Dirty Little Secrets

When I was 8, I went to New York City with all the women of my family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. We stayed at the Waldorf Astoria, drank at Trump Plaza (where I sent my Shirley Temple back for being too light on the grenadine-- I've always been particular about my drinks,) ate at delis and from Zabars and Tavern on the Green and went to a Broadway play (Ragtime). At night, tucked into our hotel rooms, we amused ourselves in the city life. My aunt still had her opera glasses from the play, and using them, we peered into the lives of the people in the apartment building across the street. There was the muscular gay couple tangoing. (Not a euphemism.) There was a woman who couldn't decide what bra matched her outfit. Lots of people watched TV or worked out. And there were a few windows I was not allowed to look in. (Now I understand.) This, the strict voyeurism and the intrigue, more than the play, the food, or the weekend's daytime events, sticks with me the most about this trip.

If there's one thing I've learned, it's that people have a fascination with other people's lives. What strikes me the most about Batman's villains is that they're all different people than they appear to be, just like Batman himself, or you, or me, or the guy you're currently dating. True, they may not be as juicy as Selena Kyle/Catwoman or Bruce Wayne/Batman, but we all have secret lives. There are things that we all do that other people may never know about. There can even be large chunks of unaccounted for history between people who think they know each other so well. But the fact is, no matter how much we want our secrets to stay secret, there will always be someone else with a pair of binoculars looking into the windows of our lives and our minds. And though we may prefer to be creatures of mystery, damn sure we hate it when others are.

I air my laundry pretty throughly. Part of this blog is making a good half of my life public knowledge, but there are some things I have learned to draw the line at. Hence, recently, a casual friend of mine came up to me with a surprised "I never knew until it was over!"

I shrugged. "I like to keep some things low-key; quiet," I told her. Even you, dear readers, probably only get a very sheltered half of the stories. Some of you know more than others. Some of you know EXACTLY the story. Still others of you, have absolutely no need to know. It's difficult at times. Sometimes, knowing that I could get the feedback or sympathy or support I crave by telling the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god, is tempting. Sometimes, I want to Anais Nin that shit and blow it all wide open. But what stops me is the fact that no matter how many hundreds or thousands of people read about it, it's not really going to change much for me. In fact, it may even get in the way. Just like those people living their lives in those New York apartments didn't know that they were being watched, knowing that they were would have made them act differently, in ways less true to themselves. So, maybe, by at least pretending to leave someone's life alone, it's really the best way to let them learn and grow through whatever is happening, without interfering. It's hard, but it's best to wait it out.

That's why it's so weird to be living in the same city as people you know so well, so intimately, so conventionally, and still have no idea what's happening with them.

XOXO

P.S-- I guess I've come full retribunial circle with the whole , because due to my lack of modesty, I have become That Girl in the neighborhood that the neighbors can count on to forget to close her curtain, cook half-naked in the kitchen, or sprint by the living room windows on the way to the bathroom fully nekkid. Perhaps I have a guilty and paying-for-it-now conscious from all those years back.

Not Just A Number

I've got a slightly shocking revelation for you tonight: Barring the time in high school when we played drunken Spin the Bottle, I have only ever kissed the same men I've had sex with. This also means I have only ever fooled around with, hooked up with, and awkwardly groped in the dark while intoxicated the same men I've had sex with. While this may seem ridiculously old-fashioned, it's just what works best for me. I'm notoriously picky. (However, this does not mean that I still don't end up with men who are more likely to give me herpes than jewelry.)

A lot of my friends will say, "I really wish I haven't slept with as many people as I have," or "I really wish I could remember the name of the guy who I made out with for three hours in the bathroom at that party," and for the most part, I really don't feel like I'm missing out on those sentiments. I find it fascinating how women can always tell you the EXACT number of men they're slept with; do men keep track of it, too? Once, when asked by a friend how many people I assumed the guy I was seeing had slept with, I responded, "My guess is about 50, but let's go on the conservative side with around 30." She was shocked. I was serious. (I have no idea if men actually count like this. Could someone enlighten me?) But regardless of how other people work, I've always made my choices based on lots and lots and lots and lots and LOTS of thinking. Lots of time thinking about who I am and what I want and what I need. Lots of time weighing pros and cons and doing the fieldwork to see if it was worth it. And in a few cases, split-second reacting.

Once, I was seeing this guy who had had a thing for me for awhile. I wasn't sure how I felt about him, but I figured it couldn't hurt to "try him on for size" like you would a dress you liked the looks of or a pair of jeans. On paper, he was great for me so I assumed I could make it work--literally, FORCE it to work--, but in person, things were strained. He was doing his damndest, though he didn't realize, just as many don't, that I'll never do drunk what I won't do sober, and I felt like I deserved to make a good Yankee go of it (the motto of my life, it seems,) but it just wasn't...right. I ended up sleeping with someone else who I had been warned off of a million and three times while he and I were still technically dating, and it was my fling that blind-sided me. I wasn't expecting much. In fact, I wasn't expecting anything past one night that I could pretend never happened. What I planned for was bragging rights; the ability to say, "See that gorgeous man? I tapped that." What I didn't plan for was falling for the one person I never could have seen coming. I could never have foreseen what happened afterward, the abrupt flip in the compass rose of my love-life from north to south. There was absolutely no forcing of anything-- there was just raw, unavoidable, undeniable connection. It ended up being one of the most fulfilling and enlightening relationships of my life. And every time I saw the "perfect on paper" guy I passed (screwed?) over, I breathed a sigh of relief. (And um, to him, I'm sorry? But not really?)

So, this is what I have to say to you as the moral of the story: Be picky. Don't feel like just because someone is into you that you're obligated to also be into them or owe them anything. Girls seem to fall into this trap a lot, and it pains me to see it happen. Don't worry-- if there's one thing I can assure you, it's that the last time you got laid will not be the last time you ever get laid. You're still young. There's lots of guys out there. You've got years. Unless you're 82, it isn't the end. (And even if you are 82, it may not even be the end then.) Dry spells are as annoying as fuck, but they won't kill you. You can hang in there until you find someone who you're thrilled about, not someone who is thrilled to get into your pants and you're just complacent about. Sex is sex is sex, but it ain't the best unless there's something more to it.

Times like these are when I find myself doing things like trying to find my A.) feelings, B.) pride, C.) social graces, and D.) amusement at the bottom of a pint of Phish Food. I've even been steering clear of magazine racks lately just because looking at photos of couples actually gives me the blues. And it's not because I want to be in one. It's because I don't know what I actually do want. Whatever it may be, I can tell you what it isn't-- settling. I'm done settling, and I hope you are, too.

XOXO

Which Is Getting Hot: The Atmosphere, Or My Co-Workers?

Does this man look good to you? Are you wondering where you can find someone like him?

Have you been wondering lately, "Why can't I talk to a nice, handsome, wholesome, smart dude to save my life? Where are they hiding all of them? And how do I get in?"

Have you been wondering why all your co-workers are totally undateable and think that it's a miracle that there are any real-life Pam and Jim romances?

And hey, do you need a job?

A job in which you can be surrounded by hot, passionate, articulate, intelligent, college-aged students? And also make a pretty nice weekly base salary? And also make a difference in your state's political and

environmental scene? And also drive, bike, drink beer, eat pizza, throw parties, or go on camping trips with them?

Canvassing. Good, old-fashioned, door-to-door canvassing and campaigning. I recently took a job with VPIRG, doing summer canvassing about using renewable resources in Vermont. The hours are long and mean I can't eat a week-night dinner out before 11 PM, but I get mornings and weekends off and it's rewarding to talk to nearly thirty strangers every day. Today, I spent five minutes talking with a blind man who told me some of the most cuttingly hilarious jokes I have ever heard, who then donated $15 to our cause. It's the little things like that that really make it worth it to me. That, and my really attractive co-workers.

Sure, not all of them look like social activist Leo, here, but really...hot, smart men and the environment. Can I sign any of you up?

XOXO

A Potent Publican Primer: Red Square

Nora couldn’t get the name of the bar right to save her life. It was “the Red Hexagon.” “The Red Parallelogram.” “The Red Circle.” It ended up being fitting. Madison couldn't close her tab without another shot of tequila. We came full-circle from drunk to drunk.

