’t let down your guard. Yes, this may make me sound overly suspicious and cynical, but even when things are going great, remember, they can get worse. Enjoy the good times—cherish them—but still don’t consider yourself untouchable because everything is roses today. One day, Perfect was waking me up, asking why I didn’t respond to a text of his, as worried as women always dream men will or should be about the “little things” like communication, and texting me all throughout the day, just to stay in touch because he wanted to. Three days later, it was “I think we should just be friends because I don’t want to go to college with a long-distance relationship.” Two weeks after that, I consider myself blessed if he even returns a text.
I’m a firm believer in the jinxing of things, and if anyone jinxed Perfect and I, it was me, because I thought that if it was so great now, nothing could possibly ever change it. Then, surprise! Attack! Don’t let down that guard—be vigilant.
Rule of Combat #2: Protect your bases. I let Perfect into the places in my life way, way, too much. He made himself at home in my apartment every time he came over, which at first I thought was good, and now realize may have been jumping the gun a little bit. My own bed isn’t even a neutral space. My bedsprings squeak and my closet door only shuts half the time because of him. He showered in my shower. We both spit in the same sink side-by-side as we brushed our teeth. My linens—sheets, hand towels—used by him.
The beach, Cait’s apartment, Colchester—all Perfect-invaded territory. And my favorite Chinese restaurant? Yeah, we went there, too. I will never think of their lo mien the same way again.
Rule of Combat #3: Don’t accept new cadets without engaging in a bit of a hazing ritual. Here, “hazing” means doing a proper background check—scoping them out, both you and through their friends or other people who know them, asking them questions about themselves, and generally assessing their character.
It’s been said by Lauren Frances, author of Dating, Mating, and Man-Handling, (a book that I very much recommend,) that men will straight-out tell you their dirty little dating secret, usually within the first few times you meet them. It will be casually stated, like a joke or a self-depreciating fact, and if you’re not listening for it, you won’t catch it. It’s so true, too. Since I read her book, I’ve applied this to all the men I’ve been with. The Flaky Artist told me he was flaky and lost interest quickly. Jersey Blunt flat-out said he was a player. Legs noted that he wasn’t ready for commitment, as he was getting ready to graduate and move. And Perfect told me not once, but twice, that he had a lot of girl friends because he got along with them better. Making the leap to the fact that these “girl friends” would be interested in being more than friends wasn’t hard.
After they tell you what their Achilles’ heel is, constant vigilance will probably be required. I’m warning you now.
Rule of Combat #4: Never go into battle ill-equipped. You friends, your wardrobe, your make-up, your fitness, your diet, and your hygiene are all your weapons in the world of dating. And yes, although there may always be someone out there who is prettier than you, taller than you, has better abs than you, can afford to shop designer, or just has a bigger gun than you, take proper care of your assets. A good wing-woman is invaluable. I will do things for my friends that money couldn’t buy, whether it’s scoping out where their boyfriend is while they’re on vacation or taking one for the team at a party with a guy’s less-than-stellar best friend so they can chat Mr. Hottie up. In return, I expect my friends to do the same for me, and they always pull through—drive-by missions, tagging along with me to events, or welding car doors shut. (I’ve never really asked anyone to do that, just so you know. Though I do have a friend with a welding set who has offered her services if ever needed.)
As for your body, don’t mistreat it, and it won’t mistreat you. Watch what goes into your mouth—it’s directly proportional to what you’ll feel like afterward. Drink lots of water. Eat more fruits, veggies, and lean protein. Cut out the chemical crap if you can, or at least, cut it down. Start reading labels. They’ll shock you into changing your eating habits. Like any machine, your body has to be constantly used to run and look its best. Get to the gym. I like using the elliptical for my thighs and butt, running a mile for cardio, and doing chest presses and other weight repetitions to keep the girls in place. Look at the older women in your family—your mother, aunts, and grandmothers. That will give you a good idea of what your body will look like when you’re their age. All the women in my family could tuck their tits into the waist of their pants, so I do multiple chest presses EVERY DAY to fight gravity. My boobs will not be resting on tabletops, thankyouverymuch. If you can’t, work out at home. Take the fucking stairs. Do lunges—it seriously doesn’t get any easier than standing in one place. Also, buff and shine that body of yours. Shower, daily, please. Wash your face before you go to bed. Things settle on you while you’re out and about during the day that would terrify you to know about, so get rid of it with some soap and warm water. (If you can smell it, that means little particles of it are in the air, in your nasal passages, and on your skin. Think about this next time you walk into a bathroom.) Plus, a hot, steamy shower always makes me feel like a million bucks, especially after the gym. It’s an easy way to pamper yourself.
Dress for the shape you are, not the shape you want to be or the shape you used to be. Flaunt your assets. Figure out what’s flattering, what makes you feel comfortable, and what you’ll wear over and over and still love. A great outfit that you never get the chance to wear is a waste of money, and in today’s economy, no one can afford that. Friends come in here, again. Make sure you have one or two with great fashion sense whose taste and opinion you trust to ask if you look good in something or not. And remember—just because it’s in style, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily for you.
Personality is the deadliest weapon of all. You need to know what about you is good, fun, lovable, and society- and man-friendly. Have go-to stories that provide caveats of information about you and the kind of person you are to tell at parties. (Generally, keep the ones that involve tequila for friends’ parties, and not work parties.) If you know there’s an aspect or two of yours that are less than charming—for me, it’s jealousy and bluntness—make sure that if they rear their ugly head to address it. When Perfect told me he was sensitive, I responded with a, “That’s great that you told me, because I can be blunt, and don’t mean to hurt you.” When he sent me a text about skinny-dipping with a friend and six other girls that got my green-eyed monster out-of-control, I texted him back and said, “Hey, I know it may be no big deal, but I found myself getting a little jealous.” I owned up to him later, telling him that although it’s not a great trait to be in possession of, it’s one of mine. BE TRUTHFUL ABOUT WHO YOU ARE. If you’re not, people are going to figure it out sooner or later, and it almost never, ever goes well.
What, you may ask, does this all have to do with love and the fine art of dating? Well, these are the things that you can use to your advantage. Stun your opponent—be it the man you’re after, or a threatening other woman—with one, some, or all of these things. Remember, men don’t really see the little details; he’s not noticing the cellulite on the back of your thighs while he’s looking at the sexy hemline of your Little Black Dress. And the girl giving you nasty looks from across the room is probably wishing she had your teeth or cleavage, let alone your man. We’re all insecure, and we all have skewed views of ourselves. Other people see you differently, so put your best high-heeled foot forward.
Rule of Combat #5: It’s ok to play dirty. This can apply to being both delightfully dirty, or to being deviously dirty. Playing dirty is sexting, something that feels deliciously naughty. Playing dirty is also getting in good with his friends so that they’ll tell him (hopefully fairly regularly) how cool you are. Playing dirty is teasing him with innuendo while pretending not to notice to get his blood boiling. Playing dirty is also keeping or using mutual friends to get the inside scoop. As long as it doesn’t get too nasty—i.e: one of you is going to get hurt—it’s pretty harmless.
(P.S—On the whole “sexting” topic, which usually brings up pictures, too: I’m a firm believer in the fact that less is more. If you don’t give a man instant gratification, it’ll keep him thinking about it. Just don’t tease too much; follow through with what you promised the next time you see him. Talking about sex or talking about how turned on your are or about things you’d like to try over text or messaging is great. Phone sex—not until you’re pretty committed. He asks for pics? A few options. A picture of lingerie, not on you, will get him imagining what it looks like on you. A picture of you in some lingerie or a suggestive outfit will make him think of him taking it off of you. A naked picture—and please, don’t, but if you must, no face!—will give him about 5 minutes’ worth of thought while he whacks off and that will be the end of his thinking about you. No delicious delayed action. And I really believe men are getting things too easy these days. Make ‘em sweat a little. It’s good for them. Plus, a sweaty man is a sexy and tasty man!)
Rule of Combat #6: Be a gracious loser. If something happens, make sure to get out with your dignity intact. No one ever had anything bad to say about the person they dated who was civil, friendly, and classy when things went down-hill. You don’t hear “crazy bitch” stories like, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day, and she said “hi” and genuinely asked how I was even though it was kinda awkward.” You hear “crazy bitch” stories like, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day and she hid behind a fruit display.” Or, even worse, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day, and she burst into tears and started screaming at me about how I killed our love. What a crazy bitch.”
Rule of Combat #7: Don’t just play dead. If you’re still kicking, kick. Fight for what you want—never surrender. No woman in the history of the world has ever felt truly happy or fulfilled because she surrendered something that she wanted. Even some of the most peaceful, loving women—think Mother Theresa, Jane Goodall, and Rosa Parks—fought for what they believed in. And you better believe you’d don’t know their names today because they just gave in and called it quits.
If you want something—speak up. If you need something—ask. If things just aren’t working—talk about it. Believe me, please, PLEASE, believe me—I know this is not easy. I am the champion of Girls Who Don’t Talk About Their Feelings, Emotions, Or What That Want Or Need, Especially To Their Men. If there is one thing that Perfect taught me that I will forever be indebted to him for, it was the fact that being a sensitive, feelings and emotions sort of guy himself, he (I don’t want to use the word “forced,” but it almost was,) asked me to open up to him and actually tell him what was going on. He wanted to know what I thought. He wanted me to know what he thought. Yes, under all that muscle and man’s man attitude, Perfect was a guy who was in touch with his feelings, and considered other people’s feelings as an important thing as well. It’s always interesting the surprises that men hide. Even in The Conversation (I have a feeling that in later years this will become known as The Conversation of June 2009), Perfect cut through all my pleasantry bullshit with a “Well, I want to know where you stand and what you think.” Even after, when he couldn’t ask me himself, he was calling Cait to see how I was.
That, my friends, is the mark of a Good Man. And that Good Man made me a Better Woman by teaching me not to be afraid of saying things like, “you know, this isn’t working,” or “something feels weird—what’s up?” Before Perfect, if a man ended with me, I waved the white flag and let depression take me prisoner. Now, I’m strong enough to say, “you know what? I’m not done. This is what still needs to happen.” I never got closure with Legs, even after our cease-fire coffee date a year later. If there is one thing I have learned since to demand, it is whatever is exactly what you need—closure, a second chance, a reason, restitution, half of everything, all your stuff back; whatever.
People get hurt both in war and in love. Emotional wounds may be harder to stop than physical ones, but they all take their toll on the victim. Fight the good fight—play the game wisely and you’ll get out both alive, and happy. Winning—the guy, the fight—is just the icing on the cake.
Good luck!
XOXO
P.S—I’m sure I’ll come up with more of these as I go along, but I have to be up and at the gym in under seven hours, so I’ll revisit this post in the future when beauty sleep is not at stake. Please stop by this post again and look for some more rules!
The following are rules taken from the art of war and transferred to the art of love. Although you may not always follow them, like I don’t, there’s valid points to be made, and lessons learned.
Rule of Combat #1: Don’t let down your guard. Yes, this may make me sound overly suspicious and cynical, but even when things are going great, remember, they can get worse. Enjoy the good times—cherish them—but still don’t consider yourself untouchable because everything is roses today. One day, Perfect was waking me up, asking why I didn’t respond to a text of his, as worried as women always dream men will or should be about the “little things” like communication, and texting me all throughout the day, just to stay in touch because he wanted to. Three days later, it was “I think we should just be friends because I don’t want to go to college with a long-distance relationship.” Two weeks after that, I consider myself blessed if he even returns a text.
I’m a firm believer in the jinxing of things, and if anyone jinxed Perfect and I, it was me, because I thought that if it was so great now, nothing could possibly ever change it. Then, surprise! Attack! Don’t let down that guard—be vigilant.
Rule of Combat #2: Protect your bases. I let Perfect into the places in my life way, way, too much. He made himself at home in my apartment every time he came over, which at first I thought was good, and now realize may have been jumping the gun a little bit. My own bed isn’t even a neutral space. My bedsprings squeak and my closet door only shuts half the time because of him. He showered in my shower. We both spit in the same sink side-by-side as we brushed our teeth. My linens—sheets, hand towels—used by him.
The beach, Cait’s apartment, Colchester—all Perfect-invaded territory. And my favorite Chinese restaurant? Yeah, we went there, too. I will never think of their lo mien the same way again.
Rule of Combat #3: Don’t accept new cadets without engaging in a bit of a hazing ritual. Here, “hazing” means doing a proper background check—scoping them out, both you and through their friends or other people who know them, asking them questions about themselves, and generally assessing their character.
It’s been said by Lauren Frances, author of Dating, Mating, and Man-Handling, (a book that I very much recommend,) that men will straight-out tell you their dirty little dating secret, usually within the first few times you meet them. It will be casually stated, like a joke or a self-depreciating fact, and if you’re not listening for it, you won’t catch it. It’s so true, too. Since I read her book, I’ve applied this to all the men I’ve been with. The Flaky Artist told me he was flaky and lost interest quickly. Jersey Blunt flat-out said he was a player. Legs noted that he wasn’t ready for commitment, as he was getting ready to graduate and move. And Perfect told me not once, but twice, that he had a lot of girl friends because he got along with them better. Making the leap to the fact that these “girl friends” would be interested in being more than friends wasn’t hard.
After they tell you what their Achilles’ heel is, constant vigilance will probably be required. I’m warning you now.
Rule of Combat #4: Never go into battle ill-equipped. You friends, your wardrobe, your make-up, your fitness, your diet, and your hygiene are all your weapons in the world of dating. And yes, although there may always be someone out there who is prettier than you, taller than you, has better abs than you, can afford to shop designer, or just has a bigger gun than you, take proper care of your assets. A good wing-woman is invaluable. I will do things for my friends that money couldn’t buy, whether it’s scoping out where their boyfriend is while they’re on vacation or taking one for the team at a party with a guy’s less-than-stellar best friend so they can chat Mr. Hottie up. In return, I expect my friends to do the same for me, and they always pull through—drive-by missions, tagging along with me to events, or welding car doors shut. (I’ve never really asked anyone to do that, just so you know. Though I do have a friend with a welding set who has offered her services if ever needed.)
As for your body, don’t mistreat it, and it won’t mistreat you. Watch what goes into your mouth—it’s directly proportional to what you’ll feel like afterward. Drink lots of water. Eat more fruits, veggies, and lean protein. Cut out the chemical crap if you can, or at least, cut it down. Start reading labels. They’ll shock you into changing your eating habits. Like any machine, your body has to be constantly used to run and look its best. Get to the gym. I like using the elliptical for my thighs and butt, running a mile for cardio, and doing chest presses and other weight repetitions to keep the girls in place. Look at the older women in your family—your mother, aunts, and grandmothers. That will give you a good idea of what your body will look like when you’re their age. All the women in my family could tuck their tits into the waist of their pants, so I do multiple chest presses EVERY DAY to fight gravity. My boobs will not be resting on tabletops, thankyouverymuch. If you can’t, work out at home. Take the fucking stairs. Do lunges—it seriously doesn’t get any easier than standing in one place. Also, buff and shine that body of yours. Shower, daily, please. Wash your face before you go to bed. Things settle on you while you’re out and about during the day that would terrify you to know about, so get rid of it with some soap and warm water. (If you can smell it, that means little particles of it are in the air, in your nasal passages, and on your skin. Think about this next time you walk into a bathroom.) Plus, a hot, steamy shower always makes me feel like a million bucks, especially after the gym. It’s an easy way to pamper yourself.
Dress for the shape you are, not the shape you want to be or the shape you used to be. Flaunt your assets. Figure out what’s flattering, what makes you feel comfortable, and what you’ll wear over and over and still love. A great outfit that you never get the chance to wear is a waste of money, and in today’s economy, no one can afford that. Friends come in here, again. Make sure you have one or two with great fashion sense whose taste and opinion you trust to ask if you look good in something or not. And remember—just because it’s in style, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily for you.
Personality is the deadliest weapon of all. You need to know what about you is good, fun, lovable, and society- and man-friendly. Have go-to stories that provide caveats of information about you and the kind of person you are to tell at parties. (Generally, keep the ones that involve tequila for friends’ parties, and not work parties.) If you know there’s an aspect or two of yours that are less than charming—for me, it’s jealousy and bluntness—make sure that if they rear their ugly head to address it. When Perfect told me he was sensitive, I responded with a, “That’s great that you told me, because I can be blunt, and don’t mean to hurt you.” When he sent me a text about skinny-dipping with a friend and six other girls that got my green-eyed monster out-of-control, I texted him back and said, “Hey, I know it may be no big deal, but I found myself getting a little jealous.” I owned up to him later, telling him that although it’s not a great trait to be in possession of, it’s one of mine. BE TRUTHFUL ABOUT WHO YOU ARE. If you’re not, people are going to figure it out sooner or later, and it almost never, ever goes well.
What, you may ask, does this all have to do with love and the fine art of dating? Well, these are the things that you can use to your advantage. Stun your opponent—be it the man you’re after, or a threatening other woman—with one, some, or all of these things. Remember, men don’t really see the little details; he’s not noticing the cellulite on the back of your thighs while he’s looking at the sexy hemline of your Little Black Dress. And the girl giving you nasty looks from across the room is probably wishing she had your teeth or cleavage, let alone your man. We’re all insecure, and we all have skewed views of ourselves. Other people see you differently, so put your best high-heeled foot forward.
Rule of Combat #5: It’s ok to play dirty. This can apply to being both delightfully dirty, or to being deviously dirty. Playing dirty is sexting, something that feels deliciously naughty. Playing dirty is also getting in good with his friends so that they’ll tell him (hopefully fairly regularly) how cool you are. Playing dirty is teasing him with innuendo while pretending not to notice to get his blood boiling. Playing dirty is also keeping or using mutual friends to get the inside scoop. As long as it doesn’t get too nasty—i.e: one of you is going to get hurt—it’s pretty harmless.
(P.S—On the whole “sexting” topic, which usually brings up pictures, too: I’m a firm believer in the fact that less is more. If you don’t give a man instant gratification, it’ll keep him thinking about it. Just don’t tease too much; follow through with what you promised the next time you see him. Talking about sex or talking about how turned on your are or about things you’d like to try over text or messaging is great. Phone sex—not until you’re pretty committed. He asks for pics? A few options. A picture of lingerie, not on you, will get him imagining what it looks like on you. A picture of you in some lingerie or a suggestive outfit will make him think of him taking it off of you. A naked picture—and please, don’t, but if you must, no face!—will give him about 5 minutes’ worth of thought while he whacks off and that will be the end of his thinking about you. No delicious delayed action. And I really believe men are getting things too easy these days. Make ‘em sweat a little. It’s good for them. Plus, a sweaty man is a sexy and tasty man!)
