Dear Ex Boyfriends,

If you're reading this blog and you know who I am, you are likely an ex-boyfriend of mine.

Welcome! Pull up a chair. Can I get you a drink? If I'm not mistaken, you like (insert your favorite drink). Yeah, I remembered. How? Cause I was the best thang you evah dated, that's how.

I kid.

Long time, no talk. Surely. Because if we are exes, we don't talk, not really. Maybe we have had errant texts here and there. Maybe you have been asking for a kiss, a date, a drink, me to die, or sharing pictures of your recent camping adventures. Whatever it's been, I wanted to acknowledge it. You and me. It happened. It was awesome. Now it's awful, because when relationships end, it is the worst. Plagues are better. Breakups are to sunshine and puppy dogs as chainsaws are to sunshine and puppy dogs. You, me, it is sooo over. It was my fault, I know that you think so.

How does that make you feel?

If you're anything like me (and if we dated, you are), it's going to make you feel weird. Conflicted and weird. Should we have broken up? Should we some day get back together? Are we actually friends now or fake friends? Will you email me that I wrote this and it was obnoxious? I wonder these things. Other things I wonder: how you are, what makes you laugh, if I can still also make you laugh, and if you heard this recent song that I heard, because it makes me think of you, and I still think of you. Of course I do. I still laugh at the things we laughed at. It's funny how the bad stuff expires but the good stuff never does.

That thing you said. I remember. That thing that you did. I wish I could see you doing it now. My heart? Never whole again. Cause of you. You have that power over me. You probably always will.

Even if I act like I don't, as I said today, that's just my avatar. I use her to get to the next planet. I remember. Of course I do. I'm not a monster, as much as that would make this easier for you.

I've been thinking. I've been missing some things.

Do you miss me? If so, you should tell me. There needs to be more love in this world. we can share love without it being weird, can't we? I mean, we shared everything else. Even if we can't remember. Also I am very vain. If we dated, you already knew this, but I think it bears repeating. I am really vain. And I like to feel special. Don't you? If you say something nice to me, I will say something nice back to you. You deserve it. You are something. You own a piece of me, and that is amazing. I can say that, I can always say that. I will never keep from you the things that made me fall in love with you. No matter who either of us are with, no matter how either of us feel, I will tell you. Just ask.

Will you ask? Or will you be angry? Will you pretend that we are buddies when we aren't. Will you ask me one thing and then change it in the next breath? Will you stay away for months and then call me out of the blue? Will you wish that I will go to hell and stay there? Will you ever wish for me to be happy?

I hope you do. I wish that for you. I wish a lot of things for you. All good. Even if I hate you. Which I do. We're exes after all. Aren't we?

Well whoever you are, and whoever you are with, I hope you're doing well. And I don't expect us to talk, or be normal. I never was very normal to begin with. I hope when we talk it will be civil. I hope it will be kind. I hope you can say something nice to me because I will say something nice to you. I hope we can talk about that thing we laughed about for hours, in your (insert car), at the (insert place we went to), when the sky was (blue/gray/littered with stars). I hope that I don't inspire you to light many fires and I sincerely hope that you will not kill me. That would be very uncool (Brian, I am looking at you, you sick bastard. Ah, I'm kidding again. I never dated a Brian. Did I?).

Also exes, I'm single again. So be gentle if you are. And be very, very gentle if you are not. Cause ruminating on you today is kind of making me dizzy. For what it's worth. Which is, you know, nothing I suppose. Not worth the paper I printed this on, or something along those lines.

Love/Hate/Neutrally,
K

Relationship Advice

Not that I'm in one any more! But it came up that the boy, the last one, let's call him Boy, could not deal with the existence of other boys, lets keep them lowercase, because they were no threat to Boy, who stays capitalized because he WAS capitalized, in my life anyhow.

So Boy hates boys. I can understand how he would, as some of those boys used to be capitalized themselves (I dated them), but now they are just errant friends who I may run into once in a while or who text me once in a while, which enrages Boy who thinks that at any given moment I will run off into the sunset with other boys. I absolutely would not, but any communication with them, even if unprovoked, was thought to be very disrespectful to him. Which I get, and I'm sorry for, but in a world when you're 28 and you've had love in your life before, is it really fair to pretend like no one else ever existed? And can't you ever just be friends with someone? Or can't you ever just harmlessly flirt with someone? I find myself doing this all the time. I flirted with the mail-lady the other day. It's just my way. But it really hurt Boy, and I could never really understand why. I kind of dug it when other girls liked Boy. It made me proud.

Didn't make Boy proud. He hated it. Thought I was somehow doing it just to make him look bad.

Plus some of these boys I work with (never dated them), and Boy thought any communication with them would eventually turn into flirting or someone would get a crush on someone. But Boy spent so much time worrying about it when it wasn't true. And I would try to get him to get over it, but it just didn't happen. In a world filled with boys, how could Boy feel like number one? In the end, he just couldn't feel that way, which leads me to ask, if you are dating someone and that person is insecure about it, but you love them, is it ever okay just to stop talking to several people in your life?

And if that person you dated is no longer in your life, is it okay to go back to talking to those people? Or does the very act that you waited to maintain friendships or flirtships or even harmless text-buddy status until you were single prove that you were doing wrong in the first place by having any boys who were mildly attractive in your life?

Notice Boy is never jealous of unattractive boys.

Harumph.

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?"

The Best Craigslist Ad Ever

Sometimes I troll them when I'm bored, looking for free trampolines or drum-circle classes or knitting groups or used books for sale.

And sometimes I love to look at the "missed connections" site, not because I ever have any myself, but I hope to witness one happening someday. A boy looks at a girl. A girl smiles at boy. Their eyes meet, but the subway stops and one has to leave. It's so hard to meet someone, and now we have to deal with the effin 2/3 train.

And ladies and gentleman, I present to you the best Missed Connections Ad I've ever seen.

"You Heard Me Fart....m4w - 35 (North)"

Yesterday was the most embarassing day of my life. I am so ashamed.
I had no idea that you were sitting at your desk when I unleashed a nasty Taco Bell fart that I was holding back all day.
I just could not keep that dirty old man in my stomach any longer.
And to make matters worse I yelled out, " La Cucaracha !"

When I passed your cubicle and saw you sitting there, I died a thousand deaths. But you just kept reading.
How considerate.
When I had the courage to return, I noticed that two of the windows were open.

I have always thought that you were a hottie and dreamed of taking you out to dinner. But that will never happen now.
Now you know that I am just a slyme ball. A creature with no consideraion for people.

I was told that you called out today.
I hope you are well.

Ahahahhaha!

Baby Boy Boden! (Cheesy Girl Post)

My wonderful friend Colleeeeeen (from college) and her husband Read (ditto) just welcomed into this world a baby boy! As their long-distance supporter (I'm glad I bought the semi-unisex baby gift because they waited to find out if their baby was a boy or girl and now there is absolutely no excuse--I must go visit them pronto) I am posting the pics they sent everyone here. Yay Boden!


It's enough to make the most hardened semi-employed writer with three roommates go "Awwww." Also, my God are they big when they come out. I have a really gross baby question that I just asked my other preggers friend Selly: when the baby comes out, he or she breathes air for the first time, so I was wondering if the baby peed for the first time after coming out, and if not, does the baby pee inside you? That can't be right! But there are so many fascinating and insane things that happen to your body and the baby's during the whole process that I don't even know how idiotic my question is. Can someone tell me?

Friends with an Ex, Part Deux

So there was a time on this blog when I asked, can you be friends with an ex? The discussion got good and then I got conflicted. All my exes (save one who flat-out refuses to talk to me because he thinks that talking to me will break up his engagement--come on I'm not that evil/fascinating/rich for that to even be a consideration! Think about it, Person Who Hates Me) want to be/have wanted to be friends at some point.

Methinks there is an ulterior motive sometimes. Others, I can't say. When you break up with someone (or someone breaks up with you) isn't one person basically saying to the other person "I deem you unworthy as of this moment" and shouldn't both parties just straight disappear forever? Won't you always be rehashing old times and pissing off your current boyfriend/girlfriend? What is the point unless you are going to try it again, and btw, don't ever try it again if you broke up because that trust can never come back, right?

I am full of questions tonight after an ex called long-distance because of a song 'that reminded me of him' and I sort of asked all these questions inappropriately. I sort of had a grandstanding speech when the guy was just trying to tell me he missed me. I sort of said, "We're fake friends, not real friends! I want real friends and we can never be real friends!" I got hung up on. I don't recommend following in my path. It feels crappy.

But crappy or not, is it true? Or am I clinging to some antiquated idea of what friends are and affixing myself to the pain of our relationship which ended years ago! Will I forever be the brat who can't let bygones be bygones?

I'm dying to know...

Quote of the Day

"You know there is something wrong in the twenty four hours between sharing homemade pumpkin pie and creamed parsnips you find another girl's panties in his apartment."

All guys scumbags? No, no, no that can't be true!

"Here's the thing, if I believe him, that's the first line I'd say on a Jerry Springer episode where the audience would boo. You know, 'He said it proceeded me, he didn't remember it was there,' and then every overweight person in the studio would go, 'Fool!""

Such a cliche to say men are dogs, but then, why do they do such oblivious things as this?

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.

Cougar Quote of the Day

Me: Okay, lightening round. You first.

Him: Hmmm. First hip hop album bought?

Me: Easy! The Chronic.

Him: Me too!

Me: Really?

Him: Yeah. Wait, you mean The Chronic 2000 right?

Me: (long pause) Uh....yeah. (nervous laughter). Yeah, that's right

---------

Kids today.

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.

Match Point

When the day arrives in which you come upon a holiday party, invited this time, a gathering of your superiors (not in work, but rather, in life) and half the men-and they are men this time-are in tuxedos, and the girls are all a-glitter in designer sparkles and crystal flutes are passed by a bedecked staff, and your friend has bailed, what else can be done but saying yes to small mugs of sundae-flavored liquer until the following conversation occurs?

Fancy neurosurgeon: “I’m a fancy neurosurgeon.”

Filter-less freelancer: “Does that mean you can drill me a bliss hole?”

Fancy neurosurgeon, now gulping down scotch: “Pardon?”

Filter-less freelancer, somehow emboldened by not knowing this person, and not for the first time feeling like saying the most ridiculous thing that comes to mind: “Surely you know of bliss holes! Like in that article ten years ago in Rolling Stone? Where people get tiny holes drilled in their skulls as some sort of medieval throwback to let out all the bad spirits. And they say they’re in a perpetual state of joy…pure bliss. Right?”

Fancy neurosurgeon, with a twinkle in his eye: “Right.”

Filter-less freelancer: “So how about it? Can you drill me a bliss hole?”

Fancy neurosurgeon: “Oh I’ll drill you a bliss hole all right. Why don’t you turn around?”

Record player scratches to a screeching end.

Filter-less freelancer: “Well played, sir. Well played.”

Have I finally met my inappropriate conversationalist match?

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...

Pre-Halloweenie

These pre-Halloween days brought clashing festivities, a gaggle of turkeys at the first party, two Rainbow Brights and a half-naked girl in her skivvies at the second, a costume in tandem (Tanto and I were the “Addicted to Love” girls from Robert Palmer’s classic video, and naturally, we had a choreographed dance, and we got a free ride home from the police because of it), and my first full-time writing assignment which instead of working on, I nervously procrastinated.

And the past 48 hours brought some pretty great pickup lines too. My favorite overheard:

Scenario #1

(REDACTED)

Scenario #2

Man dressed in a laundry bag: “You know, everyone here is convinced we should be together. Except for you.”

Confused girl, laughing: “But aren’t I the only one you have to convince?”

Scenario #3

Man dressed in a laundry bag, somehow at the next location: “Let me just tell you a joke.”

Confused girl, not laughing: “Okay. Shoot.”

Man dressed in a laundry bag: “Have you heard about the new corduroy pillows? They’re making head lines.”

Confused girl, laughing a really long time: “Ha!”

Trading Up

“The number one rule in relationships has to do with trading up, not down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that every time I get a new girlfriend, I make sure she’s better in some way than the last.”

“Like better for you? More in line with your goals and stuff? Huh. Actually that makes a lot of sense.”

“Well I guess so. That too. But I just meant hotter. And better in bed.”

“We’re not talking about this any more.”

“We’re not? Why?”

“Because your idiocy borders on brilliance.”

Conflict of Interest

Sort-of-celebrity: “Are you going to come to *insert fabulous location here* this weekend?”

My bangs and my shorts: “Yes, of course. Look at us! We just scream ‘part-ay’!”

My mouth: “No. I mean, I haven’t been invited.”

Sort-of-celebrity moving in close: “Consider this an invite.”

My bangs and my shorts: “Woo hoo! Validation! See? See? Look at how far we’ve taken you!”

My mouth: “Oh gee thanks, but I really was planning on finishing this book this weekend.”

Sort-of-celebrity: “Are you kidding?”

My bangs and my shorts: “That’s it. We knew you were too awkward to handle us.”

My mouth: “No, I mean, I just like reading...no, I mean…I just really like this new book I’m…uh. Yes. I am kidding! Reading sucks! Reading's for dicks!”

My bangs and my shorts: “We’re out of here, nerd.”

Let this serve as an open apology to the bangs, shorts and sort-of celebrities who may have been harmed during this conversation.

Quote of the Day

“So why can’t you be friends with your ex?”

“Well, all my ex-boyfriends want to.”

“Okay. And?”

“And I’d prefer they die.”

“I see the problem.”

Do exes ever make good friends? I heard somewhere that one of the two will always want to hook up and so it can never work in a real way...

The Male Perspective

"You don't have to respect the person, just think they have a nice a*s or something."

-friend, who is a boy, on why guys hook up with girls they "think suck".

So this is why I have a mild girl crush on my Pilates instructor...it's all becoming clear...

Cheaters, Inc.

A friend and I had a conversation about cheating. It seems, in the world of brand-new singledom, a lot of New York guys out there have an affinity for cheating far beyond that for their favorite sports team.

My friend Anabella knows this firsthand because boys love to cheat with her. Love it. Or at the very least, try to. Maybe it’s her fault because she’s wittier than she should be because she’s also beautiful. Maybe it’s them because they don’t know how to keep it fresh, what they’ve got isn’t just bagged, it’s been delivered to their door to be stored in their houses, locked into a contract for as many years as they want, as long as they still want it.

Whose fault it is isn’t important (I say in her situation it’s the boys who are trying, they’re the one with the responsibility, as much as I’d love to purport the solidarity of the female species by her not even entertaining the notion of exchanging glances if nothing more—namely the consistent belief that if we all stopped being so competitive and snarky that we wouldn’t all be so competitive and snarky). What is important is that as a single girl she attracts the attached. And the attached are biting hard.

So back to the conversation with my friend. I’m asking him—as though one male is the spokesman for them all—why does this keep happening? Does no one value a relationship any more? How could people out there do this to one another? Leave such a terrible emotional wake?

And he says to me, well let’s think about this for a minute. And we do. How great is it to have someone different? Not just new, but unattained? The uncertainty involved? How unbelievable is that chase?

We agree it’s pretty great. He mentions quickening heartbeats and flying hormones. But still I harp on this. Why? Why? Why? Why does it seem that so many people out there just can’t be happy with one person? Is cheating really worth it at all? Is that two hours in the dark worth the ride home back to his apartment that he shares with her? Can good people even dare think this or does that even negate them being good?

And he says to me, well. Is fattening food worth it?

And I say internally, well it depends.

And he says internally, on what?

And I say, are we talking Blue 9 Burger Mango Chili sauce here? In-and-Out for those of you west coasters?

Because if we are, there’s a real problem. My logic flies away.

Because yes, it absolutely is 100% and totally worth it.

We’ve figured out the world of men and women. Cheating is like Blue 9. You may feel disgusting, dirty, wretched and horrible about it. You may very well regret it on some level. But when it’s that good, you cannot say no, it’s so worth it.*

Of course, we decide it’s a trade-off. That hot flash of anticipation vs. standing Sunday plans. People might always be split down the middle.

You can be honest and anonymous, which would you choose? Do you think cheating is ever worth it? Or better yet, what’s better? Being single or in a relationship? Is it the case that if you want to cheat, the relationship is wrong? Or are you simply a sleaze? And is there any cure once you realize you are a sleaze?

Why do people cheat? Or even want to? How bad does this make them?

That might be the real core of the question itself…

Wow, this got offensive really fast.

*Joking. But come on, Blue 9 is so so good.

Hot for Euro

The driving bass, the old-school drop kicks, vinyl pumping and listless, this is just part of Aix. Kids skittered and drawn in the streets where Goth still rules Chinatown, antique squares dot behind the cobbles to reveal squares of shops, the tragically hip, swaying masses, bottled oils; the entire scene is within the definition of an afternoon.

Beyond the pale wash of window and into the depth of the spinning record, the overpriced spoils of said transition between youth and success shines its brightest; what’s too expensive for its demographic, yet could never be worn by anyone else, I see everything earthly and shallow in the world I’ve ever wanted at every stage of angst.

High-art anime, hoodies emblazoned with AKs suspiciously like the one I thought I designed, Bapes and bones, all for boys or beautiful girls with thin limbs. And then, the most incredible thing of them all.

The most amazing, most stylish, freaking coolingest pair of men’s underwear hanging near a white wall…no…no, not quite. Not underwear. These trump underwear. They could not be called by any other name…they are manties. Oh how they are manties.

Neon manties—graffiti, camo, Aeon Flux capacitor bright green and black and yellow skivvies. They defy logic. They define haute anything. And I have a moment, a flash-forward into my own fantasy land of imagination. What man…what man would wear such a thing and where could I find this…what’s the word…soulmate of mine?

Dear God, what a man to wear such a pair of manties. And while we're at it, what of his girlfriend, should he have one?

Cezanne's studio is completely forgotten, replaced fast by my direction to such a man—I imagine myself somehow as an older Russian woman at this point, and really, rich (don't ask me)—a fantastical Euro man-boy who, on the stroke of midnight, the first Saturday if each month, I would make dance, in those, and only those, and only to CSS, while I cheered:

“Dance! Dance! Dance!”—preferably while a small dog and a strobe light pranced around the room.

I stare at the manties. I can’t shake it. This man who buys these, the righteous dude he must be, I have to meet him. He’s got to be a boy who wears nuggers, an Ed Banger disciple, has a gold chain with a Swarovski skull swinging from the line, an oh-so-subtle mullet cresting (which seem to be all the rage in Aix)—or better yet—a shaved head—he’s bronze, lithe, has the baddest of all badass tattoos snaking across his—no wait, he’s got a sleeve—even better, and he dances, in manties, for CSS or for me, with a cigarette drooping from his bilingual mouth, wristbands, seventies Aviators on, cap tipped to the side, in a ring of glowsticks which I keep tossing at his feet every time she echoes “Death from Above.”

I so want to buy them. But for who? Who, do I know, could possibly wear these with as much irony and glee as they deserve?

I leave them be, knowing the man who buys them will reach them only after I leave them. Of course.

Man, if only I had been born in France…in Aix…and was a hell of a lot cooler…

The Osprey

The shaggy haired hipster named Owen, leaning in close, looking down into my eyelashes: “You know what I like best about you?”

Me, looking up from my drink, thinking inebriated. My sparkling wit? My taste in music? My leggings (they are kind of ridiculous, I was hoping in a good way)?: “No, what’s that?”

The shaggy haired hipster named Owen: “You’re really, f*cking hot."

His blue eyed friend overhearing: “Yeah, like Japanese-hot.”

Me, looking back into my drink for the words: “Oh, um, thanks. Huh. But I um…am, you know, not Japanese. I’m not even Asian. At all.”

His blue eyed friend: “Yeah, but you’re hot enough to be."

Suddenly I fast-forward fifty years, telling a curly-headed granddaughter with a golden tan how I met her grandfather.

“Well, Elliot. Your grandpa was quite the charmer. He told me I was hot enough to be Japanese! Oh yes, it was love at first incredibly odd compliment. That’s when I knew.”

I did get three SoCo and lime shots and an invitation to a beach house out of it. The stories just keep on coming as the summer unfolds…

Now if you too have a hilarious pick-up line/story, I'd love to hear it...