Tatiana Talks

Trainers are the New Bartenders

2012-02-08T17:32:00.003-05:00

As I mentioned in passing a couple of weeks ago, I am trying to lose some weight. In addition to cutting back on the wine, I've also been exercising.

So, a week ago I am in a class, trying to focus on rowing at an 80 percent threshold – whatever that means – when the instructor (or coach as he prefers to be called) came up to me and asked if I was a rower.

I responded I used to be.

He responded, “I can always tell a rower. It’s the dedication and focus on your face.”

What? I had so many thoughts jump to the tip of my tongue, but then I remembered I was supposed to be at 80 percent and I couldn’t remember when Women’s Health told me I should be able to hold a conversation but I was pretty sure it was something less than 80 and so instead I smiled weakly and continued rowing.

Then this week I was again in a class with this coach, again worrying about whether or not I was giving it my 80 percent, when he approached me. He looked at my numbers, smiled, made another strange comment – this time about my personality – and walked away.

Now, as terrible as I am at flirting, I am even worse at recognizing when someone is doing it to me. Still, as I climbed up the simulated hill, I couldn’t shake the feeling this guy was.

But that didn’t make sense. I wasn’t wearing any make-up, I was sweating and wearing spandex that did nothing to hide any of my squishy parts. Still, stranger things have happened. Climbing got a little easier as I contemplated whether or not I wanted to make-out with my trainer. He’s cute in that I obviously work for a gym sort of way, he has crazy muscular arms, and that D’Angelo v-thing going on. He’s not quite 6 feet tall, but I can slide him under the Jason Statham Exception but just as I decide it would happily make-out with him, I spy him flirting with a woman on a treadmill directly across from me.

A little while later, he was back at my side, this time touching me and asking me, “do you feel that?” I understand correcting my form is part of his job, but whispering seductively into my ear (that is how I remember it)?

And that is when it hit me. It is part of his job. If he wants to keep his job – and by keep his job I mean keep clients like me coming back to his class – he flirts a little with the women. We think he actually likes us, that there could be something there, and keep coming back for more, essentially paying him to flirt with us until one day we discover he is married with three kids. Or gay.

He’s just like a bartender, but with lunges instead of lagers.

Now, I do have a rule prohibiting crushes on bartenders, however I don’t think I will write the same rule here. One, crushes in general are pretty fun and healthy and two, a crush on your trainer is extra healthy as it keeps you going to the gym.

Unlike a crush on a bartender that only keeps you drinking until way past last call.

A Tragedy on Spruce Street

2012-01-27T15:48:00.004-05:00

I had a rough day at the office yesterday. Nothing I couldn’t handle, just a series of meetings, interrupting a number of emergency projects, punctuated with a ride in the elevator with Hot Attorney where I actually managed to not say something stupid but that is mostly because I was focused on not shoving my tongue down his throat so I kept my mouth shut.

So I was really looking forward to happy hour with some friends. But, my day got crazier and crazier, and then I learned my friends were having just as hectic days, and it was decided we should postpone happy hour.

As I finished up at the office, I realized just how disappointed I was that I wasn’t getting a drink after work. See, in an effort to lose weight, I have cut back on my drinking and I had even saved up calories so I could have two glasses of wine after work and after the day I had I was really going to enjoy them.

On the other hand, I told myself, I should be happy that I can just go home and make dinner and not have to worry that two glasses would turn into three would turn into four and happy hour would end with me making a late evening fast food run.

Unfortunately, no matter how many times I told myself this, I still really wanted a glass of wine.

Now, I suppose, I could have gone to a bar and had a glass. But that sort of thinking didn’t occur to me. Instead, on my way home from work, I stopped at the liquor store and picked up a bottle – promising myself I would only have two glasses (and not bottomless glasses either).

I then picked up the necessary groceries to make myself a wonderfully healthy dinner to go with my red wine.

Walking (actually, more like strutting) down Spruce Street I was pumped for my evening. Just when I thought things couldn’t get better, Florence and the Machine came on my iPhone.

I was adjusting my bags so that I could turn up the music when tragedy struck.

I dropped the bag from the liquor store.

I heard the crash; I saw the red liquid pouring out across the sidewalk.

I couldn’t move. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I knew I had to pick up the bag and that I didn’t need to clean up the spill (it was about to rain, after all) but frozen there I wondered, who can I call? Should I take a picture for Twitter? Do I go back to the liquor store for another bottle?

A man with a stroller walked by and asked if I wanted a napkin. I looked up at him, then down at the spill wondering what a single napkin would do, then double checked that none of the wine splashed up on my pants (thank goodness I didn’t have to take another pair of pants to the cleaners with a wine stain on them) and then said, “No. I think I’m fine.”

Clearly, though, I wasn’t.

But He's Single

2012-01-26T17:46:00.003-05:00

There is a new battle cry coming from my camp of friends that don’t believe me when I say I am single for life.

It’s an interesting plan. Gone are the hypothetical situations where a super-hot guy in horn-rimmed glasses, with a great head of hair, a fantastic sense of humor, and Peyton Manning’s work ethic, walks up to me at a bar and declares I am the one he has been looking for and he can’t live another moment without me, he then drops down to one knee, opens a red leather box exposing a nearly flawless, 4-carat ,emerald cut diamond ring. They have been replaced with a simpler plea, “What about him?” pointing to the nearest guy who isn’t already talking to a woman.

I never said it was a good plan.

We were all out Friday night, and it got to that point in the evening where everyone had just enough alcohol in them to start trolling the bar for bedfellows. Or at least that is how it went in the good ol’ days. Now, I was the lone single ranger, and the only guy I would have even maybe considered making out with was gone, and I wasn’t even sure when he left which indicates to you just how interested I was in him.

Still, the Duchess, the leader of the declining rebel forces, wasn’t going to let dick o’clock pass without pointing out the several men within arm’s reach whom she thought I should be talking to. The conversations went a lot like this:

“Tati, what about that guy.”

Eye roll. “What guy?”

“That guy, there, in the blue fleece.”

Without looking. “He’s wearing a fleece.”

“He’s cute.”

I look over. “He’s short.”

“He’s not. He’s your height.”

“For the last time, that’s short.”

“He’s funny and has a good job.”

“He doesn’t live in the city.”

“He has a car.”

“Because he doesn’t live in the city.”

“But he’s single.”

Oh, well, then, it’s on like Donkey Kong. Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Let me just adjust my cleavage.

Now, if it sounds like I am being picky it’s because I am. It took a lot for me to get here – this happy place where I realized that I have a lot going on for myself. Those of you that have been reading this blog know there were some tortured moments as I tried to find happiness with someone. I realized along the way that even if I found the perfect guy referenced above, it would still require some compromise on my part to fit him into my life. So if I am going to have to give up even a part of my awesome, happy life, he is going to have to be worth it – that’s just basic economics; it’s called opportunity costs.

So, Number Five is going to have to have a lot going for him. Certainly more than just being single.

Number Five

2012-01-23T20:05:00.003-05:00

I have been having a lot of conversations about choosing to be single for life. Mostly friends that either don’t believe me or want in. At some point, rather incredulously, people will say, “So, you are never going to get married.”

I’m not a super big fan of the word never. I find it almost always comes back to bite me. I am still ruing the day I told Bridie I would never tuck my jeans into boots.

So I came up with a list, the five guys I would be willing to leave the single life for. As follows, ranked in case two of them ask me to marry them at the exact same time:

1. Peyton Manning
2. Ryan Gosling
3. CK
4. Daniel Craig
5. TBD

I left spot number five open because during this journey I swallowed a lot of red pills of truth. One of these pills was that truth changes. Right now everything in my life is perfectly wonderful. I am happy and content (not the same thing) and looking forward to my next adventure and the one after that, and the one after that.

But I know that as I go on these adventures, and continue on with my life, things will change. I will change. And there may come a day that I can’t fathom right now, when I will meet someone that changes my truth. That makes risking all my happiness worthwhile.

Of course, it is just as possible that the five spot will never be filled and that is okay too. The thing is, I just don’t know and – as my mother would say – my crystal ball is at the shop getting fixed.

Let the Revolution Begin

2012-01-13T16:25:00.003-05:00

Bridie and I were outside a friend’s party, smoking one of the last cigarettes either of us would ever smoke when she asked if I saw the latest Psychology Today. (Side note: As you know, Bridie is a therapist and subscribes to this magazine. When we lived together, I started reading it because it really is a fascinating magazine and to this day I will often pick up a copy when I am at Whole Foods, however being this conversation took place at the end of the year and it was my last chance to be decadent, I hadn’t been to a Whole Foods in quite some time).

I told her I hadn’t.

She told me there was an article in it that I should read – about choosing to be single. She then added that while she doesn’t believe I will be single for live, the article did raise some interesting facts about single people and the misconception that they all want to get married.

I looked at her and declared that I had started a revolution (even though I am sure the magazine went to print before I posted that blog) and then I flashed the gang sign for “Single for Life” that I have been working on.

She rolled her eyes.

The next day, I decided a trip to Whole Paycheck (err Foods) was in order. I even picked up some healthy groceries while I was there.

I got home, got out the hummus and pita chips (What? That is sort of healthy) and opened to the article I heard so much about the prior day. Soon, I was grinning as if I had too much wine and there was a hot guy across the bar. (Another side note: Sadly, I looked and couldn’t find it online to share with you here. So you will have to pick up a copy of the magazine, but it is totally worth it – there is even a quiz.) Instead of promoting the Single for Life mantra that I am trying to get going, the author instead asks – Are You Single At Heart? She discusses America's obsession with getting married, and her own personal journey waiting for that day when she too would want to join the army of the happily coupled-off. Of course that day never came – she is currently in her late-50s and still loves being single.

The author then arms us (against pestering mothers and annoying frienemies) with some pretty impressive statistics debunking the myth that all us singles want only one thing – to be a we. According to a recent Pew survey, 55 percent of unmarried Americans said they weren’t in a relationship AND weren’t currently looking for one (and according to the recently census survey 100 million Americans are unmarried). That means there are approximately 55 million (if my math is right) Americans that feel the same way about coupling off as I do.

Suddenly, being single doesn’t feel so lonely.

And before you ask – I scored nearly perfectly on the Single At Heart quiz.

Open Letter to the Hot Guy in My Office

2012-01-04T12:34:00.003-05:00

Dear Hot Guy in My Office,

As you know from your life of looking in mirrors and women behaving silly around you, you are hot; ridiculously so. If it seems like it is hard for me to look at you, it is because it is. You are that damn handsome and I am afraid of what will happen if I make eye contact. The last thing I want to do is become another silly woman.

Now, before you start to worry that this letter is a really lame attempt to ask you out, let me assure you it’s not. 1) You are much too good looking for me. 2) I know you have a girlfriend. 3) We work together and I have a rule about that, and 4) (and this is probably the most important one and should have gone first) I have just completed the outline of my “Single For Life” tattoo and it would be really expensive to have it removed. Not to mention a total waste of some very artistic lettering.

Still the possibility of me becoming a total moron around you looms large and with the recent elevator incident (I didn’t mean to flirt with you, it just sometimes happen), I feel drastic measures need to be taken on both our parts. I need you to think I am smart and competent. I would like you to respect me.

Now, I know I can’t ask you to be less attractive – I don’t think you could if you tried, I mean you even look good in plaid. However, I was able to come up with a list of things you can do that I think would improve our situation dramatically:

1) Stop wearing your glasses. I don’t care if you are hungover and trying to hide blood shot eyes. Your horn-rimmed glasses that make you look like Clark Kent are like Kryptonite to this Super Girl’s will power. Perhaps in the new year you can resolve to drink less and thus lessen your need for your glasses.