Rule of Combat #6: Be a gracious loser. If something happens, make sure to get out with your dignity intact. No one ever had anything bad to say about the person they dated who was civil, friendly, and classy when things went down-hill. You don’t hear “crazy bitch” stories like, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day, and she said “hi” and genuinely asked how I was even though it was kinda awkward.” You hear “crazy bitch” stories like, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day and she hid behind a fruit display.” Or, even worse, “Oh man, yeah, I saw her the other day, and she burst into tears and started screaming at me about how I killed our love. What a crazy bitch.”
Rule of Combat #7: Don’t just play dead. If you’re still kicking, kick. Fight for what you want—never surrender. No woman in the history of the world has ever felt truly happy or fulfilled because she surrendered something that she wanted. Even some of the most peaceful, loving women—think Mother Theresa, Jane Goodall, and Rosa Parks—fought for what they believed in. And you better believe you’d don’t know their names today because they just gave in and called it quits.
If you want something—speak up. If you need something—ask. If things just aren’t working—talk about it. Believe me, please, PLEASE, believe me—I know this is not easy. I am the champion of Girls Who Don’t Talk About Their Feelings, Emotions, Or What That Want Or Need, Especially To Their Men. If there is one thing that Perfect taught me that I will forever be indebted to him for, it was the fact that being a sensitive, feelings and emotions sort of guy himself, he (I don’t want to use the word “forced,” but it almost was,) asked me to open up to him and actually tell him what was going on. He wanted to know what I thought. He wanted me to know what he thought. Yes, under all that muscle and man’s man attitude, Perfect was a guy who was in touch with his feelings, and considered other people’s feelings as an important thing as well. It’s always interesting the surprises that men hide. Even in The Conversation (I have a feeling that in later years this will become known as The Conversation of June 2009), Perfect cut through all my pleasantry bullshit with a “Well, I want to know where you stand and what you think.” Even after, when he couldn’t ask me himself, he was calling Cait to see how I was.
That, my friends, is the mark of a Good Man. And that Good Man made me a Better Woman by teaching me not to be afraid of saying things like, “you know, this isn’t working,” or “something feels weird—what’s up?” Before Perfect, if a man ended with me, I waved the white flag and let depression take me prisoner. Now, I’m strong enough to say, “you know what? I’m not done. This is what still needs to happen.” I never got closure with Legs, even after our cease-fire coffee date a year later. If there is one thing I have learned since to demand, it is whatever is exactly what you need—closure, a second chance, a reason, restitution, half of everything, all your stuff back; whatever.
People get hurt both in war and in love. Emotional wounds may be harder to stop than physical ones, but they all take their toll on the victim. Fight the good fight—play the game wisely and you’ll get out both alive, and happy. Winning—the guy, the fight—is just the icing on the cake.
Good luck!
XOXO
P.S—I’m sure I’ll come up with more of these as I go along, but I have to be up and at the gym in under seven hours, so I’ll revisit this post in the future when beauty sleep is not at stake. Please stop by this post again and look for some more rules!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
The Ever-Elusive Hunt for Fireworks and Love. (Or At Least Something Easy.)
[“I have a loose interpretation of the word “easy”.”]
Fourth of July:
What I really like about being in college is the fact that you’re young, working, and starting to think about economics and how they pertain to your life for the first time. Which leads to all sorts of fledgling grown-up conversations. At this point, though, they’re mostly still about things like drugs and making money quickly the easiest way possible. (For awhile, I was planning on making a t-shirt that had a picture of a rotary road-sign in the middle that read: “I’m unemployed because I live on a rotary,” on the front, and on the back followed up with, “There are no corners.”) Tonight’s conversation dealt with the pyramid scheme of the drug world, and how when it comes down to it, it still follows the basic laws of economics and can learn from basic Human Resources.
“I went there because although the price was higher, the quality and customer service were better,” I told my friends of my favorite (now ex-,) dealer.
“But the customer service wasn’t as good as you would have liked,” Madison followed up doggedly, remembering the fiascos and escapades surrounding my infatuation with Jersey Blunt.
“Yeah, it wasn’t full-service,” Alli followed up.
Economics and innuendoes. Who ever knew they went so well together? This is one subject I could get passionate about if it lets me speak tongue-in-cheek. Flaccid economy, stimulus plans…really! My night was made when I was able to work “I’d like to horizontally integrate with him,” into common conversation.
Third of July:
Last night, on the third of July, I got to hang out with (almost) all of my old Soho Boys. They may be bona-fide juvenile delinquents, they may be terrors to society, and they make smoke and drink and swear too much, but they’re MY boys, and I love them all. Deep-down, they’re all really good people.
Some, I love more than others. Jersey Blunt happened to be up from, (you guessed it,) the Dirty, and it was the first time I’d seen him since I propositioned him stoned via text at the end of the school-year. It was interesting to see him again—I got the familiar jumpy stomach that indicated suspense and pleasure, but not the same rabbits-gnawing-on-my-stomach-lining excitement that Perfect gives me. We slipped back into Ebonics easily enough, something that I had to try really hard to drop when talking with Perfect as the confused looks indicated that words like “wylin” and my common greeting of “ayo” did not compute in his Vermont farm-boy language. While Perfect is wholesome and wheaty, Jersey is nefarious and so Italian white-bread his caterpillar eyebrows beg to be wiggled up and down insinuatingly, as they are so often.
This did not stop me from letting him give me the biggest and warmest hug I’ve received since, well…Perfect almost a month ago. This also has not stopped me from deciding that Jersey Blunt goes on my Sexception List. You know—the list of people you’re allowed to sleep with even if you’re with someone else. Though technically I may not still be “with” Mr. Perfect, I am a very monogamous (go figure,) girl and usually can only withstand deep and abiding and usually sexual feelings for one man at one time. Hence, why I am probably one of the safest girls ever to not be worried about cheating on a guy.
But Jersey. There’s so much unfinished business there—he wanted me, I deferred due to job circumstances (I may have been his advisor at the time…) and then by the time I rolled around to deciding it would be ok to sleep with him on the DL, he had gotten tired of waiting and moved on to greener and more easy pastures. Still, all it takes is one look to realize that that person would still love to go hog-wild with you.
Jersey is that person for me.
And speaking of Mr. Perfect…
The name of the game is LIMBO, as called by two outside witnesses. He’s got me totally bent over, and not in a good way that I like. We’re not in a relationship, but we’re not 100% out of one either. We waver somewhere between 60 and 40. Some days, I am pretty sure that he’s absolutely trying to cut me completely out of his life, possibly to make room for one of the visiting French girls who took pictures of him stripping down to go skinny-dipping. (Every time I log into Facebook, I see his naked ass, clearly taunting me, saying “haha—you won’t be seeing me anymore!” On the up-side, though, I have now seen him naked from every angle due to this picture, so I suppose I should be thankful.) On these days, I am pretty sure he’s sexting them, saying things like, “I have never been with a French girl, but I have always wanted to!” (Just like my “I have never been with a girl who has garters, but I have wanted to!” that he sent me. Exclamation point for my heavy-heartedness!) Other days, when we’ve spent a few hours texting each other back and forth like normal, The “how low can you go” thing works really well, too, seeing as the man just makes me want to drop all of my standards and feelings to the floor to be allowed to keep some sort of closeness with him. A relationship? I was willing to sacrifice it for the sex. Sex? I was hesitant by coerced into letting it go for continued friendship. My dignity? Pretty much gone already.
…And The Future:
And oh? Did I mention? I get to see Perfect for the first time in both 22 days and since we decided to no longer be a continuing entity. But the best part of all this? It’s going to be in his hometown. And we’re going to be swimming. Yes. Me, tanned, toned, and slightly starved for both food since I’ll be wearing a teeny bikini and starved for sex—I’m going to see Perfect and his perfect body dripping wet and the second most-naked I’ve ever seen him (I don’t even need to imagine the rest anymore…I know what weapons he’s hiding). I’ll consider it a success if I don’t either burst into tears upon seeing him or scale him like a tree.
Star Wars, or Why Am I Single?:
Spike TV has been making my life lately. Yes, the TV channel “For Men” is really serving me up a great schedule of keep-me-happy programming. For the holidays, they’ve been Star Wars marathoning from 3 PM to midnight every day, and starting tomorrow at 9 PM, they’re playing the 100 Best UFC Fight of All Time.
Some explanations on why these things make me so happy I squeal with joy are needed. A.) My daddy raised me as a Star Wars girl. When the local movie theater re-released the original Star Wars movies a week apart when I was about seven or eight, on the way home, I’d sit behind my dad’s driver seat and hold on to the headrest, pretending it was the guns of a fightership, as he, the pilot, steered us through enemy territory in deep space, and we blasted out way out, sound affects and all. He also bought two retractable plastic lightsabers so we could duel on the front lawn on summer nights, which was my first foray into fencing. (My dad’s an accomplished ex-Marine. I always beat him in duels. He’s never let me purposefully win a single thing in all of my life. Needless to say, he’s a proud poppa.) When the newer trilogy came out, he was the one who drove me and my un-licensed best friend to the movies and sat a couple rows back from us. Yeah. Don Daddy—he’s pretty cool.
And B.) As for the UFC thing—really. They’re very muscular, very testosterone-fueled men grappling in tight little shorts and beating the fuck out of each other. I am a red-blooded woman. I love that kind of shit. I’m the kind of girl who tends to go for the tall and muscular guys because I’d secretly love to see them knock someone’s head against a table defending my honor or, you know, my stolen bar seat.
But during my recent Star Wars watching, an over-whelming desire has grown on me. It’s the weirdest little fantasy, but it’s tenacious like English ivy in old brick with crumbling mortar. (In this analogy, the ivy is the fantasy, the brick is my moral fortitude, and the crumbling mortar is my will-power when it comes to not mounting the next man, or chair arm, I see.) I really, and I mean, REALLY want to just go down on a guy as he watches Star Wars. Maybe it’s Han Solo running around on the screen (I’ve always had a soft spot for Harrison Ford located somewhere south of my belly-button and north of my thighs), but I find myself alone in my apartment, wistfully looking at the foot of the empty couch and wondering, why, why, WHY is there no guy sitting there who will think he’s the luckiest man on the face of the planet if I were to seductively slink closer and unzip his pants while he gets to watch Luke Skywalker defeat the Dark Side?
Though irrational, obsessive, secretly needy and easily jealous and angered, I am also small, cute, well-dressed, in shape, and very out-going about my sexuality. (Obviously.) Why is that invisible man not real and on my couch? Maybe it’s like an old elementary- and high-school classmate of mine once said: maybe I do intimidate men with my quick mouth, straight-talking, and zero-bullshit approach. (Eric was six-foot-four, well over 200 pounds of football and rugby muscle, and going into military college. Eric has been shot at. Eric is also no dummy—he was an honor-role student for the 14 years I’d known him. So him saying this to me was an accomplishment, although maybe not a good one for me.)
This may be something I have to look into. Am I really that hard to approach? Do I, gasp, need to soften up a little?
…This could be disastrous.
Also, about the title and a fun fact pertaining to the festivities of the holiday: All the women in my family supposedly see fireworks when the love of their life (and in most cases, future husband,) kisses them. My grandmother, my aunt—my mother stills claims she gets the same sky-rockets and room-spinning feeling she got the first time my father kissed her, 35 years of marriage later. I now spend every lead-in to a first kiss with a guy, that sweetly awkward few seconds where you make eye contact and start to lean in, hoping for the best and no head-bumping, closing your eyes and wishing your lips to find each other’s smoothly and softly, wondering, “Is this it? Is this going to be my fireworks” Talk about pressure. So far, the only thing I’ve seen is the blackness of the back of my eyelids. I will admit—Legs could make the earth move from under me with some of his kisses, but no bottle-rockets; not even any sparklers. Perfect gave me a sensation and taste of sugar and cupcakes and everything sweet. And so, the waiting continues.
Ciao, or, maybe to those French girls with the unabashed cameras, salut! (Please, you can’t go back home quickly enough for my liking!)
XOXO
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Stuck: Beauty and the Beastly Confusion
[“I’ve always been best at rushing into things, and then running away from them,” she said. “It’s the wanting to run to things that scares me, and the leaving them in a slow and organized fashion.”]
I’ve been feeling “stuck” a lot lately, both figuratively and literally. I got “stuck” between Cait’s bathroom door and sink, which is no mean feat for a petite girl like me, but I somehow managed to get momentarily wedged in there, which was hilarious at the time. What was not so funny was getting a slug “stuck” between the bottom of my foot and flip-flop during the spur-of-the-moment 4 mile EpicTrek Alli and I took last night to find the best view of the heat lightning across the lake. Or getting a beetle “stuck” between my toes later during the same adventure. (Alli seemed to enjoy my utterly girly shrieks though, so it wasn’t all a disgusting loss.) But most aggravating of all, I seem to be “stuck” somewhere half-in and half-out of a relationship with Mr. Perfect.
I feel as though I am in a science experiment no one ever decided to tell me about. There’s the control group: women who have been broken up with; the standard: women who are in relationships; and then me, toeing the line somewhere in the middle because although he opened the “friends” door, Perfect neglected to throw the chain off—AKA: things are pretty business as usual. I am beside myself with confusion.
My hypothesis: although we both know that in the overall scheme of things, a relationship would not be the wisest thing to start at the moment (hence that discussion a week ago), neither of us are exactly willing to let go. Or, it seems, really change anything. Apparently, Perfect got the Hostage Relationship memo, because he’s doing his own job of keeping me quiet, close and (somewhat) satisfied rather well.
Being “stuck” and confused does not suit me. I am someone who is constantly in motion, be it physical, or, in the odd moment you can catch me lounging and seemingly doing nothing at all, most likely mental. For example, the time during my morning shower when because I am “stuck” doing the things I do by motion memory in my 10’-by-4’ white cubicle is my most mentally productive. That’s when I come up with my best ideas, revelations, and thoughts. Now that those wheels are clogged and slow with relationship un-bliss, I am not a happy camper.
I feel an overwhelming desire to get out of the city. But then, I get “stuck”. Where to go? What to do? I don’t want to go home yet, or to go ride my poorly neglected (and apparently, ever increasingly wide) pony, because Cait and Alli and I are going on a road-trip next weekend to go swimming with waterfalls and my fixed (read: nonexistent) income doesn’t allow for another tank of gas to be bought. So, that leaves me “stuck” in the city until the 3rd or the 4th, and I’ve already done all the requisite city things to keep busy—strolled Church Street, shopped, took myself out for tea, went grocery shopping, visited friends, went to the beach, etc. I have a slight feeling that my urgent desire to physically flee Burlington may be directly correlated to the fact that I am “stuck” emotionally, and there’s nothing I can do to evade that problem short of having another one of those lovely chats I am so not fond of of the “what are we doing, again?” variety.
What we are doing is what’s confusing me. I know, I know, I was the one plotting to keep this relationship hostage—I just didn’t plan on it actually happening. I’m “stuck” somewhere in between trying to figure out the right amount or timing of texts and messages to make them “friendly”, while Perfect is still sending me my morning wake-up texts. Our conversations, though while a little more awkward than originally—let me tell you how hard it is for two very sexual people to try and purposefully cut the “sexual things” out of their communication for the sake of being “friends” and not “overly friendly”—are still frequent and charming. I am still the first person he responds to when he gets coverage, and I still take priority when he’s out with his friends, but is still texting with me. He is still the first person I think of to text whenever I have news or am bored out of my mind, which is frequently. We are “stuck” being large parts of each other’s lives, but with no idea as to where or how we’re supposed to fit. It’s an odd transitional period that doesn’t come with any sort on instruction manual or handy survival guide—I’m having to make the rules up as I go along. A “stuck” girl is a girl in trouble.
What does a “stuck” girl look or act like, you may ask? Look for a girl with two primary facial expressions at the moment—perplexed/frustrated or zoned-out/bored-to-near-tears. Look for a girl who’s a little bit flustered—possibly saying or doing things that aren’t in agreement, or frequently losing track of her thoughts or what she was saying. Appearance-wise, she’ll look as pulled-together as normal, although when you look into her eyes they may be a bit panicked. A guy’s name will (totally uncontrollably) be every third word out of her mouth. There will be some obsessing going on, running the gamut from about him, to about her, to about life, to about the date on the milk carton and wondering if it’s ok to drink it one day past the sell-by date. A “stuck” girl will try to distract herself from her “stuck-ness” many different ways, so look for someone busy, busy, busy with self-made hobbies or activities of really no importance, or a To-Do list a mile long. Or for your best example what a “stuck” girl looks like, stop by. I’m usually home and in need of distraction from being "stuck."
Meanwhile, in between all the self-made reading and writing and tanning and visiting with friends, I am “stuck” dissecting over and over and over what went wrong or how I could possibly fix whatever is going on. Without a job to take up my time and mind, I have turned into a professional worrier. Possibly, a professional sign-reader. Without any clothing folding, phone answering, or customer servicing to distract me, I have taken to trying to interpret the deep and imagined meanings of all the texts Perfect is sending me. I fret the differences between the two-line texts he used to send me, and the one-line texts I sometimes receive now. (Does it mean he’s trying to blow me off?) I (try to) delve into all the possible emotions behind a “Haha”, a “LOL”, or a two-word message. The exclamation points that used to drive my perfectly punctuated self mental are now mourned like dead children if they don’t appear in a text. When he doesn’t respond to one of my non-response-needed texts (AKA: “I woke up at 7 this morning and still feel like a morning zombie after coffee. And an hour drive.”), it sends me into frantic spirals of “is he ignoring me?”s and “did he used to not respond to these?”s. I am driving myself, and I’m sure everyone else around me, crazy. But I am working my ass off to maintain the light, normal and un-weird conversations of days and weeks past, and I feel like I need to be thrown a bone before the next text I send is, “Perfect. I’m working my ass off here. Throw me a fucking bone and act normal.”
So to the age-old question: should I call him on his weirdness? Or is it weirdness made up in my own head because I expect things to be weird? Or like all women have a tendency to do that I believe goes hand-in-hand with flirting with disaster, am I thinking about this too hard? What if the problem is all in my head? But would I rather be “stuck” there, or really have hit the brakes with Perfect and be “stuck” with him in the real world? Where would it be harder for me to live with myself?
Obviously, the only thing that can really solve any of these (often asinine) questions would be to speak with the man himself. I don’t know if I’m ready to do that yet. Granted, it’s been the longest time yet that we’ve gone without seeing each other and he’s due up for a “girl’s visit” with Cait and I ASAP, but I don’t know if I can handle another “what’s going on?” conversation so soon. I know, I know—I bitch when I can’t talk to him, and I bitch about not wanting to when I could. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you know. But really, what could I say? “Stop being weird even if you don’t think you’re being weird because I’m desperately trying to maintain the charade that everything is fine and peachy here and I am fine and peachy with everything that’s happened even though I periodically burst into tears in my room when I try to open the windows and I can’t and the only thing that I can think of is that if you were here, you, in your hulking manliness and weight-lifting strength would surely do it for me if I asked nicely?”
Yeah. That would be an Oscar-winning speech.
In the meantime, I am not (physically or anatomically) dead. In fact, I was recently turned away from a research project UVM is doing on Women’s Sexuality because after answering the phone interview questions on things like sexual appetite, sexual desire and desired frequency of sex, it was determined that I would be an outlier and skew the data. Oh, yes. The libido is still alive, folks. It just has no outlet other than being beaten into submission at the gym. (I now think I understand Perfect’s two-hour gym-sessions. That poor man must be more sexually frustrated than I am, though I just clocked in my first hour and a half work-out. And have upped both the weight and the number of reps to my weight training.) Cait once said that I have “cute guy” radar like nobody’s business—I scope them out like a professional hunter, and if one is within a two-block radius, I will find them. It’s true—I do have a weakness for attractive men, and yes, I do look quite a lot. (I even found myself looking—to my utter mortification and to Cait’s amusement—when she and I and Perfect were all out for dinner one night. Hot man after hot man kept passing. It’s a wonder I didn’t get whip-lash from all the looking I was doing while Perfect was blissfully and thankfully unaware, mowing down single-mindedly on his lo mien beside me.) I am, I guess, the little girl that never grew up, and the world is my men-stocked candy store. It’s just the fact that though I may look, and appreciate, and possibly even flirt, when it comes down to it, all it takes is to get a text or hear a particular deep and velvety voice or see a certain face with beautiful bone structure, a long and straight nose, and red cheeks for me to think, “Yes, that is the most attractive man of them all. That is who I want to be with. Still.” I am “stuck” in Single Girl’s Hell—wanting, waiting, and wishing.
XOXO
(I'm not 100% pleased with this post yet, though I've been, haha-- "stuck" writing it for the past four days. Expect edits in the future. I just need to clear it off of my desktop for right now, let it lie, and the come back to it when I can (hopefully) think more clearly.)
I’ve been feeling “stuck” a lot lately, both figuratively and literally. I got “stuck” between Cait’s bathroom door and sink, which is no mean feat for a petite girl like me, but I somehow managed to get momentarily wedged in there, which was hilarious at the time. What was not so funny was getting a slug “stuck” between the bottom of my foot and flip-flop during the spur-of-the-moment 4 mile EpicTrek Alli and I took last night to find the best view of the heat lightning across the lake. Or getting a beetle “stuck” between my toes later during the same adventure. (Alli seemed to enjoy my utterly girly shrieks though, so it wasn’t all a disgusting loss.) But most aggravating of all, I seem to be “stuck” somewhere half-in and half-out of a relationship with Mr. Perfect.
I feel as though I am in a science experiment no one ever decided to tell me about. There’s the control group: women who have been broken up with; the standard: women who are in relationships; and then me, toeing the line somewhere in the middle because although he opened the “friends” door, Perfect neglected to throw the chain off—AKA: things are pretty business as usual. I am beside myself with confusion.
My hypothesis: although we both know that in the overall scheme of things, a relationship would not be the wisest thing to start at the moment (hence that discussion a week ago), neither of us are exactly willing to let go. Or, it seems, really change anything. Apparently, Perfect got the Hostage Relationship memo, because he’s doing his own job of keeping me quiet, close and (somewhat) satisfied rather well.
Being “stuck” and confused does not suit me. I am someone who is constantly in motion, be it physical, or, in the odd moment you can catch me lounging and seemingly doing nothing at all, most likely mental. For example, the time during my morning shower when because I am “stuck” doing the things I do by motion memory in my 10’-by-4’ white cubicle is my most mentally productive. That’s when I come up with my best ideas, revelations, and thoughts. Now that those wheels are clogged and slow with relationship un-bliss, I am not a happy camper.
I feel an overwhelming desire to get out of the city. But then, I get “stuck”. Where to go? What to do? I don’t want to go home yet, or to go ride my poorly neglected (and apparently, ever increasingly wide) pony, because Cait and Alli and I are going on a road-trip next weekend to go swimming with waterfalls and my fixed (read: nonexistent) income doesn’t allow for another tank of gas to be bought. So, that leaves me “stuck” in the city until the 3rd or the 4th, and I’ve already done all the requisite city things to keep busy—strolled Church Street, shopped, took myself out for tea, went grocery shopping, visited friends, went to the beach, etc. I have a slight feeling that my urgent desire to physically flee Burlington may be directly correlated to the fact that I am “stuck” emotionally, and there’s nothing I can do to evade that problem short of having another one of those lovely chats I am so not fond of of the “what are we doing, again?” variety.
What we are doing is what’s confusing me. I know, I know, I was the one plotting to keep this relationship hostage—I just didn’t plan on it actually happening. I’m “stuck” somewhere in between trying to figure out the right amount or timing of texts and messages to make them “friendly”, while Perfect is still sending me my morning wake-up texts. Our conversations, though while a little more awkward than originally—let me tell you how hard it is for two very sexual people to try and purposefully cut the “sexual things” out of their communication for the sake of being “friends” and not “overly friendly”—are still frequent and charming. I am still the first person he responds to when he gets coverage, and I still take priority when he’s out with his friends, but is still texting with me. He is still the first person I think of to text whenever I have news or am bored out of my mind, which is frequently. We are “stuck” being large parts of each other’s lives, but with no idea as to where or how we’re supposed to fit. It’s an odd transitional period that doesn’t come with any sort on instruction manual or handy survival guide—I’m having to make the rules up as I go along. A “stuck” girl is a girl in trouble.
What does a “stuck” girl look or act like, you may ask? Look for a girl with two primary facial expressions at the moment—perplexed/frustrated or zoned-out/bored-to-near-tears. Look for a girl who’s a little bit flustered—possibly saying or doing things that aren’t in agreement, or frequently losing track of her thoughts or what she was saying. Appearance-wise, she’ll look as pulled-together as normal, although when you look into her eyes they may be a bit panicked. A guy’s name will (totally uncontrollably) be every third word out of her mouth. There will be some obsessing going on, running the gamut from about him, to about her, to about life, to about the date on the milk carton and wondering if it’s ok to drink it one day past the sell-by date. A “stuck” girl will try to distract herself from her “stuck-ness” many different ways, so look for someone busy, busy, busy with self-made hobbies or activities of really no importance, or a To-Do list a mile long. Or for your best example what a “stuck” girl looks like, stop by. I’m usually home and in need of distraction from being "stuck."
Meanwhile, in between all the self-made reading and writing and tanning and visiting with friends, I am “stuck” dissecting over and over and over what went wrong or how I could possibly fix whatever is going on. Without a job to take up my time and mind, I have turned into a professional worrier. Possibly, a professional sign-reader. Without any clothing folding, phone answering, or customer servicing to distract me, I have taken to trying to interpret the deep and imagined meanings of all the texts Perfect is sending me. I fret the differences between the two-line texts he used to send me, and the one-line texts I sometimes receive now. (Does it mean he’s trying to blow me off?) I (try to) delve into all the possible emotions behind a “Haha”, a “LOL”, or a two-word message. The exclamation points that used to drive my perfectly punctuated self mental are now mourned like dead children if they don’t appear in a text. When he doesn’t respond to one of my non-response-needed texts (AKA: “I woke up at 7 this morning and still feel like a morning zombie after coffee. And an hour drive.”), it sends me into frantic spirals of “is he ignoring me?”s and “did he used to not respond to these?”s. I am driving myself, and I’m sure everyone else around me, crazy. But I am working my ass off to maintain the light, normal and un-weird conversations of days and weeks past, and I feel like I need to be thrown a bone before the next text I send is, “Perfect. I’m working my ass off here. Throw me a fucking bone and act normal.”
So to the age-old question: should I call him on his weirdness? Or is it weirdness made up in my own head because I expect things to be weird? Or like all women have a tendency to do that I believe goes hand-in-hand with flirting with disaster, am I thinking about this too hard? What if the problem is all in my head? But would I rather be “stuck” there, or really have hit the brakes with Perfect and be “stuck” with him in the real world? Where would it be harder for me to live with myself?
Obviously, the only thing that can really solve any of these (often asinine) questions would be to speak with the man himself. I don’t know if I’m ready to do that yet. Granted, it’s been the longest time yet that we’ve gone without seeing each other and he’s due up for a “girl’s visit” with Cait and I ASAP, but I don’t know if I can handle another “what’s going on?” conversation so soon. I know, I know—I bitch when I can’t talk to him, and I bitch about not wanting to when I could. It’s a woman’s prerogative, you know. But really, what could I say? “Stop being weird even if you don’t think you’re being weird because I’m desperately trying to maintain the charade that everything is fine and peachy here and I am fine and peachy with everything that’s happened even though I periodically burst into tears in my room when I try to open the windows and I can’t and the only thing that I can think of is that if you were here, you, in your hulking manliness and weight-lifting strength would surely do it for me if I asked nicely?”
Yeah. That would be an Oscar-winning speech.
In the meantime, I am not (physically or anatomically) dead. In fact, I was recently turned away from a research project UVM is doing on Women’s Sexuality because after answering the phone interview questions on things like sexual appetite, sexual desire and desired frequency of sex, it was determined that I would be an outlier and skew the data. Oh, yes. The libido is still alive, folks. It just has no outlet other than being beaten into submission at the gym. (I now think I understand Perfect’s two-hour gym-sessions. That poor man must be more sexually frustrated than I am, though I just clocked in my first hour and a half work-out. And have upped both the weight and the number of reps to my weight training.) Cait once said that I have “cute guy” radar like nobody’s business—I scope them out like a professional hunter, and if one is within a two-block radius, I will find them. It’s true—I do have a weakness for attractive men, and yes, I do look quite a lot. (I even found myself looking—to my utter mortification and to Cait’s amusement—when she and I and Perfect were all out for dinner one night. Hot man after hot man kept passing. It’s a wonder I didn’t get whip-lash from all the looking I was doing while Perfect was blissfully and thankfully unaware, mowing down single-mindedly on his lo mien beside me.) I am, I guess, the little girl that never grew up, and the world is my men-stocked candy store. It’s just the fact that though I may look, and appreciate, and possibly even flirt, when it comes down to it, all it takes is to get a text or hear a particular deep and velvety voice or see a certain face with beautiful bone structure, a long and straight nose, and red cheeks for me to think, “Yes, that is the most attractive man of them all. That is who I want to be with. Still.” I am “stuck” in Single Girl’s Hell—wanting, waiting, and wishing.
XOXO
(I'm not 100% pleased with this post yet, though I've been, haha-- "stuck" writing it for the past four days. Expect edits in the future. I just need to clear it off of my desktop for right now, let it lie, and the come back to it when I can (hopefully) think more clearly.)
Saturday, June 27, 2009
A Hop, a Skip, a Week, and a Drive
(Authoress’ Note: This column is a little out-of-order-and-line with the next one to be posted that I’ve been working on for longer, but this one just begged to be written and posted today, so here it is. I’m such a sucker—it’s hard for me to deny anything.)
Today was one of those days that I swear to God I rose awake like I’d levitated out of my bed from 0 to 60 and was basically screaming that I needed to get out of the city, out of the rut I’m in, and out of everything I know. These four walls (actually, taking the recesses and odd angles into account, these eight walls) of mine that I sit in day after day have closed around me so hard and so fast I’m searching for the sign posted somewhere that cautions to “please, do not feed or try to pet the girl.”
My apartment is a loaded and ticking time-bomb full of both happy memories and memories not-yet-made. I can’t look at my bed without thinking of the boy who so nonchalantly walked in and plopped down on it, stretching out so that his massive body took up most of the space, or how he rolled over to make room for me as we laid side-by-side and talked for hours. Or what else we did in that bed, in those sheets, on those pillows. Those pillows, which when I bury my face in them at night, still hold a whiff of him—soap, clean laundry, country air, and musk. On my closet door hangs that damned scarf I carefully slip-knotted for future use, (what use that is, I’ll let your over-active imaginations fill in the gaps. If you know me, you’ll get there.) Opening my closet door, I’m hit by a double-whammy of sensory grief—the scent of the soap I bought because my magnolia-scented shower gel wasn’t manly enough to share were he to spend the night again, and the bags, yes, bags of lacey, pretty, sexy, extravagant things bought at Victoria’s Secret. (The money I bled to them has me on first-name and friendship basis with all the sales associates in both locations in Burlington.) Under my bed, the condoms on my stereo that taunt me, asking when I thought they were going to be used? My laptop—he said it was nice and used it, his fingers on these same keys I’m pressing on right now. Every time I look out my window, I see the bridge we stood on and talked, just the two of us. I’m starting to distrust my very decorating skills because of how he looked around said, “I like this room. It’s comfortable. I like that you did with it.”
There are more things, more memories—how he sat on the sofa, propped up against the throw pillow, how he bounced on the ball in the living room like an over-grown, hulking child—us standing side-by-side in front of the bathroom sink and vanity, both of us brushing our teeth and looking at each other in the mirror. I love my apartment, but right now, I want to break up with it. Home is supposed to be my haven; where my heart is. Right now, my heart is elsewhere, and not residing in this little borough of Burlington. Right now, Melancholy has moved in, bring her roommates Despair and Frustration with her. Some women would take all these things and get rid of them, a sort of detox of the relationship and heart and home. I am of the grin-and-bear-it type, myself. I figure if I have made my bed, slept with him in my bed, and spent afternoons with him on my bed, I can damn well lie in it and contemplate what I’ve done.
The scream of frustration, boredom, pain,—whatever—that threatens to rip out of my vocal cords has been growing larger and larger every day that I come home, turn my key in the lock, and see these things. The urge to scream because I can’t do anything else to fix, change, or alter this in any way other than by discussing it with him has become almost overwhelming. But of course, I’m sure the rest of the apartment building wouldn’t exactly like that, and you best believe I have a set of lungs on me. (Thank you, Mrs. Harlow and eight years of choral training, six years of projection teaching from theater, and smoking and exercising for lung capacity.)
Today was one of those days that I couldn’t sit still or stay in the same place for the life of me. I wrangled Alli into agreeing to go on a road trip with me to Stowe, a town I’d never been to and was a comfortable enough distance away for me to feel like I was escaping without using tons of my non-refundable gas. It was the perfect day for a drive—sunny, with rain showers that turned the valleys between mountains misty and serene. It’s true, what they say—you can take a Vermont girl to the city, but you can’t take the Vermont out of the girl. I needed the sort of country atmosphere I grew up in—I needed the familiar sight of a small town, a white church steeple, a clapboard old one-room school house. I needed sugar shacks and cows and dilapidated barns. I needed badly paved roads fallen into disrepair that made my Little-Honda-That-Could’s long-gone shocks groan as they came back down to earth after being launched into the air by the remains of frost heaves and pot holes. I needed long stretches of road that ran alongside sandy rivers without any other car in sight, but possibly, a moose hiding somewhere in the swamp. (Moose crossing signs—another thing I love about Vermont. To me, a moose crossing sign for the next 15 miles would be a great way to get kids in a car to shut up and focus—bribery mixed with a sly, “Hey, what was that?” when they start to lose interest would achieve amazing results. And who said I’m not good with children?)
And moose crossing signs I got. And covered bridges. And cow after cow after cow. And ice cream. And a very speedy and white-knuckled drive through Mr. Perfect’s hometown.
I swear to God I wasn’t planning on it. It was one of those things where after driving to Stowe the first time to scope it out, and through Stowe to the outskirts of town (not hard—Stowe is far smaller and more touristy than I expected), I looked over at Alli and said, “Hey, do you want to keep driving?” When she said yeah, I called to mind all the maps I had looked at in detailing this excursion. “If we continue on 100, we can pick up 12, which will take us into Montpelier and then back to 89 and Stowe for dinner at Emily’s Bridge.” What I failed to remember until we were well on our way there was the fact that we would be driving right though Perfect Central. ‘Please, please, please,’ I prayed more fervently than I ever had in any church in my head, ‘Be at work. Be at home. Just don’t be on the road.’ I thought I was hiding my anxiety well until Alli piped up. “Wow, even I’m a little bit worried.”
I looked over at her. “If I see a 4Runner, I’m ducking, and you’re going to take the wheel and steer. Hopefully, he’ll be too shocked that there’s apparently no driver that he won’t notice the car or who’s in it.”
“I’ve been on 4Runner patrol for the past few miles,” came Alli’s response. “And I was planning on ducking too.”
Let me tell you: I’ve been that girl in awkward situations like this before; been at the receiving end of a highly skeptical “what are you doing here?” look or speech before. This is why I generally don't go to hometowns before I'm invited by the resident. Life just likes to fuck with me this way—if I can run into someone at an inopportune time, I will. Another lovely quirk I live with. Sometimes, it’s amusing. When you’re being called a crazy bitch, not so much. Thank whoever or whatever was watching out for me today and giving me the “get out of jail free” card, be it a manager who scheduled work, or a stop along the way for a few minutes that made our paths impossible to cross, but it remains—I got out clean, and unseen. My dignity, (what little there is to begin with,) remains. I didn’t have to make any (truthful yet shaky) excuses. I didn’t have to do the awkward wave of shame and see those familiar eyebrows raised in surprise and shock.
