I'm Doing A Cleanse

Having some perspective...nearly four weeks without talking to the ex, seeing the end of the book, wondering what to do when the lease ends, thinking about taking a 2 month jaunt to Southeast Asia before I turn 30, and all that...I went and did something stupid.

I'm always doing something stupid. It's part of being an enthusiast.

This time the dumb idea is I'm doing a juice cleans. Juice, no food, no alcohol, no caffeine, no anything for three-five days, vegan leading up and vegan leading out. I've been going to yoga a lot more now, and I'm starting to buy into some of this yoga-ness. Eating vegan was a change that made things interesting, and it's cool to see my discipline as other people are eating delicious things in front of me, like cookies and lobster sandwiches.

Apparently you reach spiritual clarity by day three. I think that you are delirious from not eating by then and start to think the meaning of life is moon beams. That will certainly be the fun part.

I'm at 3 PM on day two, and I'm feeling neutral. People have headaches and irritability and runny noses on this, but I don't at all...except I just feel a little bored. I didn't realize how many of my weekend plans were around food and drink consumption. Brunch plans, coffee plans, drink plans. It's been an interesting and mildly boring weekend all at once. I didn't want to cleanse during the week and be confused at work, and then exhausted when I worked out, so I figured the weekend was good.

Turns out any time for a cleanse blows.

Luckily I've got magazines, movies, errands, and lots of texting. Drinking water when at bars. Watching hours of Top Chef and wondering what everything tastes like. Googling pictures of bacon. No biggie.

It's too cold to do what I want that doesn't relate to food, which is walk to Greenpoint to the bike store and see if that Surly is still there. Or even drop by the coffee shop and order water and sit there and read my Southeast Asia On A Budget Book and flirt with the barista with the neck tattoo.

So I'm stuck in my apartment, and food's on my brain.

Like I'm missing the act of chewing. Even thinking about it now is getting me riled up. Chewing! When has that excited anyone?

I don't want to write, I don't want to clean.

I want to go have a hamburger with a friend. No, actually, scratch the friend. If I ate in front of them the way that I want to eat right now, they would no longer want to be my friend.

Vegan in, vegan out. Spiritual clarity. Delirium.

Peace and love to all mankind.

And bacon to those who wait.

I'd Rather Be Watching Freaks and Geeks

That post below about the break-up? They're back together. Screaming, crying, one obsessed with the other while the other is just obsessed with himself, back together. Le sigh. I did all that I could. I was a good friend. But there is no telling anyone, especially two anyones who have no damn business in the world being together, that they might want to take a break from one another so they can breathe and rest their throats sore from wailing.

I think I have decided that I am not dating right now. It was halfway between the second and third 4-page letter I read for two different sets of 'break-up no wait fake-up' friends. It was between getting a text of "hey baby" and not realizing who it was from, from two different numbers not saved in my phone this weekend. It was between my London crush coming to visit and wanting to hang out with the sole purpose of making out and seeing nothing wrong when I was put-off and then going back to his adorably flirty emails once he was home, between the boy who lives with his girlfriend who begged to have a sleepover with me, the guy who's asked me out four times and I've canceled every time last minute, the date who told me I had a nice "tushie," the date who ended up having a kid, the guy I thought I could love after two dates who then got deported. I don't date online, I don't blind date, I don't get set up. But I meet a lot of good-looking weirdos. And I have a lot of friends who wade through a lot of relationship crap.

I kind of don't want to be around it this winter. I want to eat whoopie pies and go to yoga, I want to lie on the couch drinking pink lemonade all Sunday, I want to shop for boots all Saturday, I want to go out every night and have none of them be a date, I want to pay for my own drink, I want to split an appetizer with three girlfriends, I want to go to a concert and not get hit on, I want to not wear something low-cut, I want to read, I want to write, I want to dance in my underwear in my apartment.

Someday I might do those things with someone else. For now I've got my favorite sweater and my exes sweet messages once in a while and two jobs and school and dance class and a whole lot of Freaks and Geeks on television.

Not bad for a Monday. A non-dating Monday, and without a prospect in sight. It feels kind of amazing. Next up: a cooking class, re-organizing my closet, trapeze lessons, a trip to France, painting, drawing, singing, or anything else...

The Break-Up

There was a huge fight. Dozens of hours of crying. Awful words exchanged. Now Sunday night, all parties are exhausted. Plans were made and canceled. Doors slammed. Things thrown.

I've cleaned my apartment, done laundry, fluffed pillows, ordered a ton of Thai food and have the mindless television on full blast. The nice, warm lights are on, my comfy sweater is wrapped around me, and I sit on the couch waiting for the phone to buzz.

It's called a break-up. And for once it's not mine. Anabella is coming over for a sleepover, and a cryfest, and I am here for her in this horrible time. I love her, she loves him, and this is what happens sometimes. I'm the one saying the words of wisdom this time. We will see if when I say it to her it's more helpful than when she said it to me.

Wish us luck...

Dessert Party Planning

As my new apartment is shaping up--the chandeliers with dimmer bulbs and industrial steel shelves in the bathrooms to house a collection of pretty perfumes and swirled compacts I never use, a tiny gold statue of Buddha I got in Japan, a vase, Sephora bags and sweet-smelling soaps, the leather seats on the brushed nickel stools, the pump to turn the coffee table into a fountain--I have finally decided how I am going to celebrate my birthday. The second birthday since I've had boyfriends where I have no boyfriend.

I'm having a dessert party, and I mean great desserts. I want red velvet, I want cheesecake, I want double fudge, I want apple pie. I'm going to buy it all--cupcakes, cream frosting, chocolate chips and most of all, champagne. Bottles and bottles of champagne and I'm only inviting girls over. It will be a Friday night and it will be girls and desserts and bubbly and I will light candles and wear a party dress and the world will be right.

Now I just need to figure out where to get all this stuff without breaking the bank. Am I allowed to bake a frozen Sara Lee dessert if I throw away the box?

Man-Snatching Etiquette

TK for now, just in case big brother is watching...

Adventures in Singlehood

Things I heard myself saying while interacting with those of the opposite sex:

"Wait, you're an art-school dropout who lives in Williamsburg? Wait, hold on, let me get my camera, my grandkids are never gonna believe this."

Waits a beat as would-be suitor stomps off.

"So you don't want to buy me a drink anymore?"

I am good at dating, people. Really good. One of these days I'm going to do it.

School Update #45,347

On the waitlist at NYU.

I am the waitlist queen! Come on, someone drop off the waitlist of a NYC school and give it to me. Otherwise I am off to San Francisco where I know just about no one (my lovely bf from college in Seattle barely counts as my driving is so terrible she will have to come down to see me every single time, and I will make her!)

In the interim I am contemplating two very loaded questions:

1. Is it ever okay to date one of your ex's friends? Like if the friend was never that good a friend of theirs and you never had any inclination until you just recently saw each other again and you thought, well I liked his friend...why not this? It seems icky, but I think I am running out of people that I like enough to date. I am impossible!!

2. Sex with an ex is always a terrible idea right? Even if you can emotionally handle it? Even if you think one day you might get back together, or not get back together, as long as you're clear and they are clear and it's just fun.

Okay I know the answers to both of these is NO NO NO. But just wanted to ask. With my latest best friend in Chicago and no boyfriend/best friend to speak of in the close vicinity, I start to ask these crazy questions to myself. That's where you, the awesomely un-crazy, come in. Help me guys!

I'm In Miami, B*tch

That's the only song still playing everywhere in South Beach and YES my friend Annabelle and I just bought matching shirts that said so after burning our noses whilst laying out at the ritziest hotel pool in Miami.

We snuck in. We can afford a trashy shirt that says we're here, but we can't be here, really.

It's okay. We've got the proof. Uneven tan lines, neon shirts and empty wallets as we trudge through the sludge on our way back home.

Mind's in Miami. Body's back in NYC. Pics to come, after the mountain of work emails is hacked in half. Okay by 10% at least...

If You Thought Your Valentine's Day Sucked

Read on the terrible tale that won some bragging rights on Gawker and maybe a Valium...

" On February 12 of 2001, the mother of my then- boyfriend passed away at the young age of 42 due to drug use, malnourishment and a complete inability to take care of herself despite all the help offered and all the hospital stays/surgeries paid for by the state. In general she had led a nasty, repulsive life from which many, MANY people including myself tirelessly attempted to rescue her through the years. There's no way to sugarcoat this- even without the drug issues, all of her other behaviors made her the epitome of white trash. (Curiously, one such white trash episode- I kid you not- involved water with HAM a la J-WOWW years before J-WOWW was a household name.) I should mention here that not long after this woman's death her son, my first love with whom I had been with for SEVEN years and helped put through college, turned out to be a cheating, lying thief who was selling drugs out of our attic. (I know....shocking! But I was young, naive and had the type of Messiah complex that only comes with first love.)

Also, I should mention that a week before his mom passing, a female "friend" of his died at 26 from an undetected cancer and we had made the 4 1/2 hour drive to his hometown of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania (a town renowned for its lone gay bar repeatedly being burned down and then reopened under new ownership. Over and over and over again. Burn, reopen, burn, reopen which should give you the idea of the area's general mentality). The viewing for that friend of his caused many people to throw up in the alley behind the funeral home because whoever did the deceased's make up hadn't covered her autopsy scars. And yes, in retrospect I figured out that this "friend" I helped him mourn was another girl with whom he had been cheating on me at some point. But I digress.

So his mom kicks the bucket. I have the awful job of driving to his work to tell him.and then pack all our stuff up and leave to make the 4 1/2 hour drive to Bumblefuck. Again. We don't leave until midnight. I wind up driving the whole way because even though this was expected and he truly wasn't close to her, he is sort of lost in thought and not able to concentrate plus I'm not a bitch- who is going to make someone drive that just lost their mom even if they weren't close to her at all? Not I. The snow comes down. I almost hit a deer. Trying to stay awake on the frozen, winding mountain roads is nearly impossible. We get to his maternal grandparents' house which is where we always stayed because his mom was such a mess. I should mention here that his father was a career petty criminal who was out of the picture since my boyfriend was a baby. Oh, and his step-grandfather? He was both a cop and a perv who through the years would constantly sexually harass me. (Each time I confronted him/scolded/yelled ...etc. etc. etc. but he seemed to have some sort of dirty old man asshole amnesia and kept on doing it.)

With hardly any sleep, I wake up on February 13th to learn that the funeral arrangements had been made without even consulting my boyfriend, her only son and oldest child. Much to my horror I learn that his mom will be getting the cheapest package possible which is literally being placed in a cardboard box. Which would be one thing if she was going to be cremated immediately, but no, a viewing for immediate family was scheduled for the next day which of course was Valentine's Day. As if that wasn't horrid enough, I learned that his mother didn't so much as own one decent dress or suit in which to be buried. This troubled me greatly and I quietly offered to go purchase something nice for her. I was told NO, they would "make do" with what she had.

It was at that point that Pervy Cop Grandpa told us that he had made sure he ran an obituary in the town paper so that maybe if her ex-husband, my boyfriend's father, the career petty criminal who apparently had several warrants out saw it, he might show up at the funeral home out of guilt or just curiosity. Only instead of allowing him to pay his respects, there would be a sting operation to arrest him on his outstanding theft warrants. Which of course was not the time or place but despite my urgings, was still the outcome for which Pervy Cop Grandpa hoped, even going so far as to wring his pervy cop hands in gleeful anticipation.

Which brings us to Valentine's Day- the day of the actual viewing. After an hour trying to convince my boyfriend's 16 year-old single mom sister that perhaps wearing denim overalls and a matching T-shirt emblazoned with Winnie the Pooh was not the best choice of attire for her mother's viewing, I gave up and we all piled in the car- myself, my boyfriend, Disney Overalls, her baby, Pervy Cop Grandpa and my boyfriend's grandmother who had spent the better part of her life trying to keep her daughter safe from the demons that plagued her and was genuinely mourning her loss but in a very, non-showy way but also seemed relieved that she was gone.