2) Stop standing directly outside my office, talking about how interesting you are to our co-workers. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to refrain from joining those conversations? I saw the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo this weekend too. I have thoughts about it. But I stayed in my office with my mouth shut because I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. If you really must share with our co-workers all the fun things you did this weekend, IM them. Or send them an email. Or wait until I am in a meeting. Just stop talking to them right outside my office.

3) Stop cursing. You are a really great curser which I know probably sounds like a strange compliment, but as someone that has always sounded too crass when I say any curse word, I really admire the ability in others to sound forceful but not trashy. When you curse, it sounds hot, and that isn't good.

Things you may feel free to continue doing are shamelessly flirting with the older women in the office and talking about your diet.

In return for any or all of these concessions, I will continue to avoid talking to you, looking at you, and engaging you in any way. This morning was a moment of weakness, and don’t anticipate it happening again.

I hope you have a wonderful and healthy new year.

Yours,

Tati

What A Way To End the Year

2011-12-30T10:23:00.004-05:00

I would like to pretend that it was the universe preparing me for my chance (albeit brief) meeting with CK, but the truth is, I overslept. And being too late and too lazy to iron anything, I threw on a cute dress.

And because my extra dorky glasses didn’t go with my cute dress, I put in my contacts. Because it was Thursday, I grabbed my make-up bag as I knew the odds were good that someone would want to do happy hour.

It came as no shock that that someone was Marie.

So there we were, sitting at a local wine bar, enjoying a very generous happy hour special when CK walked in.

Literally my breath caught.

Marie (who was getting up to use the lady's room) asked me what was wrong.

"Nothing. I think I know that guy." Now of course I knew it was him. But I thought maybe my eyesight or the three glasses of wine I drank were playing tricks on me.

She turned and looked where CK was standing. "Ding dong. I hope so." (Marie is part of the "you're not really going to be single for the rest of your life tribe.")

Then she walked away.

I watched as he scanned the bar for someone, tried (without looking too desperate) to catch his eye so I could wave, all the while secretly holding out hope that it was me he was looking for (despite not having checked-in to the bar on Facebook). He eventually stopped looking, never made eye contact and took a seat facing the door (and away from me).

When she returned she asked, “Well?”

“I do know him. It’s CK.” And I took a deep breath, ready to explain what that meant.

Marie turned in her chair, “that’s the one?”

I was racking my brain for how she would know him, then I wondered if she was thinking of this blog and confusing CK with The One. I started to respond, but she turned back in her chair.

“The CK? The reason it takes you 45 minutes to get ready to meet for a cup of coffee on Saturday morning because, as you put it, 'what if C-K- is there?'?”

I guess I had mentioned him before. “That’s the one.”

“I guess it is a good thing you didn’t wear your glasses today, huh?”

I nodded.

“Are you going to say ‘hi’ to him?”

“Of course.” I knew even as I said it, it was a lie.

CK’s date finally showed up and Marie and I finally called it a night. As we walked by him, I didn’t say hello (it felt weird interrupting his date) but Marie did trip over his foot and I apologized for her while pretending not to know who he was.

I mean, it wouldn’t be a CK story if I didn’t make a little bit of an ass out of myself. At least this time I was a well-dressed, mostly sober ass.

Boy, Oh Boy

2011-12-28T12:53:00.009-05:00

Before I start this post, let me get a couple of definitions out of the way so we are all on the same page.

man: noun, the male of the Homosapiens species that has his shit together. Example: Your friend that is funny, and smart, and has a job with a future and a life he enjoys, and that you always describe to all your girlfriends as “a great
guy.”

over-aged boy: noun, the male of the Homosapiens species that hasn’t grown up. Example: the hot guy that you met at a bar, with an awesome job and a nice car, that isn’t going to tell you about his girlfriend because he subscribes to the philosophy, “what she doesn’t know can’t hurt him.” See also Generation of Guys.

Now that that is all cleared up, I will continue.

When I was still hunting, I would occasionally find myself on the trail (or in the arms) of an over-aged boy. My reasoning was simple. Looking for a mate is exhausting work. Sometimes a woman needs a break; needs to have a little fun. And when she does, over-aged boys are where it’s at – so long as you know what you are in for.

Because, while the differences between men and over-aged boys aren’t always as clear as my above examples, once you know you are with an over-aged boy, you have a choice to make. You can either a) move on, because that is not what you are looking for, or b) hang out, have your fun, and when you are through, move on.

Of course, there is a third option – stick around and hope he grows up. I cannot stress enough how much I don’t recommend this.

However, a couple of weeks ago I posted the notice for single ladies about picking up guys and the next day brought another IM session with the Source.

He was incredulous that I was telling my readers to pick up boys. He wants us out there looking for men.

I argued that, while the goal is a man, sometimes a woman just wants to let her hair down and make-out with someone she shouldn't. And when that time comes, she should take a book to a bar and find herself a boy. If she happens upon a man, super. If not, she has herself a little fun and no one gets hurt.

The source countered that the huntress is hurting herself by being distracted by the boy. His words:

As a huntress your goal is to bag a long term mate, a boy is like a rabbit running across your path, distracting you from the main game.

He isn’t wrong. The main reason for my ending the text relationship with the Republican was that I found it was just enough of a relationship to keep me content. It distracted me from my actual hunt.

But if the Republican was only a one night thing, would it really have been so detrimental?

Only you can answer this for yourself. I will say, I know from experience it is a slippery slope. Boys are a lot of fun and they out-number men by a lot. But if you find yourself getting too comfortable, blowing off dates with potential men to spend time with your boy-friend, day-dreaming of long-term plans, or (gasp) thinking that maybe he will change, get out as soon as you can.

For my part, now that I am resigned to being single for life, I am looking forward to having fun with over-aged boys again.

Where My Girls At?

2011-12-27T13:36:00.002-05:00

Guys, men, over-aged boys, because I gave the ladies some insider info on how to meet men, I feel I should return the favor and give you guys a tip.

A couple of years ago, Steve Harvey wrote a terrible piece of crap called “Act Like A Lady, Think Like A Man.” Some of the worst dating advice I have ever read (and I have read a lot) but the title is interesting and something I would suggest to all you men that read this blog – in fact, don’t just think like a lady, read like a lady.

How do you read like a lady? Well, next time you are waiting in line at the Whole Paycheck (err, Foods), pick up a magazine that caters to women, skim the table of contents for the “relationship” department, and start reading.

Too manly to be seen reading Women’s Health in public. Okay, I’ll summarize. Every woman’s magazine from the dawn of time has written and rewritten the same advice for women looking to meet men: Get out there ladies. Take a yoga class. Or a cooking class. Visit a museum. Blah. Blah. Blah.

However tired this advice is, the next time a woman receives an invitation to an event at a local museum that sounds interesting, she will sign up, find their cutest outfit (or buy a new one), and head out with the highest of hopes. Of course, when she gets there, it is a sea of well-dressed women looking for the same thing – a man interested in art (or yoga, or cooking).

Why am I telling you all of this? Umm, can you not picture it? I am talking about rooms filled with hot looking women that are interested in art (or yoga, or cooking) and are also interested in meeting someone new. We are talking ratios that seriously favor single dudes; odds that you won’t get at any bar or sporting event (another abused suggestion).

So why aren’t you there?

Attention Huntresses and Single Girls Alike

2011-12-12T13:11:00.001-05:00

I have startling news to report – at least it was startling to me: If you are really looking for a guy, you should be going out to bars alone.

If you are anything like I was, you get a girlfriend (not a group of girlfriends because that is just crazy) put on your cutest outfit, sit at a bar and laugh and share stories and smile and wait for the guys to start buying you drinks. After all, what guy wouldn’t want to buy someone as smart and pretty and funny as you are a drink.

And of course they know all of this, because they can see how pretty you are and how funny and interesting your friend finds you.

But here’s the thing. He isn’t likely to think any of that. No, according to my source, instead if he finds you attractive, he is only thinking about how he doesn’t want to interrupt all the fun you and your friend are having.

So, the next time you are in the mood to make-out with a boy, head to the bar by yourself. You won’t look like a desperate drunk (as I always feared) but instead will seem like someone that is open to meeting new people.

Happy hunting.

The Huntress

2011-12-08T09:05:00.003-05:00

After a couple nights out and a few rounds of IM with some friends, I realized (or I was told) I didn’t fully explain why my quest for a boyfriend kept me from blogging.

As plain as I can put it: looking for a boyfriend left me feeling terrible about myself. And all that self-loathing paralyzed me from doing much of anything else – particularly writing. After all it is hard to believe you have any skills or talent when you keep telling yourself that you are a terrible, awful, human being.

Okay, I never said those words, but I may as well have. Looking back on it – this past year or so’s quest for a boyfriend was one of the most self-destructive things I have ever done.
Some of you may be guffawing. “Really, Tati. The most self-destructive thing you have ever done?”

Well, yeah. I’m not a cutter. I don’t have an eating disorder. And besides smoking (not any more) and drinking -- I don’t have any real vices (shoes don’t count).

Plus, think about the whole dating thing:

You meet a guy (or a girl) (either in a bar, or a coffeeshop, or a bar, or in line at the grocery store). You talk. You flirt. You exchange numbers. Maybe you make out (if you are drunk at a bar – not recommend if you are in line at a grocery store). Then you wait for him or her to call.

And you wait.

And then you call your friends who tell you to keep waiting.

So you wait some more.

Then your friends call you back to see if there is any word.

Maybe you cry a little at this point.

Finally, you stop waiting (but not crying) and you start wondering. Why didn’t he call? Was it something you said? Did your breath taste funny? Did you use too much tongue? As you walked away did he see your ass and think “whoa” and not in a good way?

It’s funny. It rarely crosses your mind that he may have lost his cell phone or been in a terrible accident and is now in a coma? (All my years of dating, when a guy called, no friend ever suggested I call around to area hospitals to check if he was admitted) Or is simply a jerk that didn’t call.

For some, this wondering lasts an afternoon. Maybe a weekend if she really liked him. For them, however, it doesn’t compound in their heads’ the way it does for those like me. For simplicity sake, I have decided to break these two groups of women up into Single Ladies and Huntresses.
Single ladies, like my friend Marie, can online date, and get fixed up, and go to mixers, and go to bars and never show the wear and tear because there isn’t any. At no time does she give the rejections any more value than they deserve.

For the huntress, however, dating is a game. A game she can’t lose. And when she does – when a guy doesn’t call or doesn’t show interest – all she does is think about what she did wrong. She analyzes game tape, makes changes to the roster, buys new uniforms, script new plays, and goes at it again.

The more she loses, the more work that needs to get done; the less time she has for anything else – if she wanted to do anything else. If she is like me – she just wants to win again, because she is not used to being a loser.

So this is why I couldn’t write. I didn’t have the time and towards the end I didn't have the belief in myself that I could. This is also why I can’t date anymore. I’m a huntress that has been clean now for almost a month and I don’t want to go back.

Moms – Gotta Love ‘Em.

2011-12-06T11:48:00.000-05:00

There is one thing I will never grow tired of seeing – the look of shock that is on my mother’s face whenever she tells me I look nice.

Fortunately for me, I got to see a lot of it these past couple of weeks.

Like me, my mother suffers from the antipoker-face face. Every thought and feeling she is having broadcasts across her mug. So, like me, she doesn’t bother lying.

So I know she isn’t lying when she tells me I look nice. But it’s funny to read on her face that it surprises her so much. What’s funnier is that it borders on astonishment.

For Thanksgiving dinner, I was wearing a nice skirt, make-up, and had just finished my hair. She said, “You look nice.” Her face said, “Why are you getting so dressed up? It’s just Daddy and I?”

Last week she was in the city attending a conference. I met her out for dinner. Again she commented on how nice I looked. Again her face told the whole story: “Wow, you almost look as nice as Lana (my older, prettier sister). I really don’t understand why you aren’t dating one of the attorneys you work with.”