The drive home infuriated me. It’s ridiculously, stupidly, mind-numbingly easy to get from his place to mine. In fact, Montpelier itself is probably the most wheel-and-teeth-clenching part of the entire 45 minute drive, and that’s only because I don’t my way around. For someone who does, it’s probably cake and easier to drive than Burlington. As I ruminated over this fact, I made another realization—the time and mileage it takes to get from Point A to Point Me is almost exactly the same as what I used to drive three or four times a week to and from the barn I board my Super Pony at. Granted, I am far more in love and committed to my horse than I am to this guy, but still—the point remains the same. I’m used to this kind of drive. Hell, I’m a road warrior; the kind of girl who just wants to drive and drive and drive off into the sunset. I live for the kind of quiet and reflective time this sort of drive allows for, when it’s just you, the road, and something or someone at the destination you can’t wait to see. It’s the kind of drive I’d do for fun, let alone for someone I liked. And here I am, with no reason to do this drive or now know the way because we decided to bail out before I was able to say, “hey, it’s not fair you’re always driving to me—why don’t I meet you for a movie or dinner or something?” Life is kind of funny like that—I always seem to find the way after the fact it’s needed.
After an afternoon eating hummus and cucumber sandwiches in front of a covered bridge supposedly haunted by a young girl who committed suicide after her lover stood her up on the night they were supposed to elope, I returned home to my apartment to discover that the exorcism wasn’t quite perfectly executed, and I was returning to all the same old ghosts I had left. There’s nothing quite so sad as a woman left hanging.
(It’s 2 AM and Perfect will probably be waking me up in 6 hours with a good-morning text. I need to sleep. This beast needs editing, but I also promised a post tonight, and I keep my promises. If you’re reading this before noon on the 28th, please stop by again shortly, because there will probably be edits and revisions made to this that I’d love you to see. Thank you!)
XOXO
Today was one of those days that I swear to God I rose awake like I’d levitated out of my bed from 0 to 60 and was basically screaming that I needed to get out of the city, out of the rut I’m in, and out of everything I know. These four walls (actually, taking the recesses and odd angles into account, these eight walls) of mine that I sit in day after day have closed around me so hard and so fast I’m searching for the sign posted somewhere that cautions to “please, do not feed or try to pet the girl.”
My apartment is a loaded and ticking time-bomb full of both happy memories and memories not-yet-made. I can’t look at my bed without thinking of the boy who so nonchalantly walked in and plopped down on it, stretching out so that his massive body took up most of the space, or how he rolled over to make room for me as we laid side-by-side and talked for hours. Or what else we did in that bed, in those sheets, on those pillows. Those pillows, which when I bury my face in them at night, still hold a whiff of him—soap, clean laundry, country air, and musk. On my closet door hangs that damned scarf I carefully slip-knotted for future use, (what use that is, I’ll let your over-active imaginations fill in the gaps. If you know me, you’ll get there.) Opening my closet door, I’m hit by a double-whammy of sensory grief—the scent of the soap I bought because my magnolia-scented shower gel wasn’t manly enough to share were he to spend the night again, and the bags, yes, bags of lacey, pretty, sexy, extravagant things bought at Victoria’s Secret. (The money I bled to them has me on first-name and friendship basis with all the sales associates in both locations in Burlington.) Under my bed, the condoms on my stereo that taunt me, asking when I thought they were going to be used? My laptop—he said it was nice and used it, his fingers on these same keys I’m pressing on right now. Every time I look out my window, I see the bridge we stood on and talked, just the two of us. I’m starting to distrust my very decorating skills because of how he looked around said, “I like this room. It’s comfortable. I like that you did with it.”
There are more things, more memories—how he sat on the sofa, propped up against the throw pillow, how he bounced on the ball in the living room like an over-grown, hulking child—us standing side-by-side in front of the bathroom sink and vanity, both of us brushing our teeth and looking at each other in the mirror. I love my apartment, but right now, I want to break up with it. Home is supposed to be my haven; where my heart is. Right now, my heart is elsewhere, and not residing in this little borough of Burlington. Right now, Melancholy has moved in, bring her roommates Despair and Frustration with her. Some women would take all these things and get rid of them, a sort of detox of the relationship and heart and home. I am of the grin-and-bear-it type, myself. I figure if I have made my bed, slept with him in my bed, and spent afternoons with him on my bed, I can damn well lie in it and contemplate what I’ve done.
The scream of frustration, boredom, pain,—whatever—that threatens to rip out of my vocal cords has been growing larger and larger every day that I come home, turn my key in the lock, and see these things. The urge to scream because I can’t do anything else to fix, change, or alter this in any way other than by discussing it with him has become almost overwhelming. But of course, I’m sure the rest of the apartment building wouldn’t exactly like that, and you best believe I have a set of lungs on me. (Thank you, Mrs. Harlow and eight years of choral training, six years of projection teaching from theater, and smoking and exercising for lung capacity.)
Today was one of those days that I couldn’t sit still or stay in the same place for the life of me. I wrangled Alli into agreeing to go on a road trip with me to Stowe, a town I’d never been to and was a comfortable enough distance away for me to feel like I was escaping without using tons of my non-refundable gas. It was the perfect day for a drive—sunny, with rain showers that turned the valleys between mountains misty and serene. It’s true, what they say—you can take a Vermont girl to the city, but you can’t take the Vermont out of the girl. I needed the sort of country atmosphere I grew up in—I needed the familiar sight of a small town, a white church steeple, a clapboard old one-room school house. I needed sugar shacks and cows and dilapidated barns. I needed badly paved roads fallen into disrepair that made my Little-Honda-That-Could’s long-gone shocks groan as they came back down to earth after being launched into the air by the remains of frost heaves and pot holes. I needed long stretches of road that ran alongside sandy rivers without any other car in sight, but possibly, a moose hiding somewhere in the swamp. (Moose crossing signs—another thing I love about Vermont. To me, a moose crossing sign for the next 15 miles would be a great way to get kids in a car to shut up and focus—bribery mixed with a sly, “Hey, what was that?” when they start to lose interest would achieve amazing results. And who said I’m not good with children?)
And moose crossing signs I got. And covered bridges. And cow after cow after cow. And ice cream. And a very speedy and white-knuckled drive through Mr. Perfect’s hometown.
I swear to God I wasn’t planning on it. It was one of those things where after driving to Stowe the first time to scope it out, and through Stowe to the outskirts of town (not hard—Stowe is far smaller and more touristy than I expected), I looked over at Alli and said, “Hey, do you want to keep driving?” When she said yeah, I called to mind all the maps I had looked at in detailing this excursion. “If we continue on 100, we can pick up 12, which will take us into Montpelier and then back to 89 and Stowe for dinner at Emily’s Bridge.” What I failed to remember until we were well on our way there was the fact that we would be driving right though Perfect Central. ‘Please, please, please,’ I prayed more fervently than I ever had in any church in my head, ‘Be at work. Be at home. Just don’t be on the road.’ I thought I was hiding my anxiety well until Alli piped up. “Wow, even I’m a little bit worried.”
I looked over at her. “If I see a 4Runner, I’m ducking, and you’re going to take the wheel and steer. Hopefully, he’ll be too shocked that there’s apparently no driver that he won’t notice the car or who’s in it.”
“I’ve been on 4Runner patrol for the past few miles,” came Alli’s response. “And I was planning on ducking too.”
Let me tell you: I’ve been that girl in awkward situations like this before; been at the receiving end of a highly skeptical “what are you doing here?” look or speech before. This is why I generally don't go to hometowns before I'm invited by the resident. Life just likes to fuck with me this way—if I can run into someone at an inopportune time, I will. Another lovely quirk I live with. Sometimes, it’s amusing. When you’re being called a crazy bitch, not so much. Thank whoever or whatever was watching out for me today and giving me the “get out of jail free” card, be it a manager who scheduled work, or a stop along the way for a few minutes that made our paths impossible to cross, but it remains—I got out clean, and unseen. My dignity, (what little there is to begin with,) remains. I didn’t have to make any (truthful yet shaky) excuses. I didn’t have to do the awkward wave of shame and see those familiar eyebrows raised in surprise and shock.
The drive home infuriated me. It’s ridiculously, stupidly, mind-numbingly easy to get from his place to mine. In fact, Montpelier itself is probably the most wheel-and-teeth-clenching part of the entire 45 minute drive, and that’s only because I don’t my way around. For someone who does, it’s probably cake and easier to drive than Burlington. As I ruminated over this fact, I made another realization—the time and mileage it takes to get from Point A to Point Me is almost exactly the same as what I used to drive three or four times a week to and from the barn I board my Super Pony at. Granted, I am far more in love and committed to my horse than I am to this guy, but still—the point remains the same. I’m used to this kind of drive. Hell, I’m a road warrior; the kind of girl who just wants to drive and drive and drive off into the sunset. I live for the kind of quiet and reflective time this sort of drive allows for, when it’s just you, the road, and something or someone at the destination you can’t wait to see. It’s the kind of drive I’d do for fun, let alone for someone I liked. And here I am, with no reason to do this drive or now know the way because we decided to bail out before I was able to say, “hey, it’s not fair you’re always driving to me—why don’t I meet you for a movie or dinner or something?” Life is kind of funny like that—I always seem to find the way after the fact it’s needed.
After an afternoon eating hummus and cucumber sandwiches in front of a covered bridge supposedly haunted by a young girl who committed suicide after her lover stood her up on the night they were supposed to elope, I returned home to my apartment to discover that the exorcism wasn’t quite perfectly executed, and I was returning to all the same old ghosts I had left. There’s nothing quite so sad as a woman left hanging.
(It’s 2 AM and Perfect will probably be waking me up in 6 hours with a good-morning text. I need to sleep. This beast needs editing, but I also promised a post tonight, and I keep my promises. If you’re reading this before noon on the 28th, please stop by again shortly, because there will probably be edits and revisions made to this that I’d love you to see. Thank you!)
XOXO
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The (Boxer) Briefs
Because I am not, as some might assume, always plagued with romantic drama or spewing forth column after column (those things take work and hours and dedication and actually a topic or event to happen, you know), occasionally, to keep you readers in writing, I’ll be posting short(er) entries like this one with a “this is where I’ve been, this is what I’ve been doing, and this is what’s up” theme. There are always multiple things I can address, just not all of them in a longer format, so this is ideal. These sort of girl-about-town entries will be a mish-mash of either comments, quotes, short reviews on events, people, places, movies, books, etc; wish-lists, or just some social commentary. They’ll all be tagged under a “Girl About Town” file, too, so look for that.
Last night, I spent a Girl’s Night (plus Travis) at my favorite couples’ apartment. Some, (ok, I’ll be blunt, MOST) couples render me either squeamish, bored or murderous with their PDAs and sickeningly cute and happy togetherness. For a (newly) single girl, it’s like pouring salt and alcohol into an open wound and then sticking your fingers (or tongues) into it. The other night, one of the few exes I’ve remained friends with stopped by with his (non-fuctioningly stoned) girlfriend. As they cuddled on the floor in the living room, I fired off a text to my friend Madison. “They just kissed,” it said. “Someone is going to die and my sense of self-preservation is very great so I don’t think it’s going to be me. If anyone asks you, it totally wasn’t a premeditated double-homicide.”
Barring the couples that make me want to choke to death on my own vomit rather than witness yet another of their grope-fests while sitting awkwardly beside me, I actually have a few that I like. Emily and Travis (he’s going to be so pleased I’m writing about him—here’s your love, XOXO!) are one such couple. They’ve been together for over two and a half years, and have progressed past the point of the just-new and romantic to the sort of nonchalant closeness that can really only be achieved after you’ve lived together with someone for an extended period of time and share the same bathroom. Case in point: last night, after Emily made a gentle dig at Travis, he mimed jacking off and ejaculating at her. She laughed and mimed throwing it back at him. I mean, really. I love this. It’s perfect. This sort of playful sense of “you’re such an idiot but I love you anyway” is what I aspire to, one day.
My roommate, close friend, and part-time semi-personal chef Alli whipped up chocolate-covered strawberries and home-made hot cocoa for all of us (yes, this is the life I lead. I am blessed,) as we caught up over Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations". (If there was ever any question, I am totally and utterly besotted with that man. In fact, while watching him eat a mouth-wateringly good-looking sandwich in Brazil, I commented, “I could totally screw Bourdain and eat that sandwich at the same time. Totally. And you know what? He’s probably into shit like that.”) While Travis went to watch what will remain an un-named TV show in the bedroom, Emily, Alli and I all sat in the living room watching (irony,) “He’s Just Not That Into You” and discussing the sort of things women talk about while together: sex, men, porn, food, relationships, marriage (or lack thereof—both Alli and I are of the same school of “I want to live in sin with you forever and ever and ever rather than go through the white dress and pomp and circumstance and legal proceeding” thought), and other things. Here are the general findings of the night:
Sex and “Awkward Firsts”: The first time you have sex with someone is always the worst. You have no idea how the other person jives, what turns them on, or the little things they either like or can’t stand. I always have a problem figuring out how much noise my current partner can tolerate. (It’s a delicate balance, as I am almost unapologetically loud. Legs loved it, but with the much quieter Mr. Perfect I wondered if it was a little bit much.) And then you have to figure out if the person you’re with is a Listener or a Watcher. (A Listener gets off on sound and speech—aka moaning, panting, yelling, screaming and dirty-talk. A Watcher prefers to watch the act of sex and penetration. Most Watchers unsurprisingly have a pretty well-founded porn habit. When I asked Cait how Perfect spends his free time and she responded with “He likes to swim or bike; he spends time with his sister or his best friend who lives right by him; he has high-speed internet-”, I cut her off because that right there answered my question about some of his habits and explained a lot.) You break the moment during foreplay or sex (if you even succeeded in creating a moment,) to give warning notes and asinine information. You effectively sabotage yourself with your nerves. You destroy the very essence that is truly amazing great sex. And for what do you give these warnings about ticklish spots or apologize in advance for anything that either may or may not happen? So that you might hopefully end up having truly great, amazing sex. It’s basically shooting yourself in the foot. Or, more specifically, in the dick or vagina. The only way to really get to know how someone has sex or what they like is to keep having sex with them—something that I’m trying to figure out how to approach after my uncharacteristically nervous first time with Perfect that left me feeling as if I didn’t perform to my high standard and we have since decided to try “just being friends.” To my knowledge and experience, friends don’t shack up and there was no “with benefits” added to the end of that statement, so I have to figure something out. Plotting time is now.
Men, and How To Pick One Up: We came up with this jewel while discussing the heart- and panty-breakingly attractive waiter at a downtown restaurant. Alli started the conversation, and I tried jumping in when Emily cut me off, saying, “Wait! You have to hold your tongue!”
“I can barely hold my legs closed!” I protested, but it was worth it when after Alli came up with the pick-up line of “I just want to know what your mouth feels like. Is that ok? Can we do that?” I was able to come back with a “Possibly your penis in my vagina, too. Is that still ok? Does that sound good?”
Also discussed, Madison’s new boss at her summer job: a twenty-something all-American football-body type guy with the almost buzzed hair and bright blue eyes that bring to mind an apple-pie Marine or man in uniform. His nickname? Juicy McHotHot Boss. Oh yes. That’s one man that gives me office-sex thoughts, which is no mean feat seeing as I’m a journalist to try to escape the cubicle and be able to do my job from somewhere much more comfortable and private—namely, on my bed, in my underwear and a men’s t-shirt, like right now.
Porn, or Girl Porn 101: Some women hate porn. Some women love porn and will watch exactly what the guys watch. Some women have never watched porn. Some women have watched enough porn to get either sick of it or casual about it, because let’s face it—when it comes down to it, it’s just two people having sex. You can do that on your own time. I fall into that last category, but I recently stumbled across the equation for good porn for the every-day woman: foreign porn + a little bit of a plot + hot foreign men + 5 minutes’ worth of oral sex for the woman in it - a half-hour blow-job scene - anal sex or weird fetishes- ridiculous amounts of cum = good porn. “Field of Dreams” and “Cutting It Up In The Kitchen” come highly recommended. Granted, you can’t understand a word they say, but do you really need to?
In other news, summer weather calls for shorter hemlines on sundresses and afternoon plans. My favorite ways for a single girl to keep busy? The Self-Date. Dress up cute, but casual and comfortable, and go take yourself out someplace. (I, yet again, proved to myself that I am not a cheap date the last time I went out for tea and the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and ended up spending over thirty dollars on new novels in Borders.) Here are some of my favorite ideas for spending some quality you-time:
- Find a local tea house or coffee house that has a casual and relaxed atmosphere with couches or armchairs that encourage staying for awhile. Bring a book or magazine and treat yourself to a beverage while you read and relax. Dobra Tea in downtown Burlington has a great dark interior that suits brooding types and heavy thought, while the Vietnamese Sapa around the corner is brighter, more sunny and feminine, and serves not only bubble tea but some of the largest and best chocolate truffles I have ever had, in flavors like champagne, raspberry, crème de menthe, and espresso. Total cost should be somewhere around ten dollars if you bring your own reading material—more if you buy a new magazine for the occasion like I tend to. Also, some books I've read lately and highly reccommend: "The Wilde Women" by Paula Wall (blissfully snarky and sexy), "The Last Summer (Of You & Me)" by Ann Brashares (of "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" fame and possibly the best book I've ever read), "The Jewel Box" by Anna Davis (Carrie Bradshaw does the 1920s and London), "Girls In Trucks" by Katie Crouch, "Eat, Love, Pray" by Elizabeth Gilbert, "The Moonflower Vine" by Jetta Carleton (lost classic, but goodie), "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club" by Jessica Morrison, "All This Heavenly Glory" by Elizabeth Crane, and "How To Teach Filthy Rich Girls" by Zoey Dean (of "The A-List" fame).
- Go to the beach and get some sun! Now is the time for free tanning and bikinis! I’m a fan of working out the night before I hit the beach and eating a light breakfast that morning for maximum teeny bikini confidence—freshly worked-out muscle is visibly firmer. Bonus is that most beaches around Burlington are free if you just walk in. (At North Beach, park in Burlington High School’s parking lot if school’s not in session. I’ve even done it sometimes when it is. Shhh!)
- A veritable marathon of good new movies are out—I haven’t heard one person who’s seen it say one bad thing yet about “The Hangover” and “The Proposal” with Ryan Reynolds looks downright yummy if only for him. “The Ugly Truth” with Gerard Butler and the always effervescently lovely Katherine Heigal is coming out soon—a definite must-see. For one ticket, some either chocolatey or buttery snacks and a slushie, you should have yourself a fun time for about twenty dollars.
- Go for a drive, if you have the wheels. Small towns in New England are so charming to drive through. (Hint: if you’re in the Burlington area and planning a short road-trip like this, fill up your tank at the Cumberland Farms or Shell station on Riverside Ave. Gas there is the cheapest in the area that I’ve been able to find.)
- Have a Girl Night. My personal favorite is to hole up either in my room or on the couch with a few episodes of Sex and the City, a few pieces of expensive and good chocolate (Lake Champlain, Lindt, or the cheaper but just as rich and creamy Dove), and a beauty regime. As a true native Vermont girl, I like to mix the natural and the classy—I’m fond of Burt’s Bees: their Milk and Honey lotion, Dr. Burt’s Acne Stick (just as good as the prescription goop I was paying $90 a bottle for), Almond Milk Beeswax hand cream—also good for chapped elbows and knees and heels—, Rosewater and Glycerin Toner, Shea Butter Décolleté Crème—does wonders for firming up the delicate skin—, Marshmallow Vanishing Crème—so refreshing!—and the Evening Primrose Overnight Crème. (That makes the skin on my face so soft and smooth the next day I can barely keep my fingers from caressing it-- potentially awkward!)
Oh, and the title? For those gentlemen of you in the know, boxer-briefs are the way to go. They do for men what the Miracle Bra does for women—puts everything where it should be, makes it look visibly firmer and tighter and bigger, and says, “Hey—look at me. I’m hot stuff.” I’m particular to men in variations in black or dark colors and smooth or silky fabric, myself. While I know that they’re not for every man, I actually suggest doing what Legs used to do (yes, I’m telling you that something he did was right): on the mornings that you wake up and life feels really normal, wear your beloved boxers. If you wake up and feel like today’s a good day and something exciting or special is going to happen, whip out the boxer-briefs.
And if you’re a die-hard boxer man—solids, stripes, and tasteful plaids are the way to go. (Actually, I love a man in plaids.) Please, overwhelming patterns of things like hotdogs, crabs, surfing pigs, or bananas (if you don’t believe me, go to ae.com and look at the men’s boxer selection), are absolutely either crass or juvenile. If I were to undress a man and find “party pickles” on his boxers, that would be my cue to walk out the door. Just saying.
Until next time,
XOXO.
Last night, I spent a Girl’s Night (plus Travis) at my favorite couples’ apartment. Some, (ok, I’ll be blunt, MOST) couples render me either squeamish, bored or murderous with their PDAs and sickeningly cute and happy togetherness. For a (newly) single girl, it’s like pouring salt and alcohol into an open wound and then sticking your fingers (or tongues) into it. The other night, one of the few exes I’ve remained friends with stopped by with his (non-fuctioningly stoned) girlfriend. As they cuddled on the floor in the living room, I fired off a text to my friend Madison. “They just kissed,” it said. “Someone is going to die and my sense of self-preservation is very great so I don’t think it’s going to be me. If anyone asks you, it totally wasn’t a premeditated double-homicide.”
Barring the couples that make me want to choke to death on my own vomit rather than witness yet another of their grope-fests while sitting awkwardly beside me, I actually have a few that I like. Emily and Travis (he’s going to be so pleased I’m writing about him—here’s your love, XOXO!) are one such couple. They’ve been together for over two and a half years, and have progressed past the point of the just-new and romantic to the sort of nonchalant closeness that can really only be achieved after you’ve lived together with someone for an extended period of time and share the same bathroom. Case in point: last night, after Emily made a gentle dig at Travis, he mimed jacking off and ejaculating at her. She laughed and mimed throwing it back at him. I mean, really. I love this. It’s perfect. This sort of playful sense of “you’re such an idiot but I love you anyway” is what I aspire to, one day.
My roommate, close friend, and part-time semi-personal chef Alli whipped up chocolate-covered strawberries and home-made hot cocoa for all of us (yes, this is the life I lead. I am blessed,) as we caught up over Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations". (If there was ever any question, I am totally and utterly besotted with that man. In fact, while watching him eat a mouth-wateringly good-looking sandwich in Brazil, I commented, “I could totally screw Bourdain and eat that sandwich at the same time. Totally. And you know what? He’s probably into shit like that.”) While Travis went to watch what will remain an un-named TV show in the bedroom, Emily, Alli and I all sat in the living room watching (irony,) “He’s Just Not That Into You” and discussing the sort of things women talk about while together: sex, men, porn, food, relationships, marriage (or lack thereof—both Alli and I are of the same school of “I want to live in sin with you forever and ever and ever rather than go through the white dress and pomp and circumstance and legal proceeding” thought), and other things. Here are the general findings of the night:
Sex and “Awkward Firsts”: The first time you have sex with someone is always the worst. You have no idea how the other person jives, what turns them on, or the little things they either like or can’t stand. I always have a problem figuring out how much noise my current partner can tolerate. (It’s a delicate balance, as I am almost unapologetically loud. Legs loved it, but with the much quieter Mr. Perfect I wondered if it was a little bit much.) And then you have to figure out if the person you’re with is a Listener or a Watcher. (A Listener gets off on sound and speech—aka moaning, panting, yelling, screaming and dirty-talk. A Watcher prefers to watch the act of sex and penetration. Most Watchers unsurprisingly have a pretty well-founded porn habit. When I asked Cait how Perfect spends his free time and she responded with “He likes to swim or bike; he spends time with his sister or his best friend who lives right by him; he has high-speed internet-”, I cut her off because that right there answered my question about some of his habits and explained a lot.) You break the moment during foreplay or sex (if you even succeeded in creating a moment,) to give warning notes and asinine information. You effectively sabotage yourself with your nerves. You destroy the very essence that is truly amazing great sex. And for what do you give these warnings about ticklish spots or apologize in advance for anything that either may or may not happen? So that you might hopefully end up having truly great, amazing sex. It’s basically shooting yourself in the foot. Or, more specifically, in the dick or vagina. The only way to really get to know how someone has sex or what they like is to keep having sex with them—something that I’m trying to figure out how to approach after my uncharacteristically nervous first time with Perfect that left me feeling as if I didn’t perform to my high standard and we have since decided to try “just being friends.” To my knowledge and experience, friends don’t shack up and there was no “with benefits” added to the end of that statement, so I have to figure something out. Plotting time is now.
Men, and How To Pick One Up: We came up with this jewel while discussing the heart- and panty-breakingly attractive waiter at a downtown restaurant. Alli started the conversation, and I tried jumping in when Emily cut me off, saying, “Wait! You have to hold your tongue!”
“I can barely hold my legs closed!” I protested, but it was worth it when after Alli came up with the pick-up line of “I just want to know what your mouth feels like. Is that ok? Can we do that?” I was able to come back with a “Possibly your penis in my vagina, too. Is that still ok? Does that sound good?”
Also discussed, Madison’s new boss at her summer job: a twenty-something all-American football-body type guy with the almost buzzed hair and bright blue eyes that bring to mind an apple-pie Marine or man in uniform. His nickname? Juicy McHotHot Boss. Oh yes. That’s one man that gives me office-sex thoughts, which is no mean feat seeing as I’m a journalist to try to escape the cubicle and be able to do my job from somewhere much more comfortable and private—namely, on my bed, in my underwear and a men’s t-shirt, like right now.
Porn, or Girl Porn 101: Some women hate porn. Some women love porn and will watch exactly what the guys watch. Some women have never watched porn. Some women have watched enough porn to get either sick of it or casual about it, because let’s face it—when it comes down to it, it’s just two people having sex. You can do that on your own time. I fall into that last category, but I recently stumbled across the equation for good porn for the every-day woman: foreign porn + a little bit of a plot + hot foreign men + 5 minutes’ worth of oral sex for the woman in it - a half-hour blow-job scene - anal sex or weird fetishes- ridiculous amounts of cum = good porn. “Field of Dreams” and “Cutting It Up In The Kitchen” come highly recommended. Granted, you can’t understand a word they say, but do you really need to?
In other news, summer weather calls for shorter hemlines on sundresses and afternoon plans. My favorite ways for a single girl to keep busy? The Self-Date. Dress up cute, but casual and comfortable, and go take yourself out someplace. (I, yet again, proved to myself that I am not a cheap date the last time I went out for tea and the latest issue of Cosmopolitan and ended up spending over thirty dollars on new novels in Borders.) Here are some of my favorite ideas for spending some quality you-time:
- Find a local tea house or coffee house that has a casual and relaxed atmosphere with couches or armchairs that encourage staying for awhile. Bring a book or magazine and treat yourself to a beverage while you read and relax. Dobra Tea in downtown Burlington has a great dark interior that suits brooding types and heavy thought, while the Vietnamese Sapa around the corner is brighter, more sunny and feminine, and serves not only bubble tea but some of the largest and best chocolate truffles I have ever had, in flavors like champagne, raspberry, crème de menthe, and espresso. Total cost should be somewhere around ten dollars if you bring your own reading material—more if you buy a new magazine for the occasion like I tend to. Also, some books I've read lately and highly reccommend: "The Wilde Women" by Paula Wall (blissfully snarky and sexy), "The Last Summer (Of You & Me)" by Ann Brashares (of "Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" fame and possibly the best book I've ever read), "The Jewel Box" by Anna Davis (Carrie Bradshaw does the 1920s and London), "Girls In Trucks" by Katie Crouch, "Eat, Love, Pray" by Elizabeth Gilbert, "The Moonflower Vine" by Jetta Carleton (lost classic, but goodie), "The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club" by Jessica Morrison, "All This Heavenly Glory" by Elizabeth Crane, and "How To Teach Filthy Rich Girls" by Zoey Dean (of "The A-List" fame).
- Go to the beach and get some sun! Now is the time for free tanning and bikinis! I’m a fan of working out the night before I hit the beach and eating a light breakfast that morning for maximum teeny bikini confidence—freshly worked-out muscle is visibly firmer. Bonus is that most beaches around Burlington are free if you just walk in. (At North Beach, park in Burlington High School’s parking lot if school’s not in session. I’ve even done it sometimes when it is. Shhh!)
- A veritable marathon of good new movies are out—I haven’t heard one person who’s seen it say one bad thing yet about “The Hangover” and “The Proposal” with Ryan Reynolds looks downright yummy if only for him. “The Ugly Truth” with Gerard Butler and the always effervescently lovely Katherine Heigal is coming out soon—a definite must-see. For one ticket, some either chocolatey or buttery snacks and a slushie, you should have yourself a fun time for about twenty dollars.
- Go for a drive, if you have the wheels. Small towns in New England are so charming to drive through. (Hint: if you’re in the Burlington area and planning a short road-trip like this, fill up your tank at the Cumberland Farms or Shell station on Riverside Ave. Gas there is the cheapest in the area that I’ve been able to find.)
- Have a Girl Night. My personal favorite is to hole up either in my room or on the couch with a few episodes of Sex and the City, a few pieces of expensive and good chocolate (Lake Champlain, Lindt, or the cheaper but just as rich and creamy Dove), and a beauty regime. As a true native Vermont girl, I like to mix the natural and the classy—I’m fond of Burt’s Bees: their Milk and Honey lotion, Dr. Burt’s Acne Stick (just as good as the prescription goop I was paying $90 a bottle for), Almond Milk Beeswax hand cream—also good for chapped elbows and knees and heels—, Rosewater and Glycerin Toner, Shea Butter Décolleté Crème—does wonders for firming up the delicate skin—, Marshmallow Vanishing Crème—so refreshing!—and the Evening Primrose Overnight Crème. (That makes the skin on my face so soft and smooth the next day I can barely keep my fingers from caressing it-- potentially awkward!)
Oh, and the title? For those gentlemen of you in the know, boxer-briefs are the way to go. They do for men what the Miracle Bra does for women—puts everything where it should be, makes it look visibly firmer and tighter and bigger, and says, “Hey—look at me. I’m hot stuff.” I’m particular to men in variations in black or dark colors and smooth or silky fabric, myself. While I know that they’re not for every man, I actually suggest doing what Legs used to do (yes, I’m telling you that something he did was right): on the mornings that you wake up and life feels really normal, wear your beloved boxers. If you wake up and feel like today’s a good day and something exciting or special is going to happen, whip out the boxer-briefs.
And if you’re a die-hard boxer man—solids, stripes, and tasteful plaids are the way to go. (Actually, I love a man in plaids.) Please, overwhelming patterns of things like hotdogs, crabs, surfing pigs, or bananas (if you don’t believe me, go to ae.com and look at the men’s boxer selection), are absolutely either crass or juvenile. If I were to undress a man and find “party pickles” on his boxers, that would be my cue to walk out the door. Just saying.
Until next time,
XOXO.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
This Isn't A Hostage Situation, This Is A Relationship.
I have a friend about whom an inside joke is often passed around about. It deals with the fact that while we know and remember well when her relationship with her ex-boyfriend ended (and believe me, I know and remember that night well. I was pulled out of having sex with Legs when his room phone rang and he answered it with a mystified look on his face and handed it over to me, saying “Um, it’s for you,”), and we know that she knows that it ended—there was enough crying and grieving for this fact to be very obvious—but since then, she’s stayed so close and friendly with her ex that it causes us to roll our eyes and say poignantly as she trots down to his room night after night, “She got the memo, but she’s forgotten she ever read it.”
What I’ve decided to try is not that. Oh no. I got the memo that Perfect and I had a conversation about what we were doing and where it was going, and we both agreed that jumping ship now was logical seeing as he’s going away to college for the first time in the fall—dear reader, have I ever mentioned he’s six months younger than I? Well, he is, and deferred a year to boot, which would make him a lowly freshmen and me a lordly (ladyly?) junior—and doesn’t want to start a relationship that he doesn’t know could survive the move, 3 and a half hour drive, and emotional tension of not knowing where your significant other is, who they’re with, or what they’re doing at all times. (I get the feeling he could care less about things like that for the most part. I, unfortunately, live, breathe and survive for these not-so-small details. After being cheated on once (thank you, Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend of six months), I’m very partial to knowing these things, and along with my penchant for jealousy and the fact that Perfect attracts female friends to himself like a walking, talking tower of muscular honey to their lusting, loving, besotted bees, this all seems logical for our non-continuation.)
Logical, I am not. Unfortunately, he is so practical and linear in his thinking that you could probably align your new Ikea bookshelf’s levelness with his thought-process.
What I propose instead is holding this relationship or whatever we have (had?) going hostage. Yes, that’s right—I’m not just going to take this laying down. I’ve heard the phrase, “it takes two people to be in a relationship, but only one to end it,” before, and for the most part, I agree. Our decision was more or less mutual—him more mutual, me less. He was the one that laid down the “I don’t want to start a relationship right now” line. I was the one who tried to compromise by waving the “can we back down to just having sex?” flag. Thankfully, he called my bluff and raised me an “I don’t think we can just do that. I’m past that point in my life.” I settled with his “let’s continue to keep in touch and visit and stay friends.” What I was thinking was, “what do you suppose the land-speed record for getting you back into my bed will be?”
I figure if anyone can hold a relationship hostage, it would be me. I am a master negotiator since childhood (being an only child and spoiled rotten will do that for you). I am used to getting what I set out for and not used to taking “no” as an acceptable answer and see no reason to start now, especially as this is something I genuinely care about. Who should be afraid of a little relationship pain? I am a big girl (actually, I’m rather petite, but you get the point). He is a big boy (literally). I’ve been through the worst—being completely and absolutely deserted by the man I loved after he took what he wanted from me and graduated, moving to Maine and days filled with waiting tables and smoking weed. Perfect was cheated on by the first girl he seriously dated, and left by the first girl he loved for another guy. We’re both no strangers to heartbreak. Which makes me wonder why two strong people should be afraid of something like distance and possible work to get what they both want.
So, I got that memo about the whole “no-more-sex” thing. I also received the one about staying close. And I definitely read, underlined, and took notes on the one where we both agreed on the same things: our mutual “clicking”, enjoying spending time together, and being together. Here’s where I’m ready to negotiate with Mr. Perfect: I will refrain from initiating sexting. I will refrain from wildly ripping the clothing off of his body when I see him, like I have the strongest urge to partly because he’s down-right delicious and partly to prove that the sex we had was not the best I can give, by far (this is the fact of our treaty that probably irks me the most, no lie. He has an idea about how I go about sex that is completely different from the normal, sober and absolutely fabulous way it really is). I will allow a few more days or hours to pass between our texts and messages than I have previously. I will appear to back down, a bit.
BUT.
I am not going to be persuaded into this peace-treaty so easily. I am not going to back down and lay down. My middle name shall no longer be “Doormat”—I will not say “welcome” to all stipulations. I’m going to fight for this. Part of this comes from the fact that although I’ll admit this was the easiest break-up ever, possibly because it wasn’t “I’m just not that into you” but “I’m into you but I don’t know if we can do this without getting more hurt in the long run,” as well as partly being because after going through what Legs put me through anything short of being shot at point-blank range by a lover wouldn’t sway or shock me. Another large part is because of the fact that after more-or-less surviving the horrible relationships and break-ups of my past, I do not blossom to new relationship candidates horribly quickly. Sure, ok, my legs may spring apart like a well-oiled nutcracker, but my secrets and fears and desires and thoughts are slower in coming. (Much slower.) Because of this unfortunate fact and the short time-span Perfect and I spent “together-ish,” he is not aware of the fact that I’m quite possibly the world’s hardest worker inside of a relationship I think is worth it. Or even passably worth it, if the relationships of the past are anything to judge by. I’ve done distance like between his house and my apartment before—although then it was my house and the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend’s apartment and a half-hour away, not 45 minutes away. I can be that girlfriend that makes other guys sigh and consider trading in theirs for. I travelled to frisbee tournaments and doled out Icy-Hot, Gatorade, and kisses. I stay equal if not more active in the sex-drive groove of things. I road-trip to visit with the best of them because I actually enjoy driving. I accepted custody of dogs on weekends with all the gravity of a divorced mother. I buy condoms and usually go Dutch on dinner. I love and appreciate football and action movies. I played Boyfriend-Catch-And-Fetch-Express to those of which didn’t have cars. I hid weed on my body and in my personal possessions so that it could be sold and distributed more easily. I cook for Guy’s Night—and I cook in the first place. I bake like a fiend. I snuck favorite treats into cars and lockers and gym bags. I swallow, for Christ’s sake. But does Perfect know any of this? No. So guess what? Perfect is going to learn some of this, whether he thinks he is or not.
It’s genius and more than a little sneaky. If done right, Perfect will never even notice that while we had that “what are we doing, where is it going, and how is this going to work out” conversation that ended in a “let’s be friends for now” clause, he’s actually still in exactly the same thing he was in previously. Sure, the invitations to visit won’t be based on my naked body and The Party Shower in my apartment, but there will be invitations to things like clubbing and sailing and beach days and nights, clothing optional for the skinny-dipping man. (I can also think of no better things to tempt a self-professed “love to grind” dancing man back into temptation and my bed than going somewhere dark and hot and sweating it out pressed together on the dance floor. And you better believe I’ve got moves.) And ok, so I won’t be participating in blatant sexting anymore, but I’ve got a vocabulary a mile wide that contains many words with innuendo-filled meanings that a young guy can’t help but notice and think about.
Can you hear my evil chuckle, reader? I live for this sort of thing.
Perfect himself is showing some promise as far as being a happy hostage is concerned. Playing the Perfect Gentleman as always, he called Cait the day after he and I had our conversation to ask her how I was because he didn’t want to contact me before I contacted him first, not wanting to risk upsetting me or pushing in on my reflection time. (Cait, for her part, as much as I love her to pieces, did not really aide in my plans when she told him I was “fine, a strong girl, and going to find something new and exciting.” Not quite the message I would have wanted him to get as I’m not quite “fine” and certainly not looking for something “new and exciting” yet.)
(Attention for an important Side Note: It should be noted that despite the well-meaning but misplaced comment above, Cait is an invaluable source for information on all things Perfect. Being the one who set us up and has been one of his closest friends for the past few years, her knowledge is where I go to for insight into his behavior. The skinny-dipping text message incident that drove me bonkers? “Well, it doesn’t seem like him to say something like that to make you jealous, and he always goes skinny-dipping, so I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
As for the whole distance-relationship thing not working? Cait gave a decisive snort. “He probably talked to Baby Mix about it. He’s the only person Mr. Perfect really talks to about his feelings. Baby Mix probably told him it wouldn’t work and to dump all home baggage before leaving. He probably said, “Look at what happened to me and Cait.”” If you can’t tell, that was one hell of a long-distance break-down and break-up.
And possibly most telling, this gem: “You two clicked. That can’t be denied or taken away. He wouldn’t have slept with you and visited and texted and kept so in touch if he was just leading you on to dump you. That’s not Perfect. But if he’s having feelings that he doesn’t think will work out in the college scheme and get him and you more hurt later, yeah, he’s going to try to do the best by both of you, even if it isn’t what either of you really want right now.” And that I won’t deny—he’s done right by me. I’m the one who’s a sucker for the trying things that probably won’t work. Closet masochist, anyone? Or not so closet…)
These above “feeling” related insights and the instance of the caring enough to check in even if he can’t do it first-hand are the reasons why I’m not ready to give up on this thing yet, even if Perfect thinks he’s helping me and himself out. If he’s got the right feelings now, and I’ve got the right feelings now and we’re in the same place, why not? So, yes, maybe it may not work out. And yes, maybe we will get a little banged up and emotionally dented and hurt in the long run. But you know what? I’m willing to try, and try hard. As a dear friend of mine once said, “We’re big fans of trying real hard.” Another one of my closest friends, Emily, herself the veteran of a two-and-a-half-year relationship still going strong that was a year of distance between Pennsylvania and Vermont, has given me the thumbs up in trying the distance thing. “If you let a relationship happen, and it’s good, who says it can’t make it the distance in college if you’re willing to try?” she says. Perfect’s worth the trying, from the little I’ve learned and felt and seen in our month. And I like to think that if the boy has any sort of feelings like that for me, I’m not one to correct his assumptions and set him straight. He can get on with him and his feelings and his bad self and actually do the leg- and time work to discover if I really am worth it or not. Just trying is a beautiful thing. I’ve learned some of my best lessons in life just trying. I highly suggest it, not just to him, but also to you, too.
Today, when I texted him—the most seemingly cliché text ever: “Hey. How are you?”, four three-letter words that tried for nonchalance while still feeling heavy—for the first time since we talked that fateful night, he responded later within seconds of getting coverage, per usual. (God love Verizon for letting you know the instant when other members have received a text. It’s almost better and certainly less creepy than a personal GPS unit imbedded in your lover. Again with the “knowing where and when” thing and its importance to me.)
“Good, you?” he responded. (Actually, in his text, there was no comma between the two words, but it hurts my writer’s and writing tutor’s eyes to even imagine leaving it that way, let alone typing it. We’ll forgive him, though—he’s dyslexic and not a huge fan for writing or good at it by any means. One imperfection I actually find endearing when it’s not his only choice of punctuation—the exclamation point—unwittingly on his end screaming at me from my cell phone’s screen.)
Due to the late hour—11 PM—and his habit of going to bed at the unreasonable hour of somewhere between 10 and 11 PM that being an early-morning hours night-owl I just can’t fathom, I responded as lightly at first as possible before hitting the real point. “I can’t believe you’re still up, hahaha. I’m ok.”
“Good! Yeah, we were out late.” (I like the assurance of good-feeling to my well-being, and I’m taking the “we” to mean him and his best friend and other half, whom because of his appearance made my roommate remark that he looked like the young offspring of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp shall henceforth be referred to as “Baby Mix”, whom he is apparently staying with for the weekend. Any further guesstimations on the “we” make my head hurt and stomach clench uncomfortably. Also, they’re very unfounded, where as Baby Mix is well founded as he’s Cait’s dreaded ex and she likes to have Perfect keep her informed as to where Baby Mix is and what’s going on to remain as far away from him as possible. Ah, the tangled webs we college students weave with our high-school romances and continuing friendships.)
Realizing I had nothing more to really say to Perfect, short of “I think we’re making a massive mistake and don’t you know I’m willing to work at this?”, I opted for a Little White Lie. “I’m actually getting ready for bed—I’m trying to get to bed sooner and wake up earlier. And by ‘earlier’ I mean around 9:30. Can I text you back tomorrow? I’m turning in.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Night!” (Again, no comma in actually text, but you better believe it’s legit because of that exclamation mark.)
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I promised. “Goodnight.”
Overall, a nice start to the “we’re going to keep things normal starting with communication” part of our deal and my plan. Basically, I’m mostly disregarding what we agreed on and angling for a relationship to happen anyway (out-of-the-blue to him until the day he wakes up and goes, “Wait…I think…”), and will try to make it work when he goes to college. I’ll keep you posted on how the rest of this hostage situation goes, of course. Until then, good luck with your own “trying” endeavors.
XOXO.
What I’ve decided to try is not that. Oh no. I got the memo that Perfect and I had a conversation about what we were doing and where it was going, and we both agreed that jumping ship now was logical seeing as he’s going away to college for the first time in the fall—dear reader, have I ever mentioned he’s six months younger than I? Well, he is, and deferred a year to boot, which would make him a lowly freshmen and me a lordly (ladyly?) junior—and doesn’t want to start a relationship that he doesn’t know could survive the move, 3 and a half hour drive, and emotional tension of not knowing where your significant other is, who they’re with, or what they’re doing at all times. (I get the feeling he could care less about things like that for the most part. I, unfortunately, live, breathe and survive for these not-so-small details. After being cheated on once (thank you, Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend of six months), I’m very partial to knowing these things, and along with my penchant for jealousy and the fact that Perfect attracts female friends to himself like a walking, talking tower of muscular honey to their lusting, loving, besotted bees, this all seems logical for our non-continuation.)
Logical, I am not. Unfortunately, he is so practical and linear in his thinking that you could probably align your new Ikea bookshelf’s levelness with his thought-process.
What I propose instead is holding this relationship or whatever we have (had?) going hostage. Yes, that’s right—I’m not just going to take this laying down. I’ve heard the phrase, “it takes two people to be in a relationship, but only one to end it,” before, and for the most part, I agree. Our decision was more or less mutual—him more mutual, me less. He was the one that laid down the “I don’t want to start a relationship right now” line. I was the one who tried to compromise by waving the “can we back down to just having sex?” flag. Thankfully, he called my bluff and raised me an “I don’t think we can just do that. I’m past that point in my life.” I settled with his “let’s continue to keep in touch and visit and stay friends.” What I was thinking was, “what do you suppose the land-speed record for getting you back into my bed will be?”
I figure if anyone can hold a relationship hostage, it would be me. I am a master negotiator since childhood (being an only child and spoiled rotten will do that for you). I am used to getting what I set out for and not used to taking “no” as an acceptable answer and see no reason to start now, especially as this is something I genuinely care about. Who should be afraid of a little relationship pain? I am a big girl (actually, I’m rather petite, but you get the point). He is a big boy (literally). I’ve been through the worst—being completely and absolutely deserted by the man I loved after he took what he wanted from me and graduated, moving to Maine and days filled with waiting tables and smoking weed. Perfect was cheated on by the first girl he seriously dated, and left by the first girl he loved for another guy. We’re both no strangers to heartbreak. Which makes me wonder why two strong people should be afraid of something like distance and possible work to get what they both want.
So, I got that memo about the whole “no-more-sex” thing. I also received the one about staying close. And I definitely read, underlined, and took notes on the one where we both agreed on the same things: our mutual “clicking”, enjoying spending time together, and being together. Here’s where I’m ready to negotiate with Mr. Perfect: I will refrain from initiating sexting. I will refrain from wildly ripping the clothing off of his body when I see him, like I have the strongest urge to partly because he’s down-right delicious and partly to prove that the sex we had was not the best I can give, by far (this is the fact of our treaty that probably irks me the most, no lie. He has an idea about how I go about sex that is completely different from the normal, sober and absolutely fabulous way it really is). I will allow a few more days or hours to pass between our texts and messages than I have previously. I will appear to back down, a bit.
BUT.
I am not going to be persuaded into this peace-treaty so easily. I am not going to back down and lay down. My middle name shall no longer be “Doormat”—I will not say “welcome” to all stipulations. I’m going to fight for this. Part of this comes from the fact that although I’ll admit this was the easiest break-up ever, possibly because it wasn’t “I’m just not that into you” but “I’m into you but I don’t know if we can do this without getting more hurt in the long run,” as well as partly being because after going through what Legs put me through anything short of being shot at point-blank range by a lover wouldn’t sway or shock me. Another large part is because of the fact that after more-or-less surviving the horrible relationships and break-ups of my past, I do not blossom to new relationship candidates horribly quickly. Sure, ok, my legs may spring apart like a well-oiled nutcracker, but my secrets and fears and desires and thoughts are slower in coming. (Much slower.) Because of this unfortunate fact and the short time-span Perfect and I spent “together-ish,” he is not aware of the fact that I’m quite possibly the world’s hardest worker inside of a relationship I think is worth it. Or even passably worth it, if the relationships of the past are anything to judge by. I’ve done distance like between his house and my apartment before—although then it was my house and the Inappropriately-Aged Boyfriend’s apartment and a half-hour away, not 45 minutes away. I can be that girlfriend that makes other guys sigh and consider trading in theirs for. I travelled to frisbee tournaments and doled out Icy-Hot, Gatorade, and kisses. I stay equal if not more active in the sex-drive groove of things. I road-trip to visit with the best of them because I actually enjoy driving. I accepted custody of dogs on weekends with all the gravity of a divorced mother. I buy condoms and usually go Dutch on dinner. I love and appreciate football and action movies. I played Boyfriend-Catch-And-Fetch-Express to those of which didn’t have cars. I hid weed on my body and in my personal possessions so that it could be sold and distributed more easily. I cook for Guy’s Night—and I cook in the first place. I bake like a fiend. I snuck favorite treats into cars and lockers and gym bags. I swallow, for Christ’s sake. But does Perfect know any of this? No. So guess what? Perfect is going to learn some of this, whether he thinks he is or not.
It’s genius and more than a little sneaky. If done right, Perfect will never even notice that while we had that “what are we doing, where is it going, and how is this going to work out” conversation that ended in a “let’s be friends for now” clause, he’s actually still in exactly the same thing he was in previously. Sure, the invitations to visit won’t be based on my naked body and The Party Shower in my apartment, but there will be invitations to things like clubbing and sailing and beach days and nights, clothing optional for the skinny-dipping man. (I can also think of no better things to tempt a self-professed “love to grind” dancing man back into temptation and my bed than going somewhere dark and hot and sweating it out pressed together on the dance floor. And you better believe I’ve got moves.) And ok, so I won’t be participating in blatant sexting anymore, but I’ve got a vocabulary a mile wide that contains many words with innuendo-filled meanings that a young guy can’t help but notice and think about.
Can you hear my evil chuckle, reader? I live for this sort of thing.
Perfect himself is showing some promise as far as being a happy hostage is concerned. Playing the Perfect Gentleman as always, he called Cait the day after he and I had our conversation to ask her how I was because he didn’t want to contact me before I contacted him first, not wanting to risk upsetting me or pushing in on my reflection time. (Cait, for her part, as much as I love her to pieces, did not really aide in my plans when she told him I was “fine, a strong girl, and going to find something new and exciting.” Not quite the message I would have wanted him to get as I’m not quite “fine” and certainly not looking for something “new and exciting” yet.)
(Attention for an important Side Note: It should be noted that despite the well-meaning but misplaced comment above, Cait is an invaluable source for information on all things Perfect. Being the one who set us up and has been one of his closest friends for the past few years, her knowledge is where I go to for insight into his behavior. The skinny-dipping text message incident that drove me bonkers? “Well, it doesn’t seem like him to say something like that to make you jealous, and he always goes skinny-dipping, so I don’t think it’s a big deal.”
As for the whole distance-relationship thing not working? Cait gave a decisive snort. “He probably talked to Baby Mix about it. He’s the only person Mr. Perfect really talks to about his feelings. Baby Mix probably told him it wouldn’t work and to dump all home baggage before leaving. He probably said, “Look at what happened to me and Cait.”” If you can’t tell, that was one hell of a long-distance break-down and break-up.
And possibly most telling, this gem: “You two clicked. That can’t be denied or taken away. He wouldn’t have slept with you and visited and texted and kept so in touch if he was just leading you on to dump you. That’s not Perfect. But if he’s having feelings that he doesn’t think will work out in the college scheme and get him and you more hurt later, yeah, he’s going to try to do the best by both of you, even if it isn’t what either of you really want right now.” And that I won’t deny—he’s done right by me. I’m the one who’s a sucker for the trying things that probably won’t work. Closet masochist, anyone? Or not so closet…)
These above “feeling” related insights and the instance of the caring enough to check in even if he can’t do it first-hand are the reasons why I’m not ready to give up on this thing yet, even if Perfect thinks he’s helping me and himself out. If he’s got the right feelings now, and I’ve got the right feelings now and we’re in the same place, why not? So, yes, maybe it may not work out. And yes, maybe we will get a little banged up and emotionally dented and hurt in the long run. But you know what? I’m willing to try, and try hard. As a dear friend of mine once said, “We’re big fans of trying real hard.” Another one of my closest friends, Emily, herself the veteran of a two-and-a-half-year relationship still going strong that was a year of distance between Pennsylvania and Vermont, has given me the thumbs up in trying the distance thing. “If you let a relationship happen, and it’s good, who says it can’t make it the distance in college if you’re willing to try?” she says. Perfect’s worth the trying, from the little I’ve learned and felt and seen in our month. And I like to think that if the boy has any sort of feelings like that for me, I’m not one to correct his assumptions and set him straight. He can get on with him and his feelings and his bad self and actually do the leg- and time work to discover if I really am worth it or not. Just trying is a beautiful thing. I’ve learned some of my best lessons in life just trying. I highly suggest it, not just to him, but also to you, too.
Today, when I texted him—the most seemingly cliché text ever: “Hey. How are you?”, four three-letter words that tried for nonchalance while still feeling heavy—for the first time since we talked that fateful night, he responded later within seconds of getting coverage, per usual. (God love Verizon for letting you know the instant when other members have received a text. It’s almost better and certainly less creepy than a personal GPS unit imbedded in your lover. Again with the “knowing where and when” thing and its importance to me.)
“Good, you?” he responded. (Actually, in his text, there was no comma between the two words, but it hurts my writer’s and writing tutor’s eyes to even imagine leaving it that way, let alone typing it. We’ll forgive him, though—he’s dyslexic and not a huge fan for writing or good at it by any means. One imperfection I actually find endearing when it’s not his only choice of punctuation—the exclamation point—unwittingly on his end screaming at me from my cell phone’s screen.)
Due to the late hour—11 PM—and his habit of going to bed at the unreasonable hour of somewhere between 10 and 11 PM that being an early-morning hours night-owl I just can’t fathom, I responded as lightly at first as possible before hitting the real point. “I can’t believe you’re still up, hahaha. I’m ok.”
“Good! Yeah, we were out late.” (I like the assurance of good-feeling to my well-being, and I’m taking the “we” to mean him and his best friend and other half, whom because of his appearance made my roommate remark that he looked like the young offspring of Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp shall henceforth be referred to as “Baby Mix”, whom he is apparently staying with for the weekend. Any further guesstimations on the “we” make my head hurt and stomach clench uncomfortably. Also, they’re very unfounded, where as Baby Mix is well founded as he’s Cait’s dreaded ex and she likes to have Perfect keep her informed as to where Baby Mix is and what’s going on to remain as far away from him as possible. Ah, the tangled webs we college students weave with our high-school romances and continuing friendships.)
Realizing I had nothing more to really say to Perfect, short of “I think we’re making a massive mistake and don’t you know I’m willing to work at this?”, I opted for a Little White Lie. “I’m actually getting ready for bed—I’m trying to get to bed sooner and wake up earlier. And by ‘earlier’ I mean around 9:30. Can I text you back tomorrow? I’m turning in.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Night!” (Again, no comma in actually text, but you better believe it’s legit because of that exclamation mark.)
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” I promised. “Goodnight.”
Overall, a nice start to the “we’re going to keep things normal starting with communication” part of our deal and my plan. Basically, I’m mostly disregarding what we agreed on and angling for a relationship to happen anyway (out-of-the-blue to him until the day he wakes up and goes, “Wait…I think…”), and will try to make it work when he goes to college. I’ll keep you posted on how the rest of this hostage situation goes, of course. Until then, good luck with your own “trying” endeavors.
XOXO.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
How To Find And Lose A Guy In One Month
Screw “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.” After my forth failed one-month relationship with a guy (yes, that is four different separate incidences), I decided that by this point, I’ve become a veritable mistress on the subtleties and nuances of how to find, and lose, a guy in one month.
The first one-month stint ended mutually because Catholic Boy loved God and his Mommy too much to be flexible with a pagan princess. The second time, I was dumped via text message after the foreshadowing “fade-away” tactical maneuvers the Flaky Artist put me through. The third time around, still not any wiser, Legs graduated and deserted my life, sans calls, sans text, sans messaging in a move that would have made Witness Protection proud. This last time, coming to you hot off the emotional presses as of an 8:30 PM phone call last night, was by far the most healthy and normal “monther”, if you can get over the irony of that statement.
And so, without further ado, I give to you, dear reader, my pearls of wisdom in how to find and lose a guy in one month, four weeks, or 28-31 days, which ever seems most appealing to you. (For the record, Perfect and I somehow made it to one month, one day, and a three minute and 34 phone call. Achievement.)
Step One: Have a friend, preferably living with you, decide to introduce you to their best guy friend that they’ve known for years. Listen to them sing their praises, look at the pictures they show you, (you must see the goods, after all,) and then, (this is VERY IMPORTANT!) decide that this friend-of-a-friend is “no big deal” and you will “maybe meet them for a few minutes if you’re home when they come to visit.”
(Step One, Side Note: It is imperative that this guy friend of your friend/roommate lives 45 minutes or more away, took a year off between graduating high school and college, and is starting college in the fall, three and a half hours away. We’ll get back to this. Bonus points if he loves dancing and salsa dances, traveling, sings and plays and instrument, used to ride horses, spends two hours a day at the gym, and is as frankly sexual and explicit as you are.)
Step Two: Actually be home when the male friend comes to visit. Actually, be the one that opens the door for your friend/roommate and their visiting friend. Watch this person who you previously deemed not really worth your interest walk across a dark and dreary parking garage and think only one thing: “Wow.”
Step Three: While you are getting acquainted with this impossibly attractive, funny, hulking manbeast with your two other female roommates, be sure to send them both a furtive text message as soon as humanly possible after deciding that you like this dude’s groove. It need only be one word: “Mine!” and it will also serve as a time-stamp as to when you first laid dibs and made moves on this guy. Slink away to make a note that you have found the World’ Perfect Guy on Twitter, and then realize that That Perfect Guy is actually standing in your doorway, watching you Tweet away. Pretend nothing ever happened. Also, make sure, via your friend/roommate, after her guest leaves, that you two both mutually dig each other. (Addendum clause: Just a hint, alcohol should be involved somewhere in this first meeting with each other, as it will lubricate your tongue and unhinge your brain from your mouth and cause you to actually have the Jose Cuervo balls to say something like, “Are you a player?” to this person you may be interested in seeing again when his cell phone won’t stop vibrating with other girl’s texts. Bonus points if all these girl’s names begin with the letter J. But hold off on the spilling things and falling down until after he leaves.)
(Step Three, Side Note: If at all possible, have your friend/roommate’s birthday be within the next four days, and try not to be too excited when, less than twenty minutes after he leaves, your friend/roommate’s guy friend texts you to tell you how nice it was to meet you, and that he’ll be seeing you again soon for that birthday.)
Step Four: Four days later, when the friend/roommate’s friend comes back for the birthday, get both of you drunk. When it looks like he’ll have to sleep on the living room floor, in your intoxicated state(both by the liquor and by the lust), invite him to share your bed, saying you don’t take up much room with a liquidly coquettish look. After hours of playing, piggy-back rides, talking, and in the dark of your room, both of you laying in your bed, him on his back, you on your stomach, sometimes both of you curling in on your sides to face each other like a set of parenthesis, him using his cell phone to play you the music he wrote, sang, and played—sleep with him. Yes, you heard it right. The second time you meet this person, have sex with them. Really.
Step Five: Make sure the next morning is really awkward-- that you have to leave for a road trip at 9 AM; that your mother calls you while the guy is still laying in your bed naked and you are three feet away; you discover that you’ve left scratch marks all over his arms and back like he was mauled by a wildcat while trekking through the Amazon; that you will feel really bad for the girl who spent the night on your couch and probably had to listen to both your friend/roommate and her boyfriend get it on, not to mention you and the guy you slept with, who, oh, did we mention? is also a friend of the girl-on-the-couch’s…go through your morning routine in a flurried state because you’re trying to pack, and leave, putting your deodorant and acne stuff and make-up on in front of this guy who’s just lounging in your bed and watching you in fascination, and somehow try to figure out if he is ok with what happened, and is happening, or just as appalled as you are…sit and talk with everyone around breakfast for ten minutes, then wave an awkward good-bye to your friend/roommate, the girl-on-the-couch, and the guy while running out the door.
Step Six: Do not stress about this for the next six hours. Who am I kidding? Be massively, wretchedly, not-butterflies-but-rabbits-gnawing-on-your-stomach-lining worried about this. Continue feeling this way on-and-off throughout the next month because he is PERFECT, perfectperfectperfect, and you are a recovering alcoholic with a cigarette problem who previously has only dated losers and didn’t perform so well last night because of your extreme state of intoxication and nervousness because HE’S SO PERFECT and OH! you can barely even remember most of what happened other than the sight of his long, dark eyelashes and bulging biceps in the yellow glow of your lamp, set to its dimmest and most ‘moody’ setting.
(Step Six, Side Note: Over the next month, gradually remember more bits and pieces from that night in the most random times and in the most random places, like during your first meeting with your internship boss in her office. Try to make sure she doesn’t notice you’ve broken out in a light sweat and are trembling.)
Step Seven: Feel 16, 891,212 times better about this when the guy texts you that afternoon to check in, see how your road trip was, and acts completely normal. Continue to exchange texts, phone calls, and Facebook messages almost daily for the next not-quite-a-month now. Make plans for him to come and visit which will inevitable fall through because he gets sick. Sext with him while interviewing bikers at a local pizza places’ Bike Night. Then, be over-the-moon when he comes to visit a friend in the same town and makes plans to see you—this will happen twice—, and you end up seeing each other three days in a row, or four days in one week, culminating in him coming to your birthday bash and meeting all of your friends who will all adore him, even the guys—one (straight) guy going so far as to call him “studly”—, and going to his old high school’s graduation with your friend/roommate who also went there, where you will meet a few of his friends, see, but not meet, his father, and have two hometown girls try to roast you alive where you stand on the track with the ferocity of their gazes when you walk up and start to talk to him.
(Step Seven, Side Note: Buy a new very summery, cute and demure dress for this graduation experience as you will have nothing parent, child, or parent-and-child-attending-event friendly in your closest.)
Step Eight: Toward the end of the month, while sexting (per usual—you will have to become very adept at this quickly, as well as not to succumbing to demands for photos of you, or the lingerie you just bought, or you in the lingerie you just bought, no matter how much you really want to, because really, as the friend/roommate says, he is a hound and it’s better to keep the suspense going), when he tells you in response to your “I’m so horny they need to invent a new word for it because I destroyed the meaning of the previous one,” text to “fix it,” pretend to ignore this text and don’t respond in your livid rage. Actually, this is a good move. For real.
Step Nine: Get woken up at quarter to eight the next morning when he texts you asking, “Did you get my text last night? You never said anything back!” Be elated he actually realized your uncharacteristic silence meant something. To applaud this good behavior, go out and spend over $200 in Victoria’s Secret on assorted bras, underwear, and garters. Also, totally ignore your tried-and-true buying-men-clothing-never-turns-out-well curse (case in point: that purple men’s large hoodie draped over the back of your chair that now doubles as your second bathrobe instead of actually ever going to the person it was bought for), and buy the boy two brightly colored t-shirts that will look striking as all hell on him because you remember the “I only wear muted colors but want to start wearing brighter shirts” conversation you had with him.
(Step Nine, Side Note: Now, look back on this later and realize that although ridiculously inexpensive, it STILL is not a good idea to buy men who you are seeing clothing, because this is also the fourth time you have bought clothing and been left with it and a potentially awkward, “Um, so I know this is kind of weird now, but I bought you these shirts before, so here, have them,” conversation.)
Step Ten: After a couple days of feeling weird and waking up from cryptic dreams to find yourself clinging desperately and apologetically to the body pillow as a stand-in for him, totally freak out (to yourself, your roommate, and your friend/now ex-roommate, but not to him), when he sends you a text saying he went skinny-dipping with friends late last night—a guy and about six other girls. Oh, and it was “fun but cold.” Rant and rage to everyone but him, to whom you say it does sound like it was “fun but cold.” Get up on your Jealous Horse (not a far climb), get it to calm down and get somewhat under control (for the most part), and spend an hour drafting the perfect “I have something to tell you, and what it is is that I have no clue what’s going on between us” text that hits all the right hints of self-depreciating, caring, and chill. A text that basically says, “Hey, so it may be No Big Deal, but I got a little jealous and realized I need to figure out where I stand.” Wait an hour for him to text you back. When your cell rings with his custom ringtone, know it is not good instantly and retreat into a room more suited for talking to him than on the couch with the friend/ex-roommate holding a hookah pipe. Take a few seconds to make “oh, shit, I’m in trouble but let’s pretend I’m not and SO CHILL” small-talk with him starting with “what’s up?” like you have no idea what’s going on and then going on to ask him about the movie he just saw, before he cuts to the chase and asks YOU where you stand on things. Come clean and tell him jealousy is a “less-admirable trait” of yours. Tell him you “really like him and enjoy spending time with him and seeing him.” When he tells you that he also enjoys you and those things but is heading to college in the fall and so not looking to start a relationship back at home that he doesn’t know will survive the transfer(refer to Step One’s Side Note!), decide you’re ok with still just having sex as a last-ditch effort. He comes back with “I’ve been thinking the past few weeks and I think that I’m past that.” Realize that you are both on the same page, in the same book, in the same place—hooking up is not enough, a relationship is too much, but somewhere in the middle (AKA: business as usual) would be great but neither can see it progressing without actually turning into a relationship—but it’s the wrong time. Decide to stay in touch as usual, still visit, and “just be friends” for now, even as your libido, bank account, and daydreams cry. End relationSHIT. Hang up phone. Proceed to smoke through three cigarettes and drink yourself so drunk you try mistakenly watering your just-blossomed marigold plant with the Smirnoff.
Voila! You have successfully found, met, bedded, casually saw, and lost a man in under a month! I would say “Congratulations,” but that hollow feeling in your chest and the sense of whiplash at how fast it all started and ended kind of cancels that out, doesn’t it?
(Author’s Note: No real people were used in the creation of this column. Any personality traits, characteristics, places, or events mentioned therein are all merely coincidental if they are you or happened to you. Except for if you’re the authoress and then, yes, they all happened to you and they are all real people mentioned.)
XOXO
The first one-month stint ended mutually because Catholic Boy loved God and his Mommy too much to be flexible with a pagan princess. The second time, I was dumped via text message after the foreshadowing “fade-away” tactical maneuvers the Flaky Artist put me through. The third time around, still not any wiser, Legs graduated and deserted my life, sans calls, sans text, sans messaging in a move that would have made Witness Protection proud. This last time, coming to you hot off the emotional presses as of an 8:30 PM phone call last night, was by far the most healthy and normal “monther”, if you can get over the irony of that statement.
And so, without further ado, I give to you, dear reader, my pearls of wisdom in how to find and lose a guy in one month, four weeks, or 28-31 days, which ever seems most appealing to you. (For the record, Perfect and I somehow made it to one month, one day, and a three minute and 34 phone call. Achievement.)
Step One: Have a friend, preferably living with you, decide to introduce you to their best guy friend that they’ve known for years. Listen to them sing their praises, look at the pictures they show you, (you must see the goods, after all,) and then, (this is VERY IMPORTANT!) decide that this friend-of-a-friend is “no big deal” and you will “maybe meet them for a few minutes if you’re home when they come to visit.”
(Step One, Side Note: It is imperative that this guy friend of your friend/roommate lives 45 minutes or more away, took a year off between graduating high school and college, and is starting college in the fall, three and a half hours away. We’ll get back to this. Bonus points if he loves dancing and salsa dances, traveling, sings and plays and instrument, used to ride horses, spends two hours a day at the gym, and is as frankly sexual and explicit as you are.)
Step Two: Actually be home when the male friend comes to visit. Actually, be the one that opens the door for your friend/roommate and their visiting friend. Watch this person who you previously deemed not really worth your interest walk across a dark and dreary parking garage and think only one thing: “Wow.”
Step Three: While you are getting acquainted with this impossibly attractive, funny, hulking manbeast with your two other female roommates, be sure to send them both a furtive text message as soon as humanly possible after deciding that you like this dude’s groove. It need only be one word: “Mine!” and it will also serve as a time-stamp as to when you first laid dibs and made moves on this guy. Slink away to make a note that you have found the World’ Perfect Guy on Twitter, and then realize that That Perfect Guy is actually standing in your doorway, watching you Tweet away. Pretend nothing ever happened. Also, make sure, via your friend/roommate, after her guest leaves, that you two both mutually dig each other. (Addendum clause: Just a hint, alcohol should be involved somewhere in this first meeting with each other, as it will lubricate your tongue and unhinge your brain from your mouth and cause you to actually have the Jose Cuervo balls to say something like, “Are you a player?” to this person you may be interested in seeing again when his cell phone won’t stop vibrating with other girl’s texts. Bonus points if all these girl’s names begin with the letter J. But hold off on the spilling things and falling down until after he leaves.)
(Step Three, Side Note: If at all possible, have your friend/roommate’s birthday be within the next four days, and try not to be too excited when, less than twenty minutes after he leaves, your friend/roommate’s guy friend texts you to tell you how nice it was to meet you, and that he’ll be seeing you again soon for that birthday.)
Step Four: Four days later, when the friend/roommate’s friend comes back for the birthday, get both of you drunk. When it looks like he’ll have to sleep on the living room floor, in your intoxicated state(both by the liquor and by the lust), invite him to share your bed, saying you don’t take up much room with a liquidly coquettish look. After hours of playing, piggy-back rides, talking, and in the dark of your room, both of you laying in your bed, him on his back, you on your stomach, sometimes both of you curling in on your sides to face each other like a set of parenthesis, him using his cell phone to play you the music he wrote, sang, and played—sleep with him. Yes, you heard it right. The second time you meet this person, have sex with them. Really.
Step Five: Make sure the next morning is really awkward-- that you have to leave for a road trip at 9 AM; that your mother calls you while the guy is still laying in your bed naked and you are three feet away; you discover that you’ve left scratch marks all over his arms and back like he was mauled by a wildcat while trekking through the Amazon; that you will feel really bad for the girl who spent the night on your couch and probably had to listen to both your friend/roommate and her boyfriend get it on, not to mention you and the guy you slept with, who, oh, did we mention? is also a friend of the girl-on-the-couch’s…go through your morning routine in a flurried state because you’re trying to pack, and leave, putting your deodorant and acne stuff and make-up on in front of this guy who’s just lounging in your bed and watching you in fascination, and somehow try to figure out if he is ok with what happened, and is happening, or just as appalled as you are…sit and talk with everyone around breakfast for ten minutes, then wave an awkward good-bye to your friend/roommate, the girl-on-the-couch, and the guy while running out the door.
Step Six: Do not stress about this for the next six hours. Who am I kidding? Be massively, wretchedly, not-butterflies-but-rabbits-gnawing-on-your-stomach-lining worried about this. Continue feeling this way on-and-off throughout the next month because he is PERFECT, perfectperfectperfect, and you are a recovering alcoholic with a cigarette problem who previously has only dated losers and didn’t perform so well last night because of your extreme state of intoxication and nervousness because HE’S SO PERFECT and OH! you can barely even remember most of what happened other than the sight of his long, dark eyelashes and bulging biceps in the yellow glow of your lamp, set to its dimmest and most ‘moody’ setting.
(Step Six, Side Note: Over the next month, gradually remember more bits and pieces from that night in the most random times and in the most random places, like during your first meeting with your internship boss in her office. Try to make sure she doesn’t notice you’ve broken out in a light sweat and are trembling.)
Step Seven: Feel 16, 891,212 times better about this when the guy texts you that afternoon to check in, see how your road trip was, and acts completely normal. Continue to exchange texts, phone calls, and Facebook messages almost daily for the next not-quite-a-month now. Make plans for him to come and visit which will inevitable fall through because he gets sick. Sext with him while interviewing bikers at a local pizza places’ Bike Night. Then, be over-the-moon when he comes to visit a friend in the same town and makes plans to see you—this will happen twice—, and you end up seeing each other three days in a row, or four days in one week, culminating in him coming to your birthday bash and meeting all of your friends who will all adore him, even the guys—one (straight) guy going so far as to call him “studly”—, and going to his old high school’s graduation with your friend/roommate who also went there, where you will meet a few of his friends, see, but not meet, his father, and have two hometown girls try to roast you alive where you stand on the track with the ferocity of their gazes when you walk up and start to talk to him.
(Step Seven, Side Note: Buy a new very summery, cute and demure dress for this graduation experience as you will have nothing parent, child, or parent-and-child-attending-event friendly in your closest.)
Step Eight: Toward the end of the month, while sexting (per usual—you will have to become very adept at this quickly, as well as not to succumbing to demands for photos of you, or the lingerie you just bought, or you in the lingerie you just bought, no matter how much you really want to, because really, as the friend/roommate says, he is a hound and it’s better to keep the suspense going), when he tells you in response to your “I’m so horny they need to invent a new word for it because I destroyed the meaning of the previous one,” text to “fix it,” pretend to ignore this text and don’t respond in your livid rage. Actually, this is a good move. For real.
Step Nine: Get woken up at quarter to eight the next morning when he texts you asking, “Did you get my text last night? You never said anything back!” Be elated he actually realized your uncharacteristic silence meant something. To applaud this good behavior, go out and spend over $200 in Victoria’s Secret on assorted bras, underwear, and garters. Also, totally ignore your tried-and-true buying-men-clothing-never-turns-out-well curse (case in point: that purple men’s large hoodie draped over the back of your chair that now doubles as your second bathrobe instead of actually ever going to the person it was bought for), and buy the boy two brightly colored t-shirts that will look striking as all hell on him because you remember the “I only wear muted colors but want to start wearing brighter shirts” conversation you had with him.
(Step Nine, Side Note: Now, look back on this later and realize that although ridiculously inexpensive, it STILL is not a good idea to buy men who you are seeing clothing, because this is also the fourth time you have bought clothing and been left with it and a potentially awkward, “Um, so I know this is kind of weird now, but I bought you these shirts before, so here, have them,” conversation.)
Step Ten: After a couple days of feeling weird and waking up from cryptic dreams to find yourself clinging desperately and apologetically to the body pillow as a stand-in for him, totally freak out (to yourself, your roommate, and your friend/now ex-roommate, but not to him), when he sends you a text saying he went skinny-dipping with friends late last night—a guy and about six other girls. Oh, and it was “fun but cold.” Rant and rage to everyone but him, to whom you say it does sound like it was “fun but cold.” Get up on your Jealous Horse (not a far climb), get it to calm down and get somewhat under control (for the most part), and spend an hour drafting the perfect “I have something to tell you, and what it is is that I have no clue what’s going on between us” text that hits all the right hints of self-depreciating, caring, and chill. A text that basically says, “Hey, so it may be No Big Deal, but I got a little jealous and realized I need to figure out where I stand.” Wait an hour for him to text you back. When your cell rings with his custom ringtone, know it is not good instantly and retreat into a room more suited for talking to him than on the couch with the friend/ex-roommate holding a hookah pipe. Take a few seconds to make “oh, shit, I’m in trouble but let’s pretend I’m not and SO CHILL” small-talk with him starting with “what’s up?” like you have no idea what’s going on and then going on to ask him about the movie he just saw, before he cuts to the chase and asks YOU where you stand on things. Come clean and tell him jealousy is a “less-admirable trait” of yours. Tell him you “really like him and enjoy spending time with him and seeing him.” When he tells you that he also enjoys you and those things but is heading to college in the fall and so not looking to start a relationship back at home that he doesn’t know will survive the transfer(refer to Step One’s Side Note!), decide you’re ok with still just having sex as a last-ditch effort. He comes back with “I’ve been thinking the past few weeks and I think that I’m past that.” Realize that you are both on the same page, in the same book, in the same place—hooking up is not enough, a relationship is too much, but somewhere in the middle (AKA: business as usual) would be great but neither can see it progressing without actually turning into a relationship—but it’s the wrong time. Decide to stay in touch as usual, still visit, and “just be friends” for now, even as your libido, bank account, and daydreams cry. End relationSHIT. Hang up phone. Proceed to smoke through three cigarettes and drink yourself so drunk you try mistakenly watering your just-blossomed marigold plant with the Smirnoff.
Voila! You have successfully found, met, bedded, casually saw, and lost a man in under a month! I would say “Congratulations,” but that hollow feeling in your chest and the sense of whiplash at how fast it all started and ended kind of cancels that out, doesn’t it?
(Author’s Note: No real people were used in the creation of this column. Any personality traits, characteristics, places, or events mentioned therein are all merely coincidental if they are you or happened to you. Except for if you’re the authoress and then, yes, they all happened to you and they are all real people mentioned.)
XOXO
The Games People Play
[The scent of my cigarette as I lean over my keyboard makes me ravenous in a way I don’t like to admit, probably like how a sex addict craves the feeling of first penetration. Scratch that. I know that’s exactly how it feels.]
The first day I met Mr. Perfect, two significant things happened. The first was an example of one of those brilliant moments in life when liquor helps you discuss the issues that you normally wouldn’t be caught dead asking. While sitting side-by-side, knees touching on my living room sofa and watching Mr. Perfect keep reaching into his jean’s pocket time after time for his vibrating cell phone, Cait, my short-term roommate, our mutual friend and his closest friend for years, asked innocently, “Oh, Joellen?” Mr. Perfect gave her a look and muttered, “No, Joa.” Three minutes later, it was Janessa. The number of girls he knew whose names began with the letter J wasn’t the only thing that shocked me; it was also the number of texts from different girls he was getting all at the same time. In a moment of tequila-induced insouciance, I piped up, filter between thoughts and mouth not working. “Are you a player, Mr. Perfect?”
“No,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “I just have a lot of girl friends.”
“Oh, so you’re a pimp? Ladies is pimps too,” I told him, mock-brushing the dirt off my shoulders in a moment that would have made Jay-Z proud to have penned those lyrics.
Mr. Perfect laughed with a charming grin and then acquitted. “Kinda.”
“He’s not a man-whore,” Cait agreed, which was enough for me and Mr. Cuervo. Privately and later, without tequila clouding my thoughts, I would re-evaluate this occurrence.
The second significant thing was a surprise. I didn’t realize that when Cait gave me Mr. Perfect’s number in case of emergencies (i.e—her cell dying while they were out and about in her car that was in the process of wheezing its last death-rattles,) she had also given him my number. So it was a very pleasant surprise indeed when not even twenty minutes after he had left my roommates and I to our drunken girl’s night, I received a text from him.
“It was very nice to meet you!” it said. (I didn’t know then that this marked the start of my love/hate relationship with the exclamation points that Mr. Perfect was so fond (exclamation point!) of using.)
It was cute; it was polite; it was unexpected. I’ve always held much stock about men who are willing to text you first, which is probably where the problem started. Jersey Blunt, for all of his faults (illegal substance and legal issues included), still managed to surprise me with a few random texts, most of the time about needing community service or getting new weed in, but still. This is probably one of the reasons why despite everything, I considered him a great guy. Communication is big with me, and a guy who is willing to communicate first gets extra-big gold-star bonus points. Women do not want to romance themselves. We already do enough of the talking and the typing and the texting. Sometimes, we just want to be pleasantly surprised by nothing more than a “What’s up?” Or, in my case, a “Got more Purple Haze in,” will do, too.
Hence, The Game. The Game is something that I put all my perspective men through. It gets its roots from the school of Playing Hard to Get, with enough feminist thought and self-torture thrown into the mix to make it really interesting. Mr. Perfect was a perfect candidate for the game. We texted each other every single day, sometimes for hours, since the day we were introduced and his first unbidden text message. We’d done this for about 12 days and 2 surprise text messages from him before I decided it was time to make him a player in The Game: I stopped texting him.
The Game is a remarkably simple one. It just involves not taking his name from my cell’s contact list and putting it in the address box of a text message. Also, not Facebooking or calling. Basically, I disappear for either as long as it takes for him to text me, or until I can’t stand it any longer. Usually, I end up calling or texting first, which means that I lose The Game and from then on have to deal with the knowledge that I’m more invested in whatever it is that’s going on than the Man du Jour is and that I shouldn’t expect a call or text from them out of the blue. Which is a little sad, but no more sad than the fact that I find myself having to play this game in the first place. Which begs the question, why can’t we seem to be happy without playing games with other people? Is it a hold-over from the days of elementary school recess tag, when we knew that Jason would always chase and tag Julia because he liked her? Are playing games our twisted way of trying to make our partners realize this and work for something, anything to happen like we are? Or do we just play games to excite ourselves because when it comes down to it, sometimes it gets our blood boiling more to play than to win?
Day One into The Game with Mr. Perfect, and I wasn’t expecting anything. I slept most of it away anyway, using the excuse of the unemployed and slightly hung-over. Day Two, I jumped every time my cell phone rang and ran to get it. By Day Three, I was starting to realize that Mr. Perfect would go about a week before texting to see if I’d died or just dropped off the face of the earth.
This may seem like a lot of needless work and worry to you, dear reader, but let me explain something: I knew I’d have to do this from the first time I met Mr. Perfect. Do you remember the first surprise that I got from him, all the mysterious women and their urgent texts? Well, that told me one thing after he admitted that while not playing them, a lot of women constantly called on him: that he was used to women hounding him for both his attention and his time. What throws a pimp more than one of his flock not needing him? Nothing, dear reader—nothing. It’s that logic is playing hard-to-get that while I can’t seem to follow in the bedroom, I eagerly apply to The Game: people want what they cannot have. If I fail in that aspect when it comes to abstinence, then I’m going to be the only girl not getting arthritis in her thumbs from texting him.
Every woman has her own version of The Game. Some follow the tried-and-true rules of things like the sex-on-the-third-date rule to make sure a guy is interested enough in her to go through three separate instances of public and monetary showmanship. Some enlist physical touch or making their hands (or any other body part, for that matter), available to see if the offer is taken. Others doll themselves up in heels, make-up and particularly pretty or provocative outfits to see if they can make men remember that they are, in fact, pretty damn fine women, and not just that girl who he always crashes on the sofa with wearing jeans and a hoodie. Still more women play the jealously card and go so far as to blatantly ogle other men or casually mention in passing to their beau another man who has recently admired them/complimented them/ asked them out. These are the games that women play, and we are not the only players. Men may either realize it or not, but they are almost always engaged in some sort of cleverly connived feminine subterfuge. (Scary, isn’t it?) If it’s done well, a man will never even know what hoops he’s being made to jump through—he’ll just know that he suddenly feels a strong urge to do something, the result of which is probably the means to the end of the game. Games and their outcomes tell girls a lot more about a particular guy than dating for a number of months or hours spent talking could.
This isn’t to say, gentlemen, that the next time you feel the urge to pick up the phone and call a lady, you shouldn’t because that means she “wins”. Dear lord, please…take what I’m saying with a grain of salt. There are no real “winners” or “losers” to these games. The only thing that can be said to be “won” is a sense of what is going on—if you’re into us enough to make a move, be it picking up the phone, taking our hand, threatening to take out a co-worker with wandering eyes, or asking us out for a forth date. And the only thing that can possibly be “lost” is the sense of an equal attraction. I know that my desire to let Mr. Perfect know what’s up every day means I want him to be part of my life; by finding out if he has the same desire to know what’s going on in my life or include me in his lets me know that I can let my guard down and let him in, and not have to worry so much about those fifteen other girls with names like Janelle and Joanna and Jessica. Now that you know what’s up, please, be a little more proactive—if you want your sex life to get better and/or more frequent, I guarantee you, this is the secret to making your life easier. Call or text her first, just to say “hey”. Compliment her on an outfit or on a choice she’s made. Take her hand when you’re out and about for no reason. Tell her that one of her male friends makes you feel jealous, even if it’s complete bullshit. I’m giving you gold, here—what women are really after. And the best part? You’ll win The Game, and she’ll never be none the wiser that you’re on to her own Game. Nothing like a little competitive spirit, eh?
As for Mr. Perfect? I folded and texted him on the afternoon of the third day. Score: Perfect, 1. Carissa: 0, but a sense of relief.
XOXO
The first day I met Mr. Perfect, two significant things happened. The first was an example of one of those brilliant moments in life when liquor helps you discuss the issues that you normally wouldn’t be caught dead asking. While sitting side-by-side, knees touching on my living room sofa and watching Mr. Perfect keep reaching into his jean’s pocket time after time for his vibrating cell phone, Cait, my short-term roommate, our mutual friend and his closest friend for years, asked innocently, “Oh, Joellen?” Mr. Perfect gave her a look and muttered, “No, Joa.” Three minutes later, it was Janessa. The number of girls he knew whose names began with the letter J wasn’t the only thing that shocked me; it was also the number of texts from different girls he was getting all at the same time. In a moment of tequila-induced insouciance, I piped up, filter between thoughts and mouth not working. “Are you a player, Mr. Perfect?”
“No,” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “I just have a lot of girl friends.”
“Oh, so you’re a pimp? Ladies is pimps too,” I told him, mock-brushing the dirt off my shoulders in a moment that would have made Jay-Z proud to have penned those lyrics.
Mr. Perfect laughed with a charming grin and then acquitted. “Kinda.”
“He’s not a man-whore,” Cait agreed, which was enough for me and Mr. Cuervo. Privately and later, without tequila clouding my thoughts, I would re-evaluate this occurrence.
The second significant thing was a surprise. I didn’t realize that when Cait gave me Mr. Perfect’s number in case of emergencies (i.e—her cell dying while they were out and about in her car that was in the process of wheezing its last death-rattles,) she had also given him my number. So it was a very pleasant surprise indeed when not even twenty minutes after he had left my roommates and I to our drunken girl’s night, I received a text from him.
“It was very nice to meet you!” it said. (I didn’t know then that this marked the start of my love/hate relationship with the exclamation points that Mr. Perfect was so fond (exclamation point!) of using.)
It was cute; it was polite; it was unexpected. I’ve always held much stock about men who are willing to text you first, which is probably where the problem started. Jersey Blunt, for all of his faults (illegal substance and legal issues included), still managed to surprise me with a few random texts, most of the time about needing community service or getting new weed in, but still. This is probably one of the reasons why despite everything, I considered him a great guy. Communication is big with me, and a guy who is willing to communicate first gets extra-big gold-star bonus points. Women do not want to romance themselves. We already do enough of the talking and the typing and the texting. Sometimes, we just want to be pleasantly surprised by nothing more than a “What’s up?” Or, in my case, a “Got more Purple Haze in,” will do, too.
Hence, The Game. The Game is something that I put all my perspective men through. It gets its roots from the school of Playing Hard to Get, with enough feminist thought and self-torture thrown into the mix to make it really interesting. Mr. Perfect was a perfect candidate for the game. We texted each other every single day, sometimes for hours, since the day we were introduced and his first unbidden text message. We’d done this for about 12 days and 2 surprise text messages from him before I decided it was time to make him a player in The Game: I stopped texting him.
The Game is a remarkably simple one. It just involves not taking his name from my cell’s contact list and putting it in the address box of a text message. Also, not Facebooking or calling. Basically, I disappear for either as long as it takes for him to text me, or until I can’t stand it any longer. Usually, I end up calling or texting first, which means that I lose The Game and from then on have to deal with the knowledge that I’m more invested in whatever it is that’s going on than the Man du Jour is and that I shouldn’t expect a call or text from them out of the blue. Which is a little sad, but no more sad than the fact that I find myself having to play this game in the first place. Which begs the question, why can’t we seem to be happy without playing games with other people? Is it a hold-over from the days of elementary school recess tag, when we knew that Jason would always chase and tag Julia because he liked her? Are playing games our twisted way of trying to make our partners realize this and work for something, anything to happen like we are? Or do we just play games to excite ourselves because when it comes down to it, sometimes it gets our blood boiling more to play than to win?
Day One into The Game with Mr. Perfect, and I wasn’t expecting anything. I slept most of it away anyway, using the excuse of the unemployed and slightly hung-over. Day Two, I jumped every time my cell phone rang and ran to get it. By Day Three, I was starting to realize that Mr. Perfect would go about a week before texting to see if I’d died or just dropped off the face of the earth.
This may seem like a lot of needless work and worry to you, dear reader, but let me explain something: I knew I’d have to do this from the first time I met Mr. Perfect. Do you remember the first surprise that I got from him, all the mysterious women and their urgent texts? Well, that told me one thing after he admitted that while not playing them, a lot of women constantly called on him: that he was used to women hounding him for both his attention and his time. What throws a pimp more than one of his flock not needing him? Nothing, dear reader—nothing. It’s that logic is playing hard-to-get that while I can’t seem to follow in the bedroom, I eagerly apply to The Game: people want what they cannot have. If I fail in that aspect when it comes to abstinence, then I’m going to be the only girl not getting arthritis in her thumbs from texting him.
Every woman has her own version of The Game. Some follow the tried-and-true rules of things like the sex-on-the-third-date rule to make sure a guy is interested enough in her to go through three separate instances of public and monetary showmanship. Some enlist physical touch or making their hands (or any other body part, for that matter), available to see if the offer is taken. Others doll themselves up in heels, make-up and particularly pretty or provocative outfits to see if they can make men remember that they are, in fact, pretty damn fine women, and not just that girl who he always crashes on the sofa with wearing jeans and a hoodie. Still more women play the jealously card and go so far as to blatantly ogle other men or casually mention in passing to their beau another man who has recently admired them/complimented them/ asked them out. These are the games that women play, and we are not the only players. Men may either realize it or not, but they are almost always engaged in some sort of cleverly connived feminine subterfuge. (Scary, isn’t it?) If it’s done well, a man will never even know what hoops he’s being made to jump through—he’ll just know that he suddenly feels a strong urge to do something, the result of which is probably the means to the end of the game. Games and their outcomes tell girls a lot more about a particular guy than dating for a number of months or hours spent talking could.
This isn’t to say, gentlemen, that the next time you feel the urge to pick up the phone and call a lady, you shouldn’t because that means she “wins”. Dear lord, please…take what I’m saying with a grain of salt. There are no real “winners” or “losers” to these games. The only thing that can be said to be “won” is a sense of what is going on—if you’re into us enough to make a move, be it picking up the phone, taking our hand, threatening to take out a co-worker with wandering eyes, or asking us out for a forth date. And the only thing that can possibly be “lost” is the sense of an equal attraction. I know that my desire to let Mr. Perfect know what’s up every day means I want him to be part of my life; by finding out if he has the same desire to know what’s going on in my life or include me in his lets me know that I can let my guard down and let him in, and not have to worry so much about those fifteen other girls with names like Janelle and Joanna and Jessica. Now that you know what’s up, please, be a little more proactive—if you want your sex life to get better and/or more frequent, I guarantee you, this is the secret to making your life easier. Call or text her first, just to say “hey”. Compliment her on an outfit or on a choice she’s made. Take her hand when you’re out and about for no reason. Tell her that one of her male friends makes you feel jealous, even if it’s complete bullshit. I’m giving you gold, here—what women are really after. And the best part? You’ll win The Game, and she’ll never be none the wiser that you’re on to her own Game. Nothing like a little competitive spirit, eh?
As for Mr. Perfect? I folded and texted him on the afternoon of the third day. Score: Perfect, 1. Carissa: 0, but a sense of relief.
XOXO
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