It should be noted here that my boyfriend was wearing a suit which caused each of his relatives-even the Grandma in mourning- to exclaim, "Why are you so dressed up?" while Pervy Cop Grandpa took a keen interest in "how different my body looked in dress pants and a nice blouse." Fucking ewwwww.

We get to the funeral home and I am BRACING myself for the spectacle I know awaits me- i.e. the sight of the deceased in the aforementioned cardboard box presumably clad in her standard outfit of acid washed jeans and any one of the Camel cigarette T-shirts she got for free with all the Camel points she accumulated. But alas, as it turns out that would have been a welcome sight. Yes, she was in the cardboard coffin but in lieu of jeans and a t-shirt (and with the COMPLETE ABSENCE OF MAKE-UP OR EMBALMING FLUID ...."Why spend the money?" I was told) she was clad in a nightgown purchased from the Salvation Army that can only be described as a cast-off from the wardrobe department on the set of the original "Night of the Living Dead." (They're coming to get yoooou, Bah-bar-ah.) Flannel, high frilly neckline, floral pattern- it was as if we stumbled upon the original character inspiration for the cryptkeeper from HBO's "Tales from the Crypt." The sickly, gaunt, white-as-a-sheet, stiff-as-a-board drug-ridden corpse who was to be perpetually ready for a long night's slumber lying in a giant cardboard box was a ghoul incarnate. (To this day, I have nightmares about this shit.)

Of course despite my shock at the scene before me, I doted on my boyfriend, trying to portray the perfect balance of warmth and support without being clingy or patronizing- this was not an easy feat but somehow I managed to pull it off.

And so they bid their farewells while I concentrated on not throwing up. No one cried or showed any emotion which given the sort of person the deceased was, was no surprise though it was still... unsettling. They all just stared at the body- not even with reverence- more like no one could take their eyes off the macabre, physical results of the "cheapest package" purchased at the funeral home. I imagine the way I felt was the same way hostages must feel when they are being held at gunpoint against their will- trying desperately not to believe that what is happening before them is really happening but knowing it is and being helpless to stop it. Meanwhile, much to Pervy Cop Grandpa's pervy cop dismay, his sting operation did not go down and thus his dreams of landing in Bumblefuck's Policemen Hall of Fame were shot in the non-blink of a zombie's eye.

Following this nightmarish display of non-mourning at which no one, not even some ashen-faced, lurchy funeral director officiated in any way or offered so much as a Unitarian prayer or the tossing of a dead carnation on the cardboard box while yelling "Hey! Good luck in the Afterlife, lady!" we were ushered back to the grandparents' house for a repass of day-old lunch meats, raisin bread, beets and Cheetos.

But alas, it was *still* Valentine's Day! And in the spirit of that, the grieving Grandma gifted me a stuffed animal, which when pressed issued robotic, comical sayings about love and romance. Given that death, horror and and the complete distortion of respect and etiquette still loomed in the air like a fart in an airplane bathroom, when the little plush frog or penguin clutching a heart-or whatever the fuck animal he was- said ANYTHING, it sounded eerie, ominous. menacing and serial killer-like. He was a souvenir of my despair and quite frankly scared the crap out of me. So off he went to live in a dumpster behind a deli. Which I suppose was par for the course and at that point, the least of my worries.

As if my mental state and any semblance of being ok wasn't obliterated enough it was decided that we would all immediately go "clean" out the apartment of the deceased, i.e. pillage all her shit in the hopes of finding some treasure she forgot she owned and thus hadn't been able to pawn for smack before going to meet her maker. Off we went!

Now this was in the day before text messaging, blackberries and iPhones were de rigueur. Lucky for me, before making the drive, I had alerted 2 friends of mine- my "top gays" at the time about what had happened. (I believe we were supposed to visit that weekend and not knowing when we would return, I wanted to let them know about the change in plans.)

I don't know if it was the tone of my voice on the voicemail I left them (and just think- this was before I became aware that I was unwittingly co-starring in the real life equivalent of a David Lynch film) or just the kindness of their hearts but without even telling us, they made the 4 1/2 hour trip out there which took longer because of snow.

They used an old-school pay phone to call Information and get the number of the police station. Since they knew about Pervy Cop Grandpa they called the police station and no doubt weaving some supernatural gay magic, they were able to get the home phone number for Pervy Cop Grandpa's house where we were staying and then contact Pervy Cop Grandpa who gave them the address of the dead mom's apartment.

Sans GPS as this was long before such technology was available, they tracked us down for the sole purpose of....taking us out for Valentine's Day dinner to help alleviate us from our weariness and overall distress. That's right- the gays descended through snow (on the day they should have been giving each other back-rubs in front of their roaring fire while arguing who loved who more as their 6 Boston Terriers fought for the best cuddle spot on the couch and witnessed them exchanging cashmere sweaters from Barney's) into the same town where the lone gay bar was routinely torched and re-opened, tracked us down and fed us a proper hot meal. God/Buddha/Allah/Liza Minnelli love them. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.

Of course, the only restaurants in Bumblefuck are all of the chain variety but I can assure you, never was I was so thrilled to eat boneless buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks on Valentine's Day in my life, which was the form in which they offered us their condolences and I happily accepted.

The contrast of the shiny, red foil decorations everywhere in the restaurant was striking and almost startling compared to the grim setting in which we had spent the day. We raised our over-sized, over-priced sugary cocktails and my beloved gays in shining armor toasted to Love. That was it. A toast to Love, the single word with no elaboration, context or explanation. My heart sang with the sort of joy a girl can only get from being rescued from a nightmare-inducing fate by two dashing gays in a snowstorm offering comfort and salty, fried carbs.

And for all we had been through in the last 48 hours, considering all the nurturing and love I had given my boyfriend despite the grotesque, petrifying circumstances in which I had found myself, he didn't so much as utter a thank-you much less whisper an "I love you" - not even when one of the hero gays went to pay the bill while the other went to clear the snow off the car. He had never really been in in shock or truly mourning since he was not close to his mom and by this time his mood could even be described as jovial - he merrily had taken over the pillaging of his mom's home and then had become the life of the party during our Applebees double date. Granted, I still didn't expect anything remotely Valentine's-like from him in terms of a gift or really any attention paid to it, but a quick kiss or thank-you would have been nice as I was tirelessly hauling out Hefty Bag #26 filled with cigarette butts, liquor and prescription bottles, mysteriously stained bits of unidentified material and every copy of The National Enquirer since 1982.

A few weeks later, my boyfriend made the trip back to Bumblefuck to retrieve his mother's ashes (I was none too happy that her urn would soon reside in my living room.) Creepily enough, the ashes had been divided into two urns- one for him and one for Disney Overalls.

A couple months after that but before the cheating, thievery and drug factory was discovered (again- I was verrry young, naive and in love) I came home one night to find my boyfriend had opened the urn. And for reasons I still don't know in a scene that still makes me shudder when I think about it, he was quietly running his fingers through his mother's ashes. We never spoke of it, but from that twisted moment on, having opened Pandora's box of evil dust, the feng shui of our home became totally fucked up and our relationship crumbled at a record-setting pace. I soon discovered his indiscretions and criminal behavior and kicked him out.

At the end of the painful, raw moving out process, I came home one day and as I opened the door I could sense that the apartment was...changed. The sunlight from the windows was filtering through the curtains differently and there was a feeling of general calm, relief and happiness that had been missing for months. I immediately knew why. The urn that held half a ghoul minus the particles that I'm sure had gotten lodged underneath my ex's fingernails was gone. Happy days were here again!

Needless to say, I vacuumed like a woman possessed and then made a pitcher of margaritas and invited my top gays to come celebrate. They happily obliged and we all cried laughing while recalling The St. Valentine's Massacre of Good Taste and Decorum while toasting my future. That was a most excellent evening though Valentine's Day has never quite been the same for me. And Christ on a cracker, how could it possibly ever be?"

Room Hates

Perhaps roommate stuff is better, but I still want to live somewhere else like an adult...

Quote of the Day

Girl #1: Is it wrong to use IM as my preferred medium for argument with a boyfriend because I am a writer and, between you and me, I am much quicker than him there and I rather enjoy it?