But the best face – the face that was so distorted in confusion I actually had to call her out on it – was when I was leaving to meet up with friends on Saturday night (over Thanksgiving weekend). As I came down stairs, her face pulled back in horror, she stared at me, her whole head turning to watch me as I made my way to the couch. I could feel her gaze on the side of my head as I transferred my ID and money from my purse to my clutch. I couldn’t help but smile in anticipation of what face awaited me.

I wasn’t disappointed. Her face was equal parts “you are not my daughter” mixed with “I don’t understand if you can look this nice, why wouldn’t paint you face this way all the time” topped with just a touch of “did my husband and I really manage to produce that?”

And of course it would be flattering, if it didn’t all boil down to the fact that my mother is shocked that I can be pretty.

Behind the Woo

2011-11-22T13:00:00.002-05:00

One of my favorite TV shows is “How I Met Your Mother” which may surprise folks close to me as it doesn’t involve guns, cops, or gratuitous shots of men without their shirts on.

Still, I love it.

Now, a couple of years ago HIMYM (as the cool kids call it) aired “Woo Girls” an episode I didn’t love, though looking back that could be because it cut a little too close to home. As I am not a HIMYM blogger, I will just refer you to this synopsis in case you have no idea what I am talking about.

So the other night, I am out with friends at the Airborne Toxic Event concert and I came across what can only be described as Woo Dudes.

Now, I will concede that if one is to woo, a concert seems a perfectly apropos place to do so. I will even admit to wooing some while I was there. However, even at a concert, there is a time and a place to woo. At the end of a song, for example, or the end of a guitar or drum solo, or after the lead singer comments on how hard rockin’ Philadelphia is.

I don’t expect woos in the middle of a song.

But these dudes wooed then. They wooed in the beginning, in the middle, and at the end of songs. They wooed when one of them brought beers. They wooed when one came back from the bathroom. They were wooing fools.

And it wasn’t just wooing. They also fist-bumped (when will this die?) and air guitared and air drummed and high-fived and double high-fived the night away.

But like the Woo Girls from HIMYM, the Woo Dudes woos didn’t ring true. Maybe it was their neatly pressed, Brooks Brothers button downs tucked into their designer jeans, maybe it was the overzealous air drumming, maybe it was that they kept buying me and my friends beer but didn’t once try to actually talk to us (didn’t even stand near us). The Woo Dudes seemed to be performing (and wooing) not from the heart, but for the benefit of their friends.

As I watched the Woo Dudes it came to me. While the Woo Girls were masking their loneliness with their woos, I felt like the Woo Dudes were using their woos to hide their fear: Fear that they were getting old.

Now, I didn’t have the benefit of subtitles, but if I did, I bet they would have read something like, “I would rather be home reading my daughter a bedtime story.”

Or, “It is really loud right here next to this speaker.”

Or, “I hope they hurry up and play Sometime Around Midnight. I have an early meeting tomorrow morning.”

Or simply, “I’m tired and I want to go home.”

But because they either haven’t figured out that growing up isn’t the same as growing old and neither is a bad thing, or they weren’t sure their friends would understand, they wooed.

All By Myself

2011-11-18T16:48:00.004-05:00

So, the one thing that I really missed when I was single (back when I was single but still desperate to be a part of a couple) was going out to bars. I love going to bars. I do. I love having a glass of wine (or beer or vodka) served to me. I love watching TV surrounded by strangers, and eavesdropping on conversations. And since I hate to cook I also, occasionally, like eating at bars.

And when all my friends were single, we went out to bars all the time. Not to get plastered mind you, but most often to have a couple of drinks after work and bitch about our bosses, while scooping out all the cute guys still in suits.

This changed a bit when my friends all became a part of a we. They now had different after work plans – couple plans – dinner plans – plans to go to a bar with other couples.

The obvious solution would be for me to go to a bar by myself. However, this option was so terrifying to me, I instead went on an ill-conceived quest for a new best single girlfriend just so I would have someone to go to a bar with me (don’t you worry there is more to come on those adventures, I assure you).

When that failed, I was left to accept that I might have to give up bars (or at least seriously cut back).

That all changed this week. Yesterday, Midtown Village in Philadelphia celebrated Beaujolais Nouveau Day. As I will never turn down a chance to wear a beret, I was all over this event. Unfortunately, Bridie and Marie had to work, and Salty had dinner plans with other friends.

The day of the event, I decided that despite my close friends not being able to join me, I would still go. I had other friends going and I was sure to run into someone I knew at the event. And if I didn’t, what would be the big deal. I would shop and drink wine and shop some more by myself. Big whoop? (This was the pep talk I was giving myself, by the way).

So I went. And as predicted I met up with friends. And we shopped and drank some free Beaujolais Nouveau and shopped some more. But then they had to leave. And I didn’t want to. I was still having fun and so I checked my phone, but no other friends had sent text messages that they were in the area.

Decision time.

Did I go home too, slightly disappointed.

Or, did I stop by the bar all by myself for an actual glass of wine (we had been drinking from Dixie cups all night).

Emboldened, maybe by the wine, maybe by the French spirit that was all around on 13th Street, I bid my friends adieu (yeah I did) and headed for my favorite wine bar.

Honestly, I don’t know what I was so scared of. After only a couple of minutes of waiting, I ordered my glass of wine, was given a seat by someone leaving, and was eavesdropping on the conversation of the three late-20-somethings sitting next to me.

Late-20-Something, “I just don’t think I should have to settle. (slight louder)
I’m not going to settle. I’m fine being single until the right guy comes along.”
(Friends clink glasses).

It warmed my heart.

Or maybe it was the second glass of wine I ordered.

Why We Need So Many Shoes

2011-11-11T12:33:00.002-05:00

For the past couple of weeks I have been plotting the perfect outfit to wear to Bridie’s engagement party. It was extra tricky since I would be going to the party straight from work. I bought several items that came close but they were either too stuffy (for a party) or too slutty (for the office).

Then I stumbled upon the perfect pair of wide leg trousers. I could hear the choirs of angels in perfect harmony as I grabbed my size. Paired with a turtleneck sweater and the right accessories it was as close to perfect as I was going to get.

Of course, by perfect accessories I really meant the shoes.

Now, I have a lot of shoes – no I am not going to tell you my number, that’s personal we’ll just say it is more than most men (not including my brother) but less than Imelda (I hope). As I headed home, I closed my eyes to picture all of my shoes. What pair would pull my whole look together.

My eyes sprung open. Of course. My red patent leather, pointy-toed heels. I sighed with contentment.

This morning, I put on my new pants and my turtleneck sweater, my mom’s diamond earrings (she lent them to me in hopes that the new attorney I work with would notice them and fall in love), and a fun cuff. I grabbed the shoes from their box and slipped them on.

Shit.

The pants weren’t long enough to support a three-inch heel. And while there was enough hem to let them out, there wasn’t enough time.

I sat back on my bed defeated. I suppose I could wear a loafer, or a ballet flat but neither of those would look as good as a pointy-toe shoe. Besides, as I stood there in a red loafer, the pants were a bit too long for a flat. I really need a kitten heel. A kitten heel on a pointy-toe shoe, preferable in a fun color.

I looked up into my closet willing such a shoe to appear when I recalled that a few years ago I bought just a shoe. There it was, pink with faux snake skin. I had almost completely forgotten about it.

All my happiness and contentment were restored.

Now, I have heard guys complain that women own too many shoes. That they (men) only need three pair, a black pair, a brown pair, and a pair of sneakers. That is all well and good, but just look at all the options us women are faced with.

Flat, kitten heel, mid-size high, high heel, platform, or wedge. Pointy toe, round toe, almond toe, or square toe? Then you need to get all of those in black and brown (and all the variations of brown) and then you need to buy a couple of pairs in whatever color the season dictates as the absolute must have shoe color (apparently several years ago it was pink). Multiply all those various options and you see how it adds up quickly.

And that’s not even counting our boots.

I’m Saving Myself for Ryan Gosling

2011-11-10T10:30:00.003-05:00

Now before you get your knickers in a twist: No. I haven’t already given up on my Single-4-Life lifestyle. I’ve been at that a couple of weeks now, and I have to say it has been refreshing. I have finished reading a couple of books, got a lot of work done on rewriting the first novel, and even finally finished knitting a cowl I started in August.

One thing that has been troubling me is how to explain it to people when they ask if I there are any men in my life.

With my close friends it was easy. I told them, they listened, some expressed sympathy for not knowing how crazy I was making myself, all were happy for me, and all implied in some way or another that, you know if, in the meantime, I did meet someone that would be wonderful too.

Which is fine for them to say, but really not what I want to hear.

When I tell others, this last bit is what they really seem to harp on. For example, when I answered a former colleague one night when we were out for drinks that I was taking myself out of the game so I can focus on my work, she responded “be careful. When people say that, the shit really hits the fan and they find themselves married and pregnant, living in the suburbs.”

I smiled. “No, no. No shit. No fan. Nothing of that sort will happen.”

So I had to come up with some other answer to this question that wasn’t a lie, but didn’t leave room for debate (or sympathy).

And then I came across a link to the tumbler account Feminist Ryan Gosling.

Now, It’s not really him, obviously. But it is hysterical and I love it. I love it so much I have decided that the only way I will give up my awesome single life is for (feminist) Ryan Gosling. So, now when people ask I simply explain that I am saving myself for the Gos (he likes itwhen I call him that).

It’s brilliant. People aren’t sure what to make of it. They either laugh because they think I am joking, blink rapidly and walk away because they think I’m crazy or they get all high-and-mighty and ask, “Really? And how are you going to meet Ryan Gosling.”

To which I have the ready response, “When my novel is published, it will become so popular someone will want to make it a movie. R.G. is the perfect person for the male lead, and after reading the script, he will want to read the novel, and after reading the novel he will insist on meeting the cleaver woman that could pen such wit and insight.”

The Bride: Part Two

2011-11-07T12:55:00.003-05:00

Just the other day, at my desk, I was reading an email from Salty. We were going to see a show together that night and she was wondering if we should get a drink and maybe a quick bite before the show, and if so, where.

I shot her an email back saying we will definitely need food and drink and I would come up with a place. Later, when I finally focused on it, I had a list of 15 or so places in a matter of minutes. I shot the list to Salty, she responded, picking a place from my list and just like that we had a plan.

Now, about a month ago, Salty and I were sending similar messages back and forth, trying to figure out where we wanted to go for happy hour. It took us all day to make a plan and even then, I wasn’t thrilled about it, despite Salty picking one of my favorite places for happy hour. Why the ennui? If you had asked me then I would have said I was in a funk. With hindsight I realize it was because it was a Friday night and I thought I should have been going to a bar where there was better potential to talk to a guy.

The past several months, everywhere I was, I was sad. I was also anxious, and angry, and disappointed as well. If someone asked I dismissed it as a funk (or claimed I had no idea what they were talking about).

When friends wanted to get together for drinks, I would get annoyed about the place they picked.

When they wanted to get together at someone’s house, I was frustrated we weren’t going out.

When I didn’t have plans with them, I felt like a loser sitting in my apartment, all alone on a weekend night.

When I got back from Spain and people asked if I made out with any hot guys, I felt like a failure when I said no.

Yes. You read that last part right. I felt disappointed in getting to go to Spain with my three best friends: only mildly, but still. What the hell was wrong with me?

On my way back to civilization, in the jeep with my dad, both of us silent, I really started thinking about all the energy I was expending on the quest for a boyfriend. About how when the hot guy at my office is talking to his secretary, I stop working and listen to what he has to say in case he drops some crucial piece of information that I could possibly use later to strike up a conversation.

I thought about the new tattoo I wanted for my birthday, but held off on getting it because I worried that it might make me desirable to a smaller circle of men.