If they have a live DJ, it is probably the best place in Burlington to dance, other than at a show at High Ground or Nectar’s. The sleeze category of Lift or Rasputin’s stays at Lift or Rasputin’s, and the place is smaller, more intimate. Dress ranges from 30-something women in their J. Crew “going out” dresses to college students who wander in in the same tank and shorts they wore to North Beach earlier in the day. The waitresses are good. Capable. Veteran. They have to be.

Bouncers are another story. The bouncer looks at my ID, then back up at me. “You just made it,” he tells me. I want to fist my hands in my hair and scream. It’s been this way for the past few days. Kind hostesses wish me a happy belated birthday; bald and beefy security men eye me up and down and offer me a gruff “Congratulations,”; and these tall and weedy pricks at the trendy bars make a huge fucking deal about the fact that 2, 4, or 14 days ago, they would have gotten to bounce me out on my size 6 ass. I want to tell him I was probably drinking before he was. (It could be true.) Instead, I smile tightly and slip into what Alli has dubbed the “heinous bitch” demeanor.

Over a week later. Same bar. Could be the same bouncer, but then again, they all look the same, as if their high school basketball starting-forward days were the best they ever had and ever will have. Same dilemma. “So how’s it feel?” he asks me as I retrieve my ID from him and start to slide in the front door. I decide this jig is up and I’m tired, like so lately in life, of being continuously run over and pretending to not care.

“Well. I just came back from 4 months in Italy, so the bar scene is not new. And I figure, I just now legally get to do everything I’ve been doing since I was 14, so, it’s no big deal, right?”

He looks confused, like he wasn’t expecting that much information, and then just nods. “Yeah.”

The problem with the Red Four-Equilateral-Sided-Shape is, it’s where everyone wants to see and be seen under the mortician’s red lighting. The seats that spill into the alley and onto Church Street are prime see-and-be-seen territory. Some of my older friends, who I used to consider helplessly cool and aloof and just slightly affected in that way that all college students hope they come off as “worldly”, become much more human to me as I watch them shell out three bucks for a can of PBR and perch on the wrought iron chairs, trying, and failing, to look like it still isn’t a big deal. They are, like me, much more at home in the darker, quieter, wood-paneled bars, but if you are over 21, and if you’re in Burlington, you still feel this inexplicable need to go to Red Square, where the drinks are overpriced, the cocktails are almost too heavy on the liquor, the lighting is atrocious, and yet, you can’t help but wanting to be a part of it all.

And at the end of the night, what are you left without, other than an impending hangover in the morning?

Intextication. It's what happens on your cell phone when you get drunk. Luckily for some of us, the quick text link to Twitter is right beneath other phone numbers in our Favorites list, and we end up sending some of those texts to Twitter instead of the intended recipient. Rendering us a little less annoying, and the Twitterverse a bit more amused.

Intoxuation. It's fleeting infatuation that only occurs while you're slurring. So, texting things like "I miss you" at 3 AM while fueled with beer and rum is not the best idea. Because you can guarantee that when you wake up the next morning, you'll still be mad, and not only still mad, but now mad and mortified.

There hasn't been a dryspell like this since Jagger sung "I can't get no SAT-IS-FAC-TION!" In the end, I even kept space between me and George.

XOXO

Have Some Patience.

This is my friend Patience.

Patience can play. See Patience play. Hear Patience sing.

Patience can write. Listen to Patience's lyrics.

I just got internet in the new apartment and need to do about an afternoon's worth of research before my next post, so, until then, I fully encourage you to check out Paish's stuff. Because she's kind of amazing. And I'm not just saying that because she barks like a dog for my benefit and is the sort of girl friend who always will appreciate the wackiest things you do, like hanging over the back of the couch and pulling funny faces and being publicly awkward. I'm saying that because her songs get stuck in my head and make me sing or hum along and then I feel like a really awkward personal friend groupie. So if it makes me a complete fool, guaranteed you'll probably enjoy it, too.

XOXO

Porn For Women

I was in Borders (aka: where I have been living lately without internet,) with a friend the other day, scoping out movies after I recalled, from some distant, vague, groggy middle-school memory, the gem of a movie "Someone Like You" and decided I could not live without it. Girls being girls, after I had my copy in hand, Trish and I lingered among the DVDs, pointing out our favorites and asking if the other had ever seen them. We agreed that "Valentine's Day" was cute and likable yet replaceable; that the "Ugly Truth" got a far worse rap than it deserved as we both really liked the truths in it; and then moved on to the slasher flicks. But as we wandered down the lane of "Shutter Island" and "Midnight Meat Train" (NOT a porno as one might expect-- as Trish said, "When I watched it, I was just waiting for some huge black dude to bust in and be like, 'You can't handle my meat!'"), one last movie caught our eye: "He's Just Not That Into You."

If you haven't been reading for so long, one of my first posts was a review of the movie. We both settled into a contented silence looking at the DVD cover before Trish said, "I really like Ben Affleck. You know that scene where he's in the kitchen...?"

EVERY woman knows that moment. That scene, as Jennifer Aniston walks into the kitchen after looking at the sedentary schmucks her sisters married, and finds Ben with kitchen towel and dish soap in hand, and seeing him for the first time since they split, her face starts to crumble into tears of sadness-cum-joy as he puts a plate in the drying rack...that is porn for women.

It's not so much the act of washing the dishes that does it. I've seen men clean before. I've been with some pretty productive men when it comes to cleaning. I've watched a man wash his dishes before, and really, that didn't do it for me. What it is-- what is IS-- is that moment where you see a woman who's floundering in life, after losing her long-time partner, after her beloved father falls into bad health, as she tries to keep her family together, walk into a room and see the last person she would ever expect be the one who's there for her when she needs it the most. Any woman who has ever been in a tight spot knows how much just knowing there's someone in your corner helps. Any woman who has ever been cynical about things working out, only to be proven wrong, knows what that moment feels like. All women relate to that. The problem is, not all woman have that "aha" moment in their kitchen, or, for that matter, anywhere else. It's like an urban dating myth. And that's why it's porn for women.

It's unexpected from men, and that's why we love it so. We're used to one thing, and seeing the reverse happen is refreshing and full of hope. A man's dick, as I realized the other day, is not Marco Polo-- it can't just go exploring every land it wants to. Nor is it Napoleon and the conquerer of all you see. You can nickname it whatever you like-- Maximus even if you're not a gladiator slaying (or laying) all the ladies-- but it just doesn't work that way. And yet, this, and not the kitchen scene ideal, is what we're used to dealing with.

This is not a call to arms for men to stampede to the nearest woman's kitchen and start soaping up. This is just a simple statement of facts: women like to be surprised by kind gestures when least expected. That, and not a man in an apron, is what really turns us on. (In fact, a man in an apron, unless you are Chef Roberto from Florence, is really a mental boner-killer.)

XOXO

P.S-- The blog turned 1 yesterday! Thanks for a great year, your continued readership, your support, and your comments.

Exes Undercover

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's the problem with dating-- carnage.

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

XOXO

The End Of Men?

This month, The Atlantic featured an eye-catching cover with a wilting men's gender symbol proclaiming the article, "The End of Men." Being in a currently man-less stint, I was intrigued. Dating makes me just want to die, so was there some miraculous way that I could just...get around it?

Let's examine how our world has changed in favor of women in the last few decades:

- For every 2 men who get a college degree, 3 women do. Women now are earning 60% of all bachelor AND master's degrees, about half of all law and medical degrees, and 42% of all M.B.A.s.

- In the 1970s, biologist Ronald Ericsson found a way to determine and customize the sex of children. Since then, when Ericsson looked into the results of his technology in the '90s, he discovered couples were requesting more girls than boys. In some clinics, the ratio was 2 to 1, and a newer sperm selection method called MicroSort is seeing a request for girls that runs about 75%. Ericsson says of his surprising findings, "Women live longer than men. They do better in this economy. More of 'em graduate from college. They go into space and do everything that men do, and sometimes they do it a whole lot better. I mean, hell, get out of the way-- these females are going to leave us males in the dust."

- In 2006, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development devised the Gender, Institutions and Development Database, which measures economic and political power of women in 162 countries and found that the greater the power of women, the greater the country's economic success.

- Women own over 40% of the private businesses in China, where a red Ferrari is their new status symbol as a successful female entrepreneur. (May we institute this fad in the U.S, please?)

- In 1950, about 1 in 20 men of prime working age wasn't working; today, the ratio is at 1 in 5, the highest ever recorded. This, in part, is due to our economic position-- the crash killed millions of man-dominated jobs, mostly of the working or blue-collar class. White collar economy values "raw intellectual horsepower," which men and women tend to have in equal amounts, while also requiring "communication skills and social intelligence," which according to many studies are areas in which women have a slight edge over their male counterparts.

- This leads to risk/benefit selection between the sexes. Leadership talents include being aggressive and competitive, which are swayed more toward men's natural dispositions. But psychological study research has painted a broader picture of what constitutes a good natural leader; in lab studies that simulate negotiations, men and women are equally assertive and competitive, but where men tend to assert themselves in a slightly controlling manner, women tend to take into account the rights of others, say psychologists Alice Eagly and Linda Carli, authors of the 2007 book "Through the Labyrinth." Researchers have also started looking into the relationship between testosterone and excessive risk, leading them to wonder if because of their biological make-up, men are more likely to make reckless decisions. The picture that emerges from this research is completely counter-intuitive to the way we've thought of the genders for ages: men on the side of irrational and over-emotional, and women as cool and level-headed. Blame it on the testosterone?

So, do I think women still need men?

Yup. Without a doubt. I'll cash my 2 cents' in as saying "absolutely." There are some things that you just cannot or should not do by yourself. I can be as pro-feminism as they come, and yet I still acknowledge there are some things than men can do better than women, hence, the need for them-- coupled with our desire for them. (However, "drive better" is not one of those things.)

Granted, there are some things about men that we could stand to do without. As Joan Rivers said, "Do remember that men are like mattress salesmen-- they'll say anything to get you into their beds." Joan Rivers knows a thing or two. I just had the unfortunate luck to be shopping for both at the same time. In the end, the mattress salesmen ended up having the safer investment, even though the mattress itself took a week in coming (longer than any man I've ever been with,) and has yet to actually be assembled and used.

From a completely selfish and stilted side, I sleep with a body pillow named George because of the fact that I am so pitifully loathe to sleep alone, and need something to throw an arm or a leg to drape over and have something at my back in the night. A nice anecdote that further cements my thinking on this matter, George got his name because there was a time in my life in which my roommates couldn't keep the Men du Jour straight and threatened to fill a whole Costco-sized "Hello, My Name Is ______" name tag roll with "George" so they would never need to learn another Tom, Dick, or Harry Dick's name again, just to be inundated with another a week later. (For awhile, men were my kinda-slightly-more grown-up Pokemon-- I believed I had to catch them all without also catching the Hep. This is why I may be a little more prone to being soft on the cads that I seem to pick up-- a feeling of sluttish camaraderie at the same time you want to pull at your hair and moan, "Why do I do this to myself?!") Men may drive you crazy, but as my reluctance to sleep alone points out, there's just something about having one there that can calm the female beast.

But that objectifying of men leads to the belief that they're disposable, which they're not. First-generation college-educated white women-- that's me, right there-- constitute a new type of middle class, where marriage is increasingly rare. What does that mean for me? True, marriage is not at the top of my list of desires and life-goals, but to see that fact there, so black and white and stark, makes me wonder about my chances, given the fact I might want to make it a chance.

Increasing numbers of women unable to find men with a similar education or income end up forgoing marriage. in 1970, 84% of women ages 30-44 were married; now only 60% are. Ashley Burress, a student body president at the University of Missouri at Kansas City, stated, "In 2012, I will be Dr. Burress. ...I would like to date, but I'm putting myself in a really small pool." One female senior in college supposedly remarked, "Guys are the new ball and chain."

It's not like men are going anywhere-- they're not. But finding ones who share your educational and emotional leanings is getting harder and harder. Think about the recent portrayals of men-- unemployed, romantically-challenged young dudes feature predominantly in Judd Apatow's films as perpetually adolescent. Noah Baumbach's charmless misanthrope of Greenberg has nearly zero chance of finding a woman who will tolerate, let alone love, him. "We call each other 'man,'" a line in Greenberg goes, "but it's a joke. It's like imitating other people." And where are we in a world when even the American male novelist has lost his mojo and can't even rely on sex as a way for his characters to assert their macho-ness?

That same macho-ness may be exactly what women still-- emotionally, if we don't need them financially or reproductively-- need men for. Though it may be terribly clichéd, there are some jars I can't open, some shelves I can reach, and some sore shoulders that are best massaged by someone else. Yes, I have a roommate who is more than capable of all of these things, and I have always been able to kill my own creepy, crawly spiders, but it's the gesture that remains. I am at my best and most charming and feminine and sweet when a man is around. I like that girl who comes out to play, because as the statistics above show, most days, I'm a power-wielding, income-earning, college-dominating, self-nurturing woman. Who, if I am entering a bracket of such low marriage expectations, is supposed to take care of me?

Women still, and will always, at least want, if not need, a man in the picture. We keep dating and putting ourselves out there against the odds, because, at the end of the day, it's nice to go home to someone. It's nice to know that you have the ability to make a "What are you up to?" call. It's nice to have someone other than a down comforter or a body pillow keep you warm at night. At its most base, there are only so many solo-gasms you can have before it's just not fun anymore. And at its best, having a partner brings out a new side of you. The side that isn't a blossoming CEO by day, but the side of you that is still a girl who has needs and a desire for companionship and intimacy.

XOXO

Sweet Is For Candy And Cavities. And, Apparently, Me.

I've been struggling lately with feeling like I failed my gender. (And no, this is not about my love of football, beer, or comics.) I've been grappling with feelings of inadequacy. Like, maybe, if I had been just a little bit sweeter, life would be different right now. Maybe, if I was a little less jaded, I wouldn't be so pissed off. Maybe, if I were more of a people-pleaser, I would have a job right now. Maybe, I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, and kick myself in the ass.

On How To Be Lovely is a-- for better lack of a word-- lovely blog that really encapsulates the essence of perfect femininity; it's a kind, caring, intelligent, easy-on-the-eyes blog. So I was thrilled when I found this post on the difference between "sweet" and "smart" women. I know I'm smart, but "sweet" is something that I struggle with. I can be sweet, and defer, and be laid-back and go with the flow, but I can't be that all the time. I would get nothing done. I would be like a chronic stoner without access to massive amounts of weed. And so, sometimes, I can be a little sharp. I can be a bit demanding. I can be rough around the edges. But it's only because I want the best to get done. I want to be my best. I want to be in the best position possible. I want you to be at your best. So sometimes, I get a little irritated when I see the exact opposite of those things happening. I can't help it-- it's genetic. If you've ever met my mother, you get it.

This paragraph really summed up my struggle with smart versus sweet. "...Because I value my independence and intelligence, I initially have a hard time when a guy says he thinks that sweetness is more important. It makes me think that he just wants someone to fawn on him and tell him how right he is about everything, and I'm not really sure how to feel about that. The word "sweet" seems to imply something saccharine and fake to me... On the other hand, I've met women who didn't want to show their intelligence because they felt like it made them hard or inaccessible, like they were somehow disgracing womanhood if they weren't all sweetness." - On How To Be Lovely.

Am I? Am I disgracing womanhood? It's hard not to feel like it when I'm pretty sure it's the whole smart/sweet debate that usurped me. But then again, like Meg asks, do you really want to be with a guy who prefers the "yes, dear," approach to life over someone who challenges them and says "I think you might be wrong-- so prove it to me?" After all, where would have Antony got without Cleopatra? Napoleon without Josephine? Macbeth without Lady Macbeth? (We'll ignore the fact for a minute that the last example were two despots.) Maybe it just boils down to the fact that for me, exercising my mind and bickering are some of the best forms of foreplay to me, and I just can't understand when other people don't feel the same way. Smart's sexy, just as surely as Victoria's Secret, fuck-me-heels, and Jessica Biel.

But then again, sweet's good, too. Sweet to me is more of a come-and-go mindset then an inherent thing, though. Sweet for me is feeling feminine and tiny and taken care of. Sweet comes included with baking brownies and little gestures. Sweet needs to happen in person, because sweet is really damn hard to be achieved over a phone line. Catch me on the off Tuesday night when I have nothing to do, and I can be real sweet with just a couch and some ordered-in wings and good company.

In the end, I guess I have to come to grips with the realization that I will never be the girl who can always say "whatever" and be fine with it. But I can be, and am, that girl who can say, "I'm down with pretty much anything, but can we agree on it together?" If I can't be "sweet" 24/7, I guess I'll have to settle for the glimpses that I get while I wait to calm the fuck down and be more accepting of it.

In the meantime, anyone know where I can find a dude who likes being verbally upbraided? I kid, I kid...

...But really. Tough love is my specialty.

XOXO

4 Times A Woman Is NOT Trying To Be A Crazy Bitch

"And it's not your fault, but mine; and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked things up this time, didn't I, my dear?" These may be the lyrics of Mumford and Sons' "Little Lion Man," but they aptly describe the feeling that women get when we realize we've made a social mis-step of some possibly Crazy Bitch proportions. And so, I give you, so we can be clearer about this in the future, the four times women are not trying to be a Crazy Bitch.

Situation 1.) When you give us disappointing news, the silence on the phone line is not a bad thing. We are not trying to make you feel any worse (...slightly). We're just trying to juggle our disappointment with the fact that we know you already feel bad and try to temper our instant bitchy and self-centered response with something that sounds more like, "Well, that's really a shame," instead of "This is all your fault!" Because we actually know what's fair and what's not, and when you've tried versus when you're actually not trying. If you're not trying, we're bound to be a little more insistent and lay on a little bit of a guilt-trip, but if you've done what you can, we're taking time out to not be a bitch about it. We really hate being a bitch to you. Really.

Situation 2.) It's only been 24 hours, and my name has popped up on your phone not twice, but 4 times. I know how this looks. This doesn't look good. In fact, I'm pretty sure that this qualifies for what is known in the vernacular as "blowin' a G's phone up." But hear me out. If you weren't quite so hard to get a hold of, and if I wasn't calling for some really, really pertinent and time-stamped information, we wouldn't be having this problem. I am not purposely trying to be annoying. I am not trying to hunt you down over Verizon's phone lines, though, it's starting to feel like it at this point, even to me. Women are warned off their entire life so being so persistent, as we're told it often comes across as "needy." But the deal is, I don't necessarily need you--although that would be nice-- I need the answers that you hold. Please accept this as an apology, and call back ASAP so I can stop looking like I'm about to boil a bunny at any moment and you can get back to being un-harassed by me and thinking, "Wow, she's actually a really cool girl. I haven't heard from her in awhile. Maybe I should call," and not "Oh god, it's this crazy bitch again-- she can't get enough of me. I'm turning my phone off NOW. Die, bitch, diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie!"

Situation 3.) It's The Morning After, roughly somewhere between the hours of 8 and 10 AM. We are currently undressed, unwashed, just awake, and the remains of yesterday's make-up are smeared in 20 directions from center. From the instant our eyes open, we are aware of 4 things:
1.) You have other stuff to do today than entertain us.
2.) We were sleeping with our mouth open, which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and winning.

3.) You're probably wondering when we're going to leave so you can get on with said day.
4.) Saying goodbye is going to be awkward. There's always the Great Hug vs. Kiss debate.
We are also then aware of the next 4 following things:
1.) Certified, we will have no clue where either our bra or underwear have gotten to. (Always check under the bed!)
2.) We cannot stumbled onto the street looking like this. It's a small town, and there are children and possibly people who know us around.
3.) We're going to have to commandeer your bathroom for about 10 minutes to get presentable. We hope you don't mind or think we're taking a massive shit.
4.) It's rude to just fuck and run, so what's the most well-mannered way to execute this morning? Is this a "breakfast included" affair, or at least a lukewarm cup of coffee? We're not looking to stay for lunch, but a cigarette would be nice. A half an hour to an hour of waking up, lounging, fixing everything north of your neck and checking out the situation south of the border is in order, and some casual morning conversation is not completely out-of-line. We're aware. We're not staying forever. We know you would like us out at some reasonable point. And we'll be gone with nearly everything we came with in about an hour, as long as we can actually find the underwear that has been spirited away to the Twilight Zone.
(Side-note: If she know the roommates, she's gonna be in there a little bit longer. It's just rude otherwise.)

Situation 4.) When we tell you what we really want. Be man enough to ask rather than jumping to conclusions. Be man enough to listen. Be man enough to care. Because when you don't, that puts you in a situation in which you become a Massive Dick, and, in fact, totally null and voids us from being a Crazy Bitch when we call your ass on it. It's kind of like how a red-card throwing a player out of the game negates his personal foul.

There you have it. Realign that thinking.

XOXO