Girl #2: Not at all, in fact, I think it's downright responsible of you.

Girl #!: It's comments like that which make me look forward to our lonely 40th birthdays where, surrounded by cats, we finally get married in a sexless civil union because no one else in this world will have us.

Girl #2: I call the wedding dress.

Girl #1: Damnit.

Quote of the Day

Upon viewing the unbelievable, candlelit, devolving party before us, where the boys were wearing miniskirts without underwear and the girls were dancing dressed as pirates and everyone was falling on slip and slide scale tiles of vodka and mango juice...


"I knew I should have gone to State school."

Bye bye Guatemala, next up, Nicaragua.

Panty Ripper Quote of the Day

There is a drink in Belize called the Panty Ripper. It is amazing, potent, always in great supply. Our sailing trip ended with the first mate hilariously making us some instead of driving the boat properly. He says we have to say it "PANTIE RIPPAH". That is all. Well also, this...

Two in the morning we awake on the deserted island to find that one of us is not in the tent. No, one of us is not in the tent at all.

I take a walk around the water; there are no floating bodies. There is also no electricity. I tear my foot on some rocks and then decide if she's dead, well, there's nothing that I can do. And then, the following morning:

Figure appears hangdoggedly walking in the distance towards us...

Me, shouting: Walk of shame!

REDACTED: Yeah, yeah, I slept on the boat.

Me: Uh huh. So...who was it?

REDACTED, laughing: Oh Captain, my Captain!

Me, laughing: Well?

REDACTED: Well...what?

Me (clearing throat): I think we deserve to know how big his mast is.
---------------

Panty Ripper indeed. Also for the rest of the sailing trip I was allowed to call the captain "Papasito".

Why and Why Not

1. He’s married
2. With young children
3. And is your boss

Dear God, Annabella, no! Have we come here, right here, already? To the point where we’re meddling not only with boys who are “just about to” dump their girlfriend (not that this is okay, but I mean, I’ve seen it unfold to stellar people and no longer pass judgment) but now with our bosses, who are married, with babies at home?

I love her, not her choices, as it were. We’re at dinner and everyone’s testy, the weather has turned, our waiter will not. I don’t feel at all like sipping the perfunctory wine I ordered. I’m chugging along in the conversation and staring at the wall. I will not judge. I will not judge. I think I can. Will not judge.

The candle at the table flickers upon certain words. Children. Won’t happen again. Rain splashes down from the vintage ceiling and a fat drop hits me in my sweatered elbow. She’s talking and I don’t know what to say, what to do, what to feel. I open my mouth and then shut it. She knows what I’m thinking. That’s why she tells her story in parts, doesn’t look us in the eye, drowns herself in her glass. And I want to go home to bed but it’s ten on a Friday night and I’m not allowed.

I say one thing, hoping it doesn’t sound vitriolic. She can take it or not. I won’t make her because I feel I can’t. And maybe I am overreacting. Maybe they’re meant to be? Of course then it seems, it wouldn’t be so painful. It wouldn’t have happened this way.

She throws me a look and I know what’s unsaid. Who am I to say what’s good and what’s bad? I can’t separate myself from past relationship wrongs. I’m sabotaging two perfectly great job opportunities because I can’t decide what I want. I look at my wisdom teeth in a jar and when noone’s around, shake them like maracas. I’m…not quite a person who knows what she’s doing in life.

And then, part of me is aghast at myself for not righting this moral injustice, vigilante-style. That I’m not so disgusted with the idea that I take it upon myself to march over to midtown and shake the living hell out of both of them. But she’s an adult, they both are. They’re older, more established, I’m younger and can’t find my soapbox. We leave, unsatisfied and feeling like we can’t talk about it. And we can’t.

Guy-a-tus

(Pronounced “GUY-aye-tuss”; rhymes with “hiatus”. Definition: a celibate and purposeful period devoid of dating intended to open up time and energy for other projects like career, friends, family obligations and general mental health).

Last night began my advanced novel writing class to finally get this beast done by Spring.*

And so my writing teacher-slash-mentor-slash-friend told the group—for some reason all girls and for some reason all older than me (again!)—that she was going on a “guyatus”.

What this meant was she was sick of dating for now, was tired of the maintenance of getting her nails did and her wax on and tired of the time-sucking and though she thought it was perfectly pleasant to have someone, say, hanging around on the weekends, said person never really left, and pages of her new book never really got written.

No offense to guys, and this is by no means intended to go on a chick-lit bent, but I was so enamored of this idea that it really got me thinking…and not just to steal the idea myself and pitch it to Cosmo. Well, there was that, too.

This isn’t to say I don’t like dating. I like it a lot—maybe too much. But there’s the issue of not seeing your friends because you’ve got this other person (or people) taking up all this time, you go out too much, you drink too much, you’re high on infatuation fumes and so you giggle at your desk instead of working or working out, or put off that charity work you’ve been planning because you’re trying to catch up on sleep because you were on the phone until 3 AM laughing about a joke that, let’s face it, in two months will not be funny in the slightest.

And you let your novel go for six months collecting dust and seeming more trite by the day because you have a crush, and you should stop having crushes, and stop having plans on Monday night--just because it’s Manhattan and you can eat dinner at 11 PM doesn’t mean you should,--because what you should be doing is working on your mind, finishing your fine arts half-degree and your book, and being there more for your family to help them out and drawing more art to put on your walls because all the charcoal drawings from last semester somehow ended up all being of really big butts because you never stood in a different spot in class and the models were zaftig and splayed out in a position where their butts were kind of in your face and you laughed about it but the teacher looked at you like you shouldn’t so you forced down giggles and just drew a bunch of asses all semester.

Maybe that’s just me.

I’m used to having a boyfriend, or even just a guy in heavy rotation. But I shouldn’t be. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings on either side, but sometimes I think it’s too hard to manage both, you and someone else or you and a million dates. It’s fun, it’s the stuff of Sex and the City, and while we don’t want to admit we sort of want to grow up that way, we kind of do. It looks fun. It is fun.

Hey, let us not forget that I’m a girl. And as girls, I’ll go out on a limb and say we like to feel wanted, we like to feel hot. I hate to admit this, but it’s true. And let me speak for only part of the population of intelligent, strong, independent women out there. But validation sometimes comes in the form of boys. We like to feel like they like us. We’ve been hearing it our whole lives—who hasn’t complimented a little girl in a dress by saying she looks so “pretty”? It’s not wrong, it just is. But the completion of ourselves by filling our lives with the quest for love…it’s the stuff of novels, sure. But not of novel writing.

Perhaps it’s just a matter of time-management or the city or thinking we all deserve the world. Self-esteem and scared of aging and not being desired. Procrastination. The tides. But this guyatus thing really is starting to sound a little brilliant. Maybe because some people think dating sucks. Maybe because some people think dating is so good that it's starting to trump everything else.

I want to pose the question now:

Have any of you sworn off the opposite sex for a while? What happened? Did you build a house, plant a tree, or just watch a ton of VH1?


*And by Spring I mean April because I have an issue with March, as it always tricks me into thinking it’s not Winter, but really, it is, it snows half the time and is freezing and I’m always the idiot with the icicle hair (when wet hair from the shower freezes on the walk to the subway in those really sexy-looking scraggle-dreads) whose warm coats are in an attic in Connecticut because storing them seemed like such a great idea.

Relationship Query

“So, she’s told you repeatedly that she’s really into you and couldn’t even look at another guy even if you do whatever with another girl.“

“Yeah”

“Wow. A tad premature right?”

“Yeah.”

(Sigh) “Girls need to get better about not doing that.”

“Yeah, well they need to be HONEST.”

“That’s so stupid. They ALWAYS want to be honest. And it’s like, sure, but, um, you’re clingy. And have invented our relationship in your head. So don’t be honest just yet.”

“Ha.”

“I have to talk (REDACTED) down from that nonsense all the time. People are always all ‘I don’t want to play games! I am who I am so you have to love me!’”

“Right.”

“But then it’s like, hey a-hole; we can’t just wear our pajamas to work, so to speak.”

People really abhor the idea of "playing games" because it sounds so sinister and fake and anti-love.

But is game-playing mutually exclusive with taking it slow, figuring things out, or any other social patterns in a mating ritual? We all want the parachute to be fully operational before we jump, but I think there are ways to get to the point about that and ways not to set yourself up for failure...to make sure the conditions are as perfect and stable as possible before you test them...

Quote of the Day

The celebration, round two, in the final hours of Passerby:

Her: “Come on, let’s go to (insert place that would only be farther away if it were in India).”

[REDACTED]: “Yeah, let’s go!”

Me: “But I (just got a drink with a lychee in the bottom/think this is the song I was talking about when no one was listening/am talking to a dirty Frenchman*).”

Her (frantically, as [REDACTED] winks): “Who cares? Let’s go!”

Me (motioning for her to come closer): “Hey, come here.”

Her (inching forward): “What?”

Me: “What did I tell you? What did I just tell you?”

Her (head down): “I know.”

Me (shaking her): “Don’t look directly into his eyes! Don’t you dare get lost in his eyes! Damnit!”

Her: “B-b-but, they’re the color of the perfect storm.”


* No offense intended for any dirty Frenchmen who may be reading this. You know I find you delightful. In fact; (me, motioning, making the international hand gesture for “call me sometime”).

Quote of the Day

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. You’re meeting up with that ex?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh...”

“No, it’s okay. I told him exactly what you and I talked about.”

“You told him you would just break his heart again?”

“Yes.”

“You did? And?”

“And…he kind of seems cool with it.”

Careful, careful…this is a very, very bad idea...but since when did that ever stop anyone?

Addendum: Hmmm...maybe men really do love bitches...

Without our parents

Winding suburbs hold the remnants of thirteen. When I was invited to the prom as a freshman and it was such a big deal and I had Katie’s mother blow out my hair and wore a short silver holographic dress that could not have clashed more with the enormous red corsage my first official kiss bought for me.

When I had a skateboard but was too embarrassed to learn how to ride it when we all hung out in parking lots waxing on NOFX, sporting crowned Jnco. When we had no idea what it was that we wanted, only what we didn’t, and that core group of girls central to every activity, every tailgating party, every new bathing suit, orbited around each other, inappropriately hugging and exclaiming their love for one another.

Leases, babies, new circles and PHDs later. Yet the vestige of all the inside jokes, back when a Wednesday night was just the beginning of the weekend, comes flooding back. Different friends, upgraded from Newport-sneaking to rimless wine glasses, and the effect is exactly as it was.

It’s quiet on the patio save for our irrepressible giggles, these gales of unfortunate and ladylike squeals coming from girls who, were we to exist anywhere else, would have our act together by now. The problems we face are small to the world, enormous to us in this state, and prompt endless analysis at our sleepover, we wear short shorts and dresses to bed, just as boys would hope we would, and the only thing missing as Friday night fades is our parents yelling at us to keep it down and our own quick eye rolls as they recede back into their rooms.

We have crushes, again, and we want to talk talk talk talk about them, flipping open the glow of our cell phones and thrusting the screens into each other’s faces with see, see when he said this, what did it mean, does it mean he likes me, do you think he might?

We’re looking at each other’s outfits, wilted at the close of business, agreeing that as girls we are allowed just a few minutes of being utterly vacuous as this, because so much of the rest of the time—we insist—we’re enjoying art and other, worthwhile academic and environmental endeavors, we can be stupid together like this because it’s not exactly who we are, or if it is, just a small slice, one that few know we’re capable of, one that independently exists and barely rears its head in opposition to what’s important and what’s okay in the scheme of how one should be.

We know. In the real world there is no laughing about making T-shirts that say Merkin Manor in the Meerkat Manor font, for example. But this weekend…every regression is allowed.

Dirty Jerse

The funniest conversation overheard this weekend:

“So he was funny?”

“So funny.”

“And really hot?”

“Yes, so hot. So very hot. Except…”

“Except...what?”

“Well I met him at the Jersey Shore.”

“So?”

“So…when we kissed, I smelled self-tanner.”