Probably the worst part was that I wasn’t writing. In addition to wondering what to blog about if I wasn’t blogging about guys (a question that should have given me more perspective that it did, sadly) I was also worried that I could possibly meet an awesome guy that wouldn’t want to date me after he learned about my blog. As for my other writing, when did I have time between my various jobs, going out, and obsessively worrying about the fact that I still didn’t have a boyfriend.

Why was I doing this to myself? Was being single really so terrifying?

Actually, it isn’t. I have long known I am really good at being single. I actually like drinking wine and watching movies by myself. I also prefer sleeping in a bed by myself and thanks to my big hands and my father’s instruction, I don’t need a man around to open jars or hang the art I bought in Granada.

I also know that being in a relationship isn’t all walks on the beach and candlelight dinners. It comes with a slew of problems and headaches and heartaches.

So, again, what the hell was wrong with me.

A couple weeks later, on another deck, with another man asking when I was going to find someone that was right for me, it hit me. Probably never.

But it wasn’t a woe’s me probably never. Or I am woman hear me roar probably never. Or even a men suck no one is good enough for me probably never.

Just a probably never because I’m done trying so freakin’ hard.

Instead, I am refocusing that energy. I’m knitting and writing and working on my office at my apartment because I am no longer convinced that I may have to leave Philadelphia to find my mate. I got to spend Halloween weekend not shivering in a slutty version of a costume, but in D.C. cheering for Lana (who finished the Marine Corp Marathon). I have been working, writing, and making plans, all without first wondering how any of it will impact my chances of meeting someone.

Which is how I found myself with Salty at one of our favorite martini bars in the city. As we sat there, chatting with the female bartender, Salty wondered why we don’t come here more often.

I looked around the bar and smiled, “Because there are never any dudes here.” She looked around, smiled, and raised her glass.

Cheers to that.

It’s Not Giving Up: Wherein I Attempt to Explain Why I Haven’t Blogged in So Many Months While Simultaneously Avoiding the Topic Altogether

2011-11-04T13:03:00.003-04:00

I apologize in advance at the jumping around this post will do. But to tell this story, I am going to have to go all Tarantino on you folks. And because it is so long, I am going to break it up in two volumes.

A couple of weeks ago, on a deck in the middle of nowhere, the Duke (the Duchess’s beau) was asking me (as he always does) if there were any men in my life. I smiled and shook my head. After the typical notes of disbelief, the Duke then starts telling me about his cousin. I stopped listening until Bridie came out onto the deck and asked, “Are you really trying to set her up with a 50 year old that still lives at home with his parents?”

The Duke shrugged his shoulders innocently. The Duchess pointed out that the 50 year old is a really nice guy. I just laughed.

While, laughter was my normal go to response in these sort of situations, it was then followed my hours of self-doubt, wondering what it says about me that my friends want to set me up with a 50 year old guy that still lives in the suburbs with his parents. Followed by more doubts about whether there is anyone good left. That inevitably led to the plummet of desperation and sadness that I was never going to meet anyone and I would be alone forever which only ever led to the inexplicable resolve to move out of Philadelphia because life would be better in New York City, or Chicago, or Washington, D.C., or San Francisco.

But this time I just laughed and meant it.

See, a couple of weeks before that, on another deck just north of nowhere, I was sitting with my father. He was smoking a cigar, drinking a beer. I was drinking a beer, craving a cigarette. We were both silent, trying to think of something to talk about.

After several failed attempts to engage me in a political debate, he finally asked, “So, is there anything else going on in your life?”

I shrugged my shoulder. “Not really?”

“Any guys?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Then my father shocked me. Instead of retreating back into silence he continued “I know you have really high standards, kid. But do me a favor, don’t wait until I’m dead to introduce me to the guy you finally fall in love with. Because I swear, if the first time I meet your boyfriend is at my funeral, I will haunt your honeymoon.”

What a lovely thought.

I attempt to assure my father that my intention is not to wait until he is dead and that I really am trying to find someone. As I say it out loud the truth of it hits me. Recently I have become consumed with meeting someone. I've told friends that I was open to meeting any single guys they know. I never left my apartment without make-up, even when I was leaving to ride my bike for 80 miles. I went on dates with other single girls so that I would have single girlfriends with whom I could go out and meet guys, I hopefully bought pretty underwear, and I agonized over what to wear to the gym. My every free thought is focused on what I can do next to find a boyfriend, which is exactly what I am about to say to him when I taste the bile in my mouth.

I force a smile and instead, off my father the platitudes I typically give him, ending with “Daddy, I am trying, but you know it is hard to find someone good enough for your little princess.”

It’s tough for a father to argue with that sort of logic. But while that answer was enough for my dad, it wasn’t enough for me.

To be continued Monday.

Narrowing In On My Type

2011-06-06T16:59:00.003-04:00

Did I ever mention that my father loves romantic comedies?

Yes, my father, the former Marine that takes me shooting on Easter Sunday and drives around in a jeep with NRA stickers on it, loves a good chick-flick. Sure he blames the number of Sandra Bullock movies he has seen on my mother, but on more than one occasion, I have surprised him in his BarcaLounger watching something starring Reese Witherspoon and my mother was no where to be found. And while Rom-Coms are not my favorite genre, when I am home, and Daddy has the remote, I much prefer anything with Kate Hudson in it to anything on the Fox News Network – well, almost.

This is how I found myself watching a Ryan Reynolds movie with that girl from Little Miss Sunshine playing his daughter.

I was only mostly paying attention when I noticed that one of my favorite Law and Order ADAs had a small part in the movie. I perked up – what? I have a little bit of a girl crush on her – but because I was either writing or reading or plucking my leg hair out one at time I can’t tell you much about what led up to this scene. Ryan was there, along with the ADA and some other guys and the guys were talking about types of girls they each had a thing for. For instance, girls in nerdy glasses with long hair pulled up into a bun. Some other stereotypical irresistible types I can’t remember. Then the ADA contributed to the conversation:

“I have a thing for guys that have a thing for me.”

The guys all razzed her, claiming that was just sick and then there was laughter and maybe arm punches and I went back to doing what I was doing but I couldn’t stop thinking about how she put that.

Because the thing is, I too have a thing for guys that have a thing for me. I will meet a guy and think, “huh, he’s okay.” Then a couple days later someone will say, “Remember that guy at that bar the other night with the hair and the shirt? Well, he was asking about you. What do you think?” And just like that, the boy goes from just okay to a total Baldwin.

On the surface this seems healthy and makes sense (though maybe a little vain). It is certainly better than being one of these girls that stops liking a guy as soon as he shows any real interest in her. Still, this predilection hasn’t always served me well. For one thing, there are all the gay men I have made out with – most of whom liked me first. Then there is my middle school friend’s neighbor who thought I was hot. I let him stick his tongue down my throat despite his more than healthy curiosity for porn and his hobby of shooting small woodland creatures with his bow and arrow.

While I have learned from these mistakes, I still haven’t conquered this strange fetish. In particular there is one guy that I am 54, no 60, probably 70, okay 86 percent sure is bad news. However, I also have it on good authority that he would like to get to know me better. As such, I can’t stop thinking about him.

And, sure, I could just sleep with him to get over these feelings. But, I can’t keep using sex to solve my problems. After all, I’m still in my early 30s, how many mistakes does one get in each decade?

In Hiding

2011-05-29T10:10:00.002-04:00

I’ve been hiding.

In plain sight, I have been hiding. I'm really good at hiding.

A few weeks back, Marie and I were out. Marie and I only became very good friends in the past few years. So, needless to say, she didn’t know me in college. I’m not sure how we got on the topic, but we started discussing all my various hair colors and styles.

See, I started hiding in college. But in college I hid behind pink and purple and black and orange hair. I hid behind black eyeliner and black lipstick. I hid behind boy haircuts and ironic t-shirts.

I explained to Marie that as much as it doesn’t make sense, I did it all to keep everyone from noticing me, at least the real me.

Then she asked what made me stop. And I answered honestly, that I just grew out of it.

At least it was honest at the time.

Some time around 25 I just stopped cutting my hair into weird shapes, I stopped dying it unnatural colors, and I put away my “Boys Lie” t-shirt.

And then I threw myself into my work.

Ten years later, well almost, I have a job I actually like, I’ve been published a bunch of times and I even completed a novel.

But over the last two years I have been letting myself get bigger and bigger. I’ve been smoking and eating things that aren’t good for me and not working out and all because I don’t want people (read guys) to see the me. Not the real me anyway.

Not that I think there is anything wrong with the real me. Quite the opposite. I think I rock. But what if I really liked a guy and he didn’t like me. Then what?

Whereas, if I have a pre-fabricated, built-in excuse for why I am alone -- I’m a freak, I’m too caught up in my work, I’m fat, well, then, no one gets hurt.

So I hide. I hide, because I’m afraid. I’m terrified of getting hurt.

Worse. I know I am doing it. Since talking to Marie, I have realized it every time I choose something unhealthy to eat. Every time I hit the snooze button. Every time I lit a cigarette.

But I’m tired of it. Which is why I am writing this now. I tired of hiding. And while I know only a handful of people actually read this blog. Just knowing that it is out there may be enough.

I hope it will be anyway.

My Favorite Mistake

2011-05-24T22:35:00.002-04:00

So you know how when you are single, friends some times tell you that the one you are looking for is probably right in front of you, you just have never thought of him that way.

Well, I always sort of bought into that, except it wasn’t me that needed to open my eyes. It was a friend of mine.

Actually, more of a really good acquaintance.

I met him a few years ago and almost immediately developed a huge crush on him. But I got the sneaking suspicion he didn’t feel the same way. The more we hung out and the more I saw him in action, the more this feeling was confirmed.

But still, I thought, maybe one day. Just like my friends always said. One day we would be hanging out, laughing, drinking and he would realize just how freakin’ fantastic I am and we would live happily ever after.

Then I started to really think about it. Think about what I was waiting for. Think about why I was waiting. Then one night I was on a girl date with a new potential single girlfriend and she introduced me to two of her guy friends and after only one beer and a lot of laughs, her one guy friend couldn’t stop telling me how awesome I am.

What the? He knew me for maybe an hour and he already recognized it. Why was it taking my friend almost five years.

So I decided that I didn’t have a crush on him anymore. After all, I could never really be with someone that thick.

That is until a mutual friend got married. Maybe it was all the wine. Or the beer after. Or the wedding, or the dancing or what it felt like to have his tongue in my mouth -- I guess it doesn’t really matter -- I ended up going home with him.

Of course, because this is me we are talking about, only after I spilled my guts about my secret crush and how I know he didn’t like me and how I sort of really think that sucks and I can’t understand why he doesn’t like me the way I like him.

The next morning, while going over what of the conversation I remembered, I noticed that he never actually said he liked me. He argued my reasoning, and offered possible alternative motives for his actions, but he never said, “Tati, I like you. I’ve liked you for some time.” He never said anything like that.

Instead he kissed me, and I stupidly kissed him back.

As the haze of my hangover cleared, I prepared myself for the worst. I got a Gatorade, snuggled into my hangover couch, turned on my TV and waited for the regret to sink in.

Except, it never came.

The following morning, I tried to force it out. Kept reliving my stupidity over and over again. And still nothing.

I couldn’t help but think, while yes I was drunk, I was honest. I went home with a guy that I liked, and woke up next to a guy I didn’t.

Which was a relief. This time I was really over my crush on him.

So now the only thing I regret is not spending more time flirting with the cute lawyer that was seated at my table at the wedding. Well, that and that my friend’s roommate may or may not have seen me mostly naked.

But when you think about all my neighbors that may or may not have seen me naked over the years because I’m too lazy to bother closing my shades, that isn’t really a big deal either.

Year Four

2011-05-23T21:36:00.001-04:00

So, Sunday, my blog turned three and I was too hungover to mark the occasion as I had planned. In fact I was too hungover to do much of anything. Seriously, I was at graduation party in Port Richmond and all I could do was laugh at everything that anyone said to me. At one point my part time husband looked at me and asked if I had a case of the giggles because he knew his friends weren’t that funny.

I had to tell him the truth. It wasn’t a case of the giggles. I was just so out of it I wasn’t capable of comprehending anything so I was laughing, hoping his friends were trying to be funny.

But I had planned to announce a reinvigorated effort to blog more often.

See, once I got tired of blogging about terrible guys, I had a bit of a case of writer’s block.

Actually, that isn’t entirely accurate. I made the decision that I wasn’t going to blog about terrible guys, but then I couldn’t think about what to blog about since my life isn’t all that interesting, and then I started to freak out that without douchy guys in my life, my life isn’t interesting and what the hell does that say about me as a person.

But then I was home and my parent’s were pushing me about babies -- my mother mentioned the words “sperm bank” no less than four times in 24 hours and when I mentioned that it would probably be a lot cheaper for me to just go to the corner bar, pick a guy up, bring him home and let him stick it in me, she thought about this for a minute and responded, “well, you would want him to get tested first.”

She thought about it! She thought I was being serious.

That is when I decided something needs to be done. Not only do I have to make my life worth blogging about, I have to blog it so that my parents can stop thinking my life needs a baby in it.

So, welcome to year number four. I promise there will be lots of blogs, some good stories, and I will try to keep the stories of jerks to a minimum.

Rock Climber

2011-05-20T16:50:00.003-04:00

Yes, it has been awhile. Feel free to fill the comments with complaints about what a unreliable blogger I am. I deserve it. But I had a reason (note, I did not say a good reason).

Those of you that follow me on Twitter and/or Facebook know that a month or so ago I declared that I was officially tired of blogging about douchy guys. Not only did it get boring, it started to feel self-defeating. The more I blogged about jerks, the more focused I became on jerks, the more convinced I became that world was filled with nothing but jerks.

And then I met the Rock Climber.

Spoiler alert: I am not involved with the Rock Climber (so, no, I didn’t drop my blog for a guy) nor did anything happen between the Rock Climber and I (well, we did hug, which is sort of a big deal for me), nor will anything happen between us (he’s about 20 and lives in Colorado). You may now continue reading the blog with your lowered expectations.

As you may know, Lana moved to Colorado about two years ago and since she moved has been begging me to come visit her. As soon as I emailed Lana that I booked my trip, she scheduled us to spend one of my days there rock climbing. In case you couldn’t tell from my blog I’m not exactly the rock climbing type. I’m not coordinated, or rugged, or skinny. Still, Lana was really excited about it and so I agreed so long as we could spend the next day at the spa fixing my manicure.

Our guide for the day, Rock Climber, was everything he should be: young, rugged, and cute. He smiled a lot, carried one of those big backpacks with all the pockets and places to store things (and actually used all the pockets and storage), and said “awesome” a lot. I couldn’t have written a better wilderness guide if I wanted to.

Now, I won’t bore you will all the details of the day – there were tears, cuts and scrapes, cheers and lunch – and will just skip to the good part.

It was the last climb of the day and Rock Climber thought we should try to tackle a particularly tough looking rock face. Lana agreed. I scoffed.

The first part of the climb was easy – well easier than I thought it was going to be. As I neared the top, neared Rock Climber, it got harder and I got tired. I couldn’t get my footing, my legs and arms were shaking, I kept slipping and I couldn’t catch my breath. Then I slipped again, this time falling completely off the rock (but not to my death thanks to Rock Climber) which is when I really started to freak out.

Over my heavy breathing and heart palpitations and the voice in my head screaming “this is good enough.” I could hear Rock Climber telling me to “Sit back in my harness. Relax. Breathe. Try putting your foot there.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do this.”

“Look at me.”

I looked up.

“I think you can.”

I honestly think I can say no man has ever looked at me that way before. He wasn’t just saying that; he really believed it. No man has ever believed in me like that.

Sure, I was (or rather, Lana was) paying him to be so supportive. But I can’t imagine holding my fat butt 20 feet off of the ground was a whole lot of fun for him. In fact, I think it probably would have been easier for him to look at me and ask, “You’re really done? Okay, catch your breath and I will ease you down.” Sadly, I’m pretty sure if he were any of my ex-boyfriends that is exactly what he would have done.

But he didn’t. He thought I could do it and as it turns out he was right.

Osama bin Laden is Dead and I Can't Stop Crying

2011-05-02T18:41:00.002-04:00

I was awaken late last night to the cheers and chants of my South Philadelphia neighbors. I squeezed my eyes tight and smiled at what I assumed was another victory for the Phillies.

I rolled over, readjusting my pillow, slowly waking up despite my best efforts, thinking, that is an awful lot of cheering for a May victory over the Mets. Had Cliff Lee pitched a perfect game? Would that really be cause for such revelry on a Sunday night?

Then I started to listen to the chants. USA. USA. USA.

An odd chant for a Phillies’ win.

USA. USA. USA. Obama’s Dead.

I shot up. I’m not sure I know anyone that dislikes our president more than my father, and I couldn’t even imagine him taking to the streets to cheer his death. I ran to my window and looked down on a group of young men, walking down the street chanting.

“USA. USA. USA. Osama’s dead.”

Osama?

Holy shit. I ran to my living room, turned on the TV and my computer and grabbed my phone. Twitter had exploded, a very much alive President Obama was addressing the nation, and my sister had sent a text saying “Osama bin Laden is dead.”

I spent the rest of night on my couch, in and out of consciousness, watching the news.
When I woke up sometime after 7 a.m., Matt and Meredith were showing me scenes of celebration that broke out around the nation, including the scene at the previous night’s Phillies-Mets game. While I was relieved to finally see Philly sports fans being covered by the national media for something other than being assholes, the idea of celebrating sat funny with me.

Instead of rejoicing, I started crying.

And while I have finally stopped, I am still fighting back the tears.

Please understand, I was not crying for the death of Osama bin Laden. I am happy that man is dead. I know the world is a better place now that he is gone. But my first instinct was not to run to Broad Street and celebrate.

As I sat there crying, I noticed the faces in the crowd coverage in D.C. were all very young. And the two kids with their big grins standing behind Matt at Ground Zero, were just that – kids; college kids that had driven down from Cornell to celebrate this blow to terrorism.

These kids were barely teenagers 10 years ago. And while I am sure they remember the attacks and were impacted by them, I have to think their experience was very different than those of me and my friends who were all the age these kids are now, 10 years ago.

I was their age when I sat on my bed, with my sister in my tiny apartment in Fairmount, watching a plane fly into one of the World Trade Center towers over and over and over again. Then watching it crumble, over and over and over again.

I was their age when the coverage switched from the streets of New York City to some long forgotten city street in the Middle East where extremists celebrated the deaths of more than 3,000 Americans.

I was their age, working in a bar, when one of my regulars came in, sat down and said, “I just got back from my first World Trade Center funeral.” His first. Because he had several to go. He was also just their age. Like me, he just graduated college and a number of his classmates had taken promising jobs in New York City.

I was their age when two weeks later I was running the Philadelphia Half Marathon. A woman was running in front of me wearing a white t-shirt. In black magic marker she had written "In memory of my son," with his birth date and his death date – September 11, 2001. I cried then too as I picked up my pace because I simply couldn’t stand to run behind her, reading that message.

As I think about that t-shirt, I start to cry all over again. I can’t stop remembering all of these things. I can’t stop thinking about all those people that died that day. How the whole world changed that day. And even though Osama bin Laden was largely responsible for this change, his death doesn’t change it back.

Which is probably why instead of celebrating, I am crying. I am happy and relieved he is gone. However, his death has served as a powerful reminder of everything we lost that day and since.

One More Summer

2011-03-28T15:07:00.004-04:00

When I was eight-years-old my mom and I stopped into a specialty boutique for young girls (what we now call ‘tweens) to window shop. The super cool store near the bakery where we were probably either picking up end of the year cupcake, or placing an order for my sister’s birthday cake, was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

It was all purple and glittery. Inflated stars and hearts hung from the ceiling. It sold super cool pens with feathers and sparkles on them and matching, scented pads of paper. I silently cursed that I discovered this place so near the end of the school year and not in late August when it could have made me the envy of all of my classmates.

My mother, a sucker for my I-want-it-all-face, smiled down at my wide-eyed wonderment and told me I could get one thing. Just one.

Well, this wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. I wandered the store, picking things up, putting them back down and occasionally sniffing things when it was required. And then I saw it. The thing I absolutely had to have and would simply die if my mom didn’t get it for me.

It was a two piece bathing suit.

But not just any two-piece bathing suit. It had a peach top that wasn’t smooth like other bathing suits, but ruched (no I didn’t know that word at the time, I just thought it was cool) and a turquoise blue bottom with a sash of peach flower pattern on a turquoise blue background. It looked so tropical. Like something one of my Barbies would wear. In short it was the most beautiful bathing suit I had ever seen.

When I tried it on, well, there was just no denying that this suit was made for me. Not even my mom could deny the beauty of that bathing suit.

It was one of the happiest days in my young life. No more silly, childish one-pieces with Miss Piggy on the front and ruffles along the bottom. I had a two-piece. I was a grown-up. I was eight-years-old.

Now this two piece bathing suit that I was so proud of had a top looked like a sports bra and the bottom was a brief cut, with the sash around the waist covering my belly button. It was nothing like the bikini my much older sister wore. It survived diving into pools, hardcore games of Marco Polo, body surfing, water slides, and running away from the neighborhood boys. After all, I was still an eight-year-old girl and I literally spent my summer in that swim suit.

And while I remember a lot of things about that summer, the one thing I don’t remember is ever feeling fat or too pale or as if my boobs were too small to fill it out my awesome swimsuit. Heck, I didn’t even have boobs at eight. I did worry that someone would see too much of my backside as I got off the speed slide at Wildwater Kingdom. I was petrified of spilling blue snow cone “juice” on the front of my suit and ruining it forever. I was also scared about who my third grade homeroom teacher was going to be and whether or not my best friend and I would be in the same class. But never once did I worry about my chest being too small.

Why am I bringing this up? Because Abercrombie & Fitch has just released its new padded, push-up triangle-top bikini – the Ashley – for girls ages 7 to 14.

Think about that. Second grade girls owning a padded, push-up bikini top. I saw the thing laying on a table on the Today show – it has about as much padding as one of my padded, push-up bras. But I am an insecure 32-year-old woman. I’m allowed padding.

These are young girls that aren’t supposed to know that they are flat-chested yet. They have their whole lives to be insecure about their bodies and whether or not they are attractive to the opposite (or same) sex. Why are we pushing this on them? Why, when the one thing they should be looking for in a swimsuit top is whether or not it will come off when jump off the high dive at the pool, are retailers telling them that they need bigger boobs to look good in a bikini?

What upsets me more than Abercrombie & Fitch thinking this is okay – let’s be honest, A&F is evil and they will continue to do these outlandish things just to keep their name in the media – is that there are probably parents out there that will buy this bathing suit for their daughters.

Which is why instead of calling for a boycott of this despicable institution (actually I can’t imagine a lot of my readers shop at A&F so boycotting won’t do much good) I say we buy them out of these suits and then destroy them. Yes, I realize buying these suits will just pad A&F’s bottom line, but let’s be honest, as long as there is babysitting and paper route money, that chain isn’t going anywhere. However, there is a higher purpose that needs to be met here. We need to keep these suits off of our young girls.

We need to give them another summer (or more if possible) of not caring how they look in their swimsuits. Another summer just assuming they look awesome. Another summer when their biggest worry is a water-slide wedgie.

Liar Pride

2011-03-15T12:30:00.003-04:00

I know. It has been awhile. I apologize. I have been busy, but that isn’t why I haven’t written. The reason I haven’t written is because I have been stumped by that article about why I’m not married.

I just heard the collective groans of all 22 of my readers. Yes. This again.

First, I am still wondering if I even want to get married. But I will get into that later. The real bit that has me stuck is when she suggested that we aren’t married because we are liars.

Priding myself on not being a liar, I secretly applauded the author for calling women out on this. We all know a liar. We all have a good friend that is with a guy that everyone knows isn’t in it for the long haul, he has even told her as much, and we want to shake her but she just sighs and tells us we don’t understand, that we aren’t there when it is just the two of them, by themselves and he tells her he loves her and she doesn’t care that he doesn’t want to commit because they spend all their time together and who needs a title anyway?

If you are anything like me, you are so scared for this friend of yours. You say to anyone that will listen, “That girl is lying to herself.” Every time you see that friend’s name on the caller ID, you bite your lip before hitting the answer button, expecting her to be sobbing on the other end of the line.

And you're not wrong to be worried. But the truth is your friend is also right. You aren’t there when they are alone. They do spend a lot of time together. He comes to all her things and he invites her out with him and his friends. Both their Facebook profile pictures include each other. And while it is easy to judge a situation when your feelings aren’t invested, it is a wholly different thing to be in a situation where you really like a guy, and you really like spending time with him, and you have so much fun when you are together, and he makes you feel like no other guy has made you feel, and he is pretty much perfect for you minus one, small, itsy-bitsy little detail – he doesn’t want to call you his girlfriend.

Every relationship book we have read has told us to run from this situation as fast as our little (or not so little as the case may be) legs can carry us. So why won’t liars listen? Why do they insist on sticking around? Do they know something we don’t? Could there be something to staying in a relationship even when your partner refuses to call it that?

And no, I am not asking because I have suddenly found myself in this situation.

It is because, I’m not sure marriage is my goal.

So if marriage isn’t the ultimate goal -- or even if it is but you are still holding out the silly hope that you can be one of those that finds happiness in it by finding the perfect guy for you – why not spend your time with a guy that might not be the one you spend happily ever after with?

Yes, I know there are studies and vignettes and hormones all proving women are incapable (or less capable) of casual sex. But that is not what I am talking about. I am talking about being with someone you love (or like a whole lot) that loves (or likes you or is good enough at pretending he likes you that you don’t know any better) as opposed to spending your time alone. Or worse, spending your time with someone that doesn’t make you feel all warm and special inside because you know there is a better chance that that someone will marry you.

I took a long hard look at the liars in my life. They are all pretty happy right now. Sure there are times when they hurt, or when they want more, but that passes just as quickly as all the times that I am sad because I haven’t had a date in a while. And sure, they could get really hurt when the guy that has been telling them that he doesn’t want anything serious moves on. But they could also get hit by a bus and die tomorrow. Yet, I wouldn’t advise any of them not to leave their houses – ever.

Personally, I’m not sure its possible for me to be so risky – to throw such caution to the wind and be with someone that I am so sure is only going to hurt me. But that doesn’t mean I’m not jealous of liars’ bravery.

Reason Number Seven

2011-02-16T16:59:00.004-05:00

So the Huffington Post published an article by Tracey McMilan, “Why You’re Not Married” giving single, heterosexual women everywhere the top six reasons they aren’t hitched.

Considering all the thinking I’ve been doing about relationships (not necessarily getting married) this article struck a nerve. Particularly because it is as if she is addressing me personally in her first couple of paragraphs (simply replace “to get married” with “a boyfriend”).

After reading the article late last night and determining that I meet the standards for four of the six reasons, I came to the obvious conclusion that I am never going to get married. I then drank two big glasses of wine and passed out on my couch. But not before posting the article to my Facebook page.

The next day, not able to shake the feeling that I should be angrier at the author of the article, I re-read it. Yep, I’m still a selfish, shallow bitch that doesn’t think she is good enough (sometimes). But hey, at least I’m not a liar or a slut (anymore, and really sometimes I wish I still was). Besides the not being good enough part – which I am working on, kind of – I really sort of admire my bitchy selfish ways. (As for being shallow, I find her argument flawed in that she married a man she describes as a liar and a cheater – neither qualities I would for in a man of character.)

So I’m a bitch because I’m angry. I’m not always angry. Besides there are a lot of things in this world to be angry about. Especially if you are a woman. That reads. Or sees. Or hears. Or thinks. And while I have never seen Kim Kardashian angry, I have to believe she has been. And if she hasn’t well then she’s an idiot. Because there is no way you can be smart and not be angry at least some time. Plus, I can be angry and nice. A lot of people think I am really nice: pleasant even. So if a guy is looking for someone to be nice to him – I can do that. So long as he’s not a rapist or a child molester or thinks I’m dumber than him simply because I’m a woman. In my opinion those sort of guys don’t deserve my niceness and what the hell, I wouldn’t marry that sort of guy anyway. Even if he was tall (so, see, I’m not even that shallow).

So I’m selfish. Yes, I think about myself a lot. Hell, I’ve dedicated a blog and a Facebook page and a Twitter account to the practice. But I don’t think I’m self-absorbed (feel free to disagree – you are all entitled to your opinions even if they are wrong). I spend most of my time thinking about myself (my career, my thighs) because that is what I have to think about. But I also think about my parents and my friends and my co-workers and poor people and the Today Show hosts, and Stewart Bradley and rape victims (which is when I get angry) and now Kim Kardashian. If I had a boyfriend, I would think about him too, giving me less time to think about myself. If I had a kid, I would have a lot less time to think about myself. However, I’m not about to go out and have a kid to prove I’m not selfish (and in turn find a husband).

Still not angry at the author, I read the article a third time. Which is when I started thinking about reason number seven (no it’s not in the article) why you’re (I’m) not married. Because I don’t want to be. I realized I agree with everything Tracy wrote. She tells the cold, hard, ugly truth in it. And if I wanted a husband (or a boyfriend) all I would have to do is make three really easy changes (and one not so easy change) and I would probably be married (or seeing someone seriously) in less than two years.

But I don’t want to make those changes. So maybe I don’t want a boyfriend?

I know it probably isn’t that simple, but I kind of think it is. For the past couple of weeks I have been questioning my motives for wanting a boyfriend, finally deciding that the reason didn’t matter. But what if I haven’t been asking the right question?

What if instead of asking why I no longer want to be single I should be asking am I tired of being single or am I tired of being the single friend?

Truth Changes

2011-01-27T18:08:00.002-05:00

Back when I still thought being head cheerleader would solve all my problems, I had a teacher that wanted to explain truth to a bunch of 17-year-olds.

She asked us, using me as an example, if my mother came into my bedroom when I was sleeping and told me she loved me, and the following day I was asked “When was the last time your mother told me she loved me?” What would be the truthful answer?

Then, let us suppose, that I went home and my mother told me about her late night visit to my room and its purpose, did that mean I lied earlier?

I know I have been talking (err, writing) about truth a lot lately, and there is a reason for that.

I recently learned that Houdini is dating someone I find absolutely deplorable. What bothers me isn’t that he is dating someone, or that he is dating her, really. What bothers me is trying to figure out how Houdini -- or who I thought Houdini was -- can date me and then date her. How can he possibly be attracted to both of us when we are so completely opposite? Was the time Houdini and I spent together a lie or is the guy this despicable woman dating not Houdini?

It would be lovely if it were that easy. But I realized, it’s not. Truth changes.

I think we all want it easy. We want people to fit into neat little boxes. We want the good guy. The bad boy. The hero. The villain. Sadly, however, we aren’t characters in a bad romantic comedy. We are a little more three dimensional than that -- and maybe that is a good thing.

Eff that -- it is a good thing.

See, if we were just characters in a movie, then I would be relegated to the weird, cold, strangely obsessed with things no one else cares about best friend that you like and think is funny, but never know what really happens to and after the credits roll, you completely forget about until you see her again playing another quirky best friend. But I’m more than that.

And so is Houdini.

Whatever he has done since the break-up -- and whatever he does in the future -- doesn’t change what happened between us. It doesn’t make his I love you’s a lie. And if they were a lie, it doesn't change my feelings for him. It doesn’t make my feelings for him stupid or me stupid for having them.

Same holds true for your exes; whether you spent three months with him/her or three years. We can’t know the whole truth. We can only know our truth -- and we have to trust that. And that is true not just about relationships, but about life.

So, I’m not a hypocrite for thinking I could be single and happy forever and now desperately wanting a boyfriend. It also doesn’t mean I can’t be single and happy forever. It just means that who I was when I was 23 isn’t who I am as I turn (cough, cough) 33. And thank goodness for that.

It also means that I may have to find a new way to be happy and single. It may also mean not casting every guy I meet into a convenient role so I don’t have to actually get to know him.

I know it is too late for New Year’s resolutions -- thankfully it isn’t too late for Chinese New Year’s resolutions -- but I think I finally have one (above and beyond the learning French and tennis and loosing a ton of weight). In 2011, I resolve to not dwell in the past and just try to live in the here and now with all the beauty (and sometimes ugliness) that it brings. I'm also not going to spend so much time in the here and now trying to figure out everything I don't know.

Because tomorrow could change everything.

Is Adapting The Same As Evolving?

2011-01-26T10:35:00.001-05:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about Bridie’s comment on my last post – and not just because she called it a great post. It has me wondering – has my truth changed?

When I first read the comment I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course. My truth has simply changed. I haven’t been lying to myself. What was fun and exciting when I was younger, simply isn’t any more. I really do have no desire to randomly have sex with strange guys. That I can say for certain because it has been a very long time and I know it is very easy for girls to get action. Still, I refrain from going out and simply saying yes to every quasi-attractive guy I see because I know I won’t enjoy it.

Okay, I might enjoy IT, but I won’t enjoy the next day, or the day after that, or the month after that.

So, yea! I’m not a hypocrite. I celebrated.

Then I got a text message from a friend of a friend saying she was in town, at a bar, watching football and did I want to join them.

Of course I did. There are few things I love more than watching football (doesn’t really matter the team) in a bar, surrounded by people cheering and booing and high-fiving. And since none of my friends were going out for the game, this text message seemed to have come from above.

However, it was a Sunday and I was on my way home from grocery shopping with a reusable bad filled with the makings for a healthy dinner when I got the text message. My responsible side thought I should respond immediately, saying no thank you, go home, make my super healthy dinner, and watch the game while knitting a hat. But The fun side of me started playing the If … Then Game. You know the game – if my hat is already 6.5 inches, then I can go out to the bar. Or, if I get home before kick-off, then I can go out to watch the game. Or, if I get home and Stewart Bradley has not sent me a text message inviting me out to watch the game with him, then I should go meet up with the friend of the friend.

When I got home, the hat was just under 4.5 inches, but the pre-game coverage had just started, and I didn’t have a single text from Stewart Bradley.

Still, I decided not to go. Instead, I put my groceries away, grabbed a beer and sank back into my couch to watch the game at home.

See, the rest of the way home I came up with two pretty good reasons for not going. One, this friend of a friend is in her 20s and my guess was the friends she was hanging out with were all in their 20s and the last thing I wanted to be was the old lady at the bar. Two, I was pretty sure one of the friends the friend of a friend was hanging out with was my brother’s friend, Forbidden Fruit. While I am not about to go out and hook up with a random stranger, I wasn’t sure I could be so steadfast in my resolve not to make out with F Squared. Especially if he was drunk and I could say I was drunk and he was flirting with me.

Oh, don’t judge me. Did you miss the part where I said it has been awhile. A long while.

Back to the point, you will note that neither of my reasons had anything to do with what I actually wanted to do -- which was go to the bar and watch the football game.

So, as I sat there, I asked myself, what has changed? Have I changed or have my circumstances changed? Have I evolved or am I merely adapting? And, again, do the semantics matter?

Hypocrisy, A New Fragrance by Tatiana

2011-01-13T14:24:00.001-05:00

As you are all aware (or should be – haven’t you been following my pathetic ramblings?) I have recently upped my hunt for a significant other.

You also should know that part of my effort has included opening up time in my schedule to date – time that I have been using to spend with myself.

I’m actually a pretty fascinating person to spend time. For instance, the other night, I challenged myself to really look at why I was suddenly so desirous to have a boyfriend.

“Simple,” I responded. “I’m finally at a point in my life where I am happy, content even. And I want to share that happiness with someone.”

I crossed my arms. “If you are so happy, why do you need someone else in your life?”
I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t say I needed someone. I said I wanted someone.”

“Well, it just seems to me that if you are so happy, you might be hesitant to bring someone in who screw it all up.”

I was aghast. “Are you suggesting I’m not happy?”

“Not at all,” I smirked. “I just find the timing of it all very convenient.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

I leaned back in my chair, “You don’t find it interesting that the exact time you want a boyfriend just happens to coincide with the first time in your life more of your friends are in relationships than aren’t?”

I hadn’t thought about it that way and of course I could tell that I hit a nerve. Man, I hate when I get all smug.

When I first moved to Philadelphia I lived with a gay man I will call Keating. And, actually, Keating’s niece (who was my age and how I happened to move into the house) also lived with us. Keating thought it was funny that he was in his 30s living with two, single girls in their early 20s, so he nicknamed our home Keating’s Home for Wayward Girls.

Keating didn’t just provide a roof over our head, three square meals a day, and a cocktail hour everyday, promptly at five, he also provided us an education. I can safely say, without Keating I wouldn’t be the woman you read before you today. He introduced me to Dorothy Parker, Liz Phair, and Martha Stewart. He taught me about art, and music, and people, and food. Cripes, before I met Keating I didn’t like wine. Can you believe there was ever a time in my life that I didn’t like wine?

One of Keating’s concerns about me (he had several) was what he called my Dragon Lady persona. Keating wasn’t a fan of my gruff exterior, my brutal honesty, the way I chewed men up and spit them out just for sport. He suggested I try letting someone in, letting them actually get to know me instead of having them run the deadly obstacle course I had set up around myself. He warned that his sort of attitude would keep me single forever.

My response? How do you think a 22-year-old me would respond? I told him he didn’t know what he was talking about. That if a guy wanted to be with me, he had to accept all of me, including the dragon lady side of me because that is who I am – take it or leave it.

Now, of course, I still believe this. But I think what Keating was trying to get at, and what I didn’t understand then, was that I’m not just a dragon lady. Hell, to be perfectly honest, I’m not even mostly dragon lady. But back when I was a scared 22-year-old, I felt safer as a dragon lady than as someone’s girlfriend.

In my return rant to Keating back in the day, I also added that I loved being single and that I don’t care if I’m single for the rest of my life.

He responded that being single is fun in the your 20s but not so in your 30s and 40s when hanging out at a bar grows tiresome and all of your friends are in relationships.

These are the words that have been ringing in my ears ever since I pointed out to myself that for the first time since the seventh grade I’m single when all of my closest friends have boyfriends.

I mean, I’m still happy being single, right? It’s still fun, right? My sudden urge to have a boyfriend is coming from a desire to share my fun, happy life, not from fear that I am going to be left behind, right? This isn’t some residual effect of the trauma of once being the cheese in the game Farmer and the Dell, right?

I honestly can’t answer these questions. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m over being selected as the cheese that one time in kindergarten. But the rest are sort of fuzzy. And maybe it shouldn’t matter what my motives are, but it does to me. I have spent the last decade telling anyone that would listen that I am a healthy, happy single woman and that I don’t mind if I spend the rest of my life this way.

Was I lying that whole time?

The Three-Monther

2011-01-12T12:18:00.003-05:00

In my discussions with friends I have discovered a new, alarming trend in dating which may or may not coincide with the guy phenomenon: the three-month-guy.

The three-month-guy (or as I affectionately like to call him, the three-monther) is someone you date, who comes on strong, seems great, terrific and wonderful, and despite yourself, you find yourself really liking. Sure, you have only known him a short time, but he says and does everything right and hell, he was the first to say the L-word and so maybe, just maybe the universe is finally giving you a break. After all, didn’t you have to endure countless terrible dates (remember the guy that whipped out his third nipple on your first date) and near-heartbreaking rejections, not to mention the sideways glances and questions and sounds of a clock ticking you get from your relatives every Thanksgiving. And just when you have convinced yourself that it is okay to let go and like this guy – poof. He disappears. Vanishes into thin air.

Those lucky enough to track down their three-month-guys are always met with some lame excuse about needing to focus on something in their lives that is not your relationship.

Meanwhile, you can't shake the feeling that you are being punked. After all, wasn’t he the one that was pushing you two to spend so much time together? He was the one that put this relationship on fast forward. You were just along for the ride. So if he needed more time to focus on his career, school, family, friends, art, or Star Wars collectibles, why didn’t he just take that time? Why couldn’t he just tell you he needed to slow things down? Why does he seem to believe you require so much time and attention? Why couldn’t you two talk about this like grown-ups? What made him think it would be okay to just disappear like that? What made him think you didn’t deserve/earn some sort of explanation for why he was smothering you with affection one day and not returning your calls the next? Did you do something wrong? Say something wrong? Step into some bad lighting? Oh my god, could he be gay?

Somewhere in the middle of all of those questions is the answer – you couldn’t talk about this like grown-ups because he’s not one.

It helps if you think about this guy like your eighth grade boyfriend. Remember him? Remember how you met at a school dance and you two danced all the slow songs together? How he called you that weekend and asked you if you wanted to go out, which meant that you two were boyfriend and girlfriend not that you were actually going to go anywhere? The next week he passed you a note that said he loved you. He held your hand while the two of you walk down the hallway, he always met you at your locker between classes and waited after school with you for your bus.

Then wham – you come to school one Monday and he’s not waiting by your locker. By third period you learn that over the weekend he ran into Jenny Kline at the mall and now he loves her.

It’s a lot like that.

Just like your eighth grade boyfriend had no real reason for dumping you for your best friend, the three-monther can’t explain why he can’t date you and pursue his lifelong ambition to become a professional base-jumper. Because there isn’t a reason. This isn’t about you. It’s about him. He is essentially still an eighth grade boy that falls for every new shiny object that is out there.

To him, you were just another shiny object to play with for a while, and then discard when he got bored or something newer and shinier came along.

I should point out that not all three-monthers stick around for three-months; some last only three weeks, some make it to six months. So don’t think that once you’ve cleared the three month hurdle you are in the clear. Likewise, if you fell for a guy after only a month, when he disappeared, you could still be the latest victim of this trend.

Sadly, I also can’t give you advice on how to treat the three-month-guy mostly because you can’t spot him until after he is gone. I mean I guess I could tell you to be weary of any guy that you have great chemistry with that comes on strong, but that could mean missing out on something great. After all, there are great guys out there that are ready for a relationship (right?). So short of growing cold and bitter and choosing never to let anyone close to you again avoiding the three-monther is damn near impossible.

No, I only wanted to draw your attention to this sort of guy so that when you find yourself a victim you can reduce the amount of time you spend wallowing in self-loathing and self-doubt. Remember how, back in the eighth grade, you went home and cried and cried and maybe listened to a couple of Chicago songs over and over again until your parents came home and asked what was wrong and in between sobs you told them about what a jerk your boyfriend was and how you hate Jenny but moreover you hate yourself because you aren’t as pretty as Jenny.
Remember what your parents said to you that day? Oh, god, no, not the ugly duckling speech. The other things. About how you are wonderful and perfect and there is nothing wrong with you and that one day you will find someone who appreciates you for the wonderful person that you are.

So there’s no need to pull that Chicago 17 CD out from the back of the closet. Think about what your parents said to you then (and your Aunt Tati is saying to you now). Your life isn’t over, you will meet someone else and there is nothing wrong with you. It’s him.

Trust me on this one.

My Black Eye

2011-01-10T12:20:00.003-05:00

I woke up the morning after running into Houdini feeling a bit out of sorts. Nothing serious. Just the aftershock of unexpectedly running into someone that has seen you naked and vulnerable and once made you cry.

Maybe more than once.

I took a shower and decided that regardless of how I was feeling on the inside, I was going to look amazing on the outside. I walked over to my closet, pulled out my favorite gray sweater dress, then reached up on my tip-toes to pull down my gray, suede shoe boots.

The box was about a quarter of the way out when I could tell it was empty. Naturally, I pushed it back into place.

Unfortunately the box that was precariously perched on top of it, didn’t slide back into place. Instead, it came crashing down on me; the corner hitting me right in the eye.

Did I mention the box contained a pair of five-inch wedges? I don’t think I realized just how heavy those suckers were until they clocked my in the face.

I ran to my bathroom to assess the damage. My eye was red, and starting to swell. The box had broken skin, only a small amount, just under my. I gently touched the afflicted area and cringed.

It hurt. A lot. As you may recall, I had a date that night with Ringo. I looked at my swollen eye in the mirror and wondered if this was the universe’s way of telling me something.

As I dried my hair, my swollen red eye slowly turned to a swollen black eye. It wasn’t super black – just a little black, I told myself. Plus, I had all day to bring the swelling down. For those of you that don’t know me personally – I have super cold hands. Which is bad because whenever I go to get a manicure the woman painting my nails always exclaims “your hands are so cold” and then, sometimes, she laughs. However, when your shoes attack, freezing cold hands are a bonus and they provide you two ice packs conveniently located at the end of your arms.

I did my make-up, got dressed, and went back to my bathroom for a final look. Even with my hair all fussed up and the 30 pounds of concealer, all I could see was the gash under the swollen, purplish skin around my eye. I was suddenly no longer in the mood for my super cute sweater dress and decided to change.

Now, you know how when you have a zit, it's the only thing you can see but then you are talking to one of your friends and you say something like “and then I woke up this morning with this huge zit in the middle of my forehead” and they respond, what zit? And they mean it. Because you think it is huge, meanwhile no body else notices it.

That is what I was hoping was the deal with my eye. I was hoping that because I could feel it and I knew it happened that whenever I looked in a mirror it was all I could see, but in reality it wasn’t noticeable at all.

That dream started to fade when I got on the subway and I noticed people looking at me and then quickly, guiltily looking away. Of course, maybe I was just being paranoid.

Then I got into work and the first words out of my co-worker Rhoda’s mouth were, “what happened to your eye?”

Still, the piece de resistance (as the French would say) had to be on my way to my date with Ringo. I was running to catch the el and bumped into a woman. She immediately turned on me, looking like she was about to yell, when she stopped and simply said “damn.”

Apparently, my icepacks hands didn’t do the trick.

Four hours later, I was finally home with a pack of frozen edamame on my face and a glass of wine in my hand, wondering if it was just too dark in the bar for Ringo to notice my eye or if he was just being polite by not mentioning it.

I also wondered if my mom would believe my story when she saw me later that week (she did, by the way, but then, she is just as klutzy as I am so she probably had something similar happen to her once).

I also wondered if there was a way I could blame my black eye on Houdini.

But mostly I wondered how the universe was going to top this in 2011.

Arm Warmers and Hockey Socks

2011-01-07T14:06:00.002-05:00

I like making people laugh.

I’m also not one to back down from a dare.

And, I’m also a bit of a fashion victim.

It was because these three things combined that I almost found myself standing face-to-face with Houdini in hockey socks and a mini-dress.

Let me explain.

Have you seen the arm warmers that have become all the rage? I’m sure you have and I’m sure you have strong feelings one way or the other about them. Personally, I love them. They are great to wear outside, leaving your fingers free to text, and they are equally as great to wear in the office where the collars on my mod dresses make sweaters impractical but the temperature leaves my bare arms with goose bumps – the men in the office control the thermostat and they insist that it is always too warm. Regardless, the arm warmers rock because they keep me warm and allow me to type.

Of course, there is one downside to the arm warmers and that is they leave my upper arm bare. A fact pointed out to me by a co-worker that we will call Mack. Mack teased me about this (along with others), at one point suggesting he would bring in hockey socks for me to wear.
I never actually expected him to bring in hockey socks for me to wear.

For those of you who haven’t the pleasure of knowing what hockey socks are – let me explain. You know those, striped, knit, probably polyester socks that hockey players wear over their pads and tuck into their skates? Those are hockey socks. For those of you who still don’t know what I am talking about, think acrylic leg warmers – really long, striped, oversize leg warmers.
So there I was, the proud owner of two pairs of hockey socks – that it seems I was being dared to wear. I certainly couldn’t wear them on my arms – I have put on some weight, but not that much weight. So, I was also facing a very awkward work wardrobe dilemma. How the heck was I going to pull off this look?

As luck would have it, our group decided to have a holiday bowling party, which we would be expected to attend straight from work. I found it very hard to believe this was simply a coincidence.

That’s right. I decided to wear the hockey socks (the purple, yellow and white striped pair) to the office bowling party. What does one wear with hockey socks (besides hip pads and skates)? A black mini-dress and textured tights of course. Oh, and arm warmers. Top it all off with bowling shoes and I must say, I was looking mighty fine.

And by mighty fine, I mean completely ridiculous.

But everyone at the bowling alley (at least in the immediate vicinity) worked with me and knew it was a joke. They pointed and laughed and took pictures and whenever I did well (mind you, I bowled a 59, so by well I mean knocked down any pins) they proclaimed that it had to be the socks.

We had so much fun bowling, a couple of us thought it might be fun to continue the party at a bar around the corner.

I took off my bowling shoes and wondered if I should also take off the hockey socks. Sure they were funny at a bowling alley, but they were funny because I looked ridiculous. Which, I guess would still be funny at the bar. But what if I ran into CK at the bar or along the way – he saw enough of me looking ridiculous in college.

So I took the hockey socks off. And while I didn’t run into CK (you know if I was wearing the socks I would have) I did run into someone I didn’t expect to see – Houdini.

There are a lot of embarrassing moments in break-ups. I looked down at my textured stockings and thank the lord this wasn’t one of them.

Of course, I was still wearing the arm warmers – but you know I was rocking those.

An Affair to Forget

2011-01-06T15:42:00.002-05:00

By the middle of this post, you might think I have a drinking problem. Hell, some of you may already think I have a drinking problem. However, I don’t think I have a problem and anytime I do, I check out Texts From Last Night and am reassured that my drinking is within normal levels. Still, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. I just ask that you judge me in silence.

The morning after my office’s holiday party, I woke up on my couch, the details of the previous night a little fuzzy. Whenever I find myself in this situation – which isn’t often because I don’t have a problem – I like to go over what I do remember.

I remembered arriving to the office party.

I remembered making flirty eyes at one of my co-workers (I shook my head in shame).

I remembered some old man complimenting me on my barrette (I shuddered).

There was a lot of food at the party, but I couldn’t eat most of it so I kept drinking.

Then the party was over and I met up with friends at a nearby bar, where I saw my cute co-worker but I didn’t talk to him, didn’t even look his way (I smiled).

We were upstairs, my friends introduced me to their other friends. A bunch of names I don’t remember. And one of them was cute. What’s his name.

Oh right, then we were talking and I still didn’t know his name. Did someone distract me when he said his name? Then everyone was leaving. I shared a cab with him and one of his friends. Didn’t know his name either. We dropped his friend off. He suggested we hit up another bar. We did. He ordered our drinks. We talked. We talked a lot. What did we talk about? Oh god – we made out. A lot.

In a bar.

And I don’t know his name.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I remembered that I gave him my number.

And because this is my life he wasn’t one of the countless men whose names I could remember the next day, and whose conversations I repeated in their entirety to my friends in an effort to convince them that there was a real connection, and that I really wanted to call me but never did.

Now I will fast forward through all the embarrassing text messages and the voicemail he left (with his name praise Jesus) and the awkward phone conversation and drop you right in on my date with Ringo (obviously not his real name but a nickname Bridie and I came up with for him).
The first words out Ringo's mouth (after hello) were “Wow, you’re a lot taller than I remember.”
That’s right, readers, I was on a date with a guy who was probably exactly my height, but because I was wearing heels seemed shorter than me. Strike one.

Quick side note here – As I am constantly getting grief about my issues with height I feel it only pertinent to point out that Ringo looked a combination of shocked and disgusted as he uttered the above phrase. Even after I pointed out that I was wearing heels, he didn’t look happy to be on a date with a taller woman.

We sat down and almost immediately I make the huge mistake of asking him what he does. He looked at me blankly and I realized this was probably something we already discussed. After he answered, I apologized, explaining that that night was kind of fuzzy for me.

He smiled and said the evening was a bit of a blur for him too.

Then an awkward silence as we both realized that we could either a) admit just how blurry things were and start over or b) continue on as if it didn’t matter.

I preferred (a); he chose (b).

At some point during this awkward tip-toeing around the basic information we didn’t know about each other he mentioned he’s a Cowboys fan. A Dallas Cowboys fan.

My face twisted up in horror -- it was too sore from my black eye for me to control it. Oh did I mention I had a black eye? Yeah, that story is for another time.

He looked up to see my pained expression and said, “Maybe I should have told you I was a pedophile that likes to kick dogs.”

I smiled, nodded and thought, he’s funny. I could almost look past his height for funny. Too bad he’s a Dallas Cowboys fan. Strike two.

Shortly after realizing I could never introduce this guy to my family, he paid for his beer, and we headed over to the theater to see Black Swan (yep, another totally inappropriate date movie, but this time I didn’t pick it). Very little was said, we even split up because the line to get tickets was so long and I wanted popcorn. We shared my popcorn, both being very careful to never reach for the popcorn at the same time.

During the movie he checked his BlackBerry at least twice. Strike Three, not that I needed a third strike.

After the movie Ringo offered to drive me home (first we would have to walked to his place) but I opted for I cab. I offered him a ride to his place, he declined. We then exchanged a very chaste kiss, which made me smile.

As I pulled away from him to get into the cab, I noticed he was smiling too. Probably thinking the same thing I was – thank god that’s over.

Number of potential boyfriends: back to zero.

Ready. Willing. Able?

2010-12-16T13:13:00.002-05:00

I want a boyfriend.

This might seem like an odd declaration to make. After all, this isn’t news is it?

Well, actually, it sort of is.

All of my adult life, had you asked, “Tati, do you want a boyfriend?” I would have looked at you like you were wearing Sunflower by Elizabeth Arden and responded, “of course I do.” But until recently, I don’t think I did. That’s not to say, if I found one I would have turned him away, I just think I wanted other things more. A career, to finish my novel, really long, pretty hair.

But a couple of months ago something changed. Suddenly I wanted a boy friend and I became very aware of this desire – this actual, physical desire. Not something I needed, like oxygen, but something I wanted – like the Birken bag. Or the Cartier tank watch. Though, possibly, slightly more attainable.

Then again, maybe not.

With the bag or the watch, I merely have to get over the mental hurdle that $1,000 to $4,000 is not too much money to spend on a watch or a bag and that there aren’t a dozen of better things I could do with that money.

Finding a boyfriend is infinitely harder. For one – there is meeting a guy I’m attracted to. Not as easy now that frat parties are no longer in the equation. Two, there is finding a guy that is attracted to me (also easier when loud dance music and lots of cheap alcohol were in the mix).

I’ve tried letting friends set me up to no avail and I gave my phone number to a guy I met on the train with disastrous results. I’ve joined clubs, stopped listening to my head phones at the, and started shopping at the hip grocery stores during peak hours. I’m not sure what else is left to do.

So, after the personal trainer (a fix-up by a friend) cancelled on me the second time, I realized I had run out of potential boyfriends at the moment. A thought I expressed to Bridie. She laughed and asked when I went from being single to being without any potential boyfriends. I explained to her my dilemma – something I have been tight-lipped about because I am slightly embarrassed by it – and she had some advice for me.

She suggested I make space in my life for a relationship.

Her story goes that a wise woman once told her that she woke up one day with the realization that she was ready to get remarried; even though she wasn’t seeing someone. So she sold her wedding band, cleared out half of her closet and soon met that man that would be her future husband.

Bridie took the advice, made room in her life, and met the man she is now living with.
Huh? Make room in my life.

I had no idea what this means – nor when Bridie became the weird Chinese guy from the Karate Kid movies. But since it was the only thing I hadn’t tried, I decided to give it a think.
I got on the treadmill (where I do my best sober thinking) and tried to figure out where I needed to make space in my life.

At first, all I could think about was my closet and how there was just no possible way I could clear half of it out and that if it came to it, we would just have to find a new place with lots of big closets or a small spare bedroom that we could turn into a (my) closet.

So I tried to focus on other areas of my life that would change once I had a boyfriend. I would need to get used to sharing a bed with someone again – not much I could do about that in the meantime, though. Same is true for asking for help with things around the house in an effort to make my boyfriend feel useful. And while, I was thinking about all the things I did wrong with Douchebag – who I have decided to start calling Houdini again, because Douchebag makes it sound like I’m angry with him, and really I’m not. Plus, I would like to reserve that name for someone really jerky and awful and he just doesn’t fit that bill – I remembered another complaint he could have had about me.

I never had time for him.

As I upped my speed on the treadmill, it occurred to me that I still don’t have time for someone. If I’m not working at the office, I’m working at home. If I’m not out with friends, I’m in Allentown with my family. I have been looking forward to this coming Friday for about a month now, because I had absolutely nothing scheduled. Of course, now I have something to do and so it will be another week (or more) before I can spend an evening to myself.

There is was. That is where I need to make space. Not in my closet (yet) but in my schedule.
So, I have decided to set one day a week aside for date night. And because I never do anything in moderation – I plan on taking myself out on actual dates until I find someone to do it for me. I’m looking forward to tea in a coffee shop, dinner at a new restaurant, seeing a movie, or maybe going to dance lessons (still not sure about that last one). For my first date I think I will go home, make myself a really nice and semi-complicated meal, buy a bottle of wine, light some candles, and watch a romantic movie – as opposed to something wildly inappropriate for a date like Michael Moore’s Sicko or Paradise Now.

Yes, those are two movies I watched on actual nights spent in with a significant other. No, I didn’t see anything wrong with it at the time. However, in hindsight maybe there is something to be worked on there as well. But that will have to wait.

Dating Do's And Don't's Or A Night with Thomas the Train Guy

2010-12-07T20:31:00.003-05:00

Walking up the stairs to my apartment after my date with Thomas the Train Guy, I ran over every detail of the date, doing my best to not forget anything. Not because they were cherished memories I wanted to hold on to, but because I was convinced I would have to reenact the date word-for-word before anyone believed me.

However, I found recreating the date time and time again exhausting. Even summing up the date was too much. And since simply transcribing the date here would a) not be that creative and b) would really only prove to make fun of Thomas the Train Guy and I don’t like to make fun of people. I have decided, instead, to use this date as a lesson for all my readers on things not to do on your date.

Yes, I realize I addressed this topic before (here), but I fear, for some, I have to break it down even further.

I also recognized, after a couple glasses of wine and further thought on the matter, that Thomas the Train Guy may not have been looking for love and simply looking for some lovin’. However, even if this is the case, these rules still apply as after that date, the words a snowball’s chance in hell took on a whole new meaning for me.

First, a couple of things Thomas did right. He didn’t try to cancel the first date (something you should only do in the case of a real emergency or else you are going to come off as a flake and not really that interested) he showed up on time (and was actually a bit early) and he was dressed very nice, in clean jeans (yes, I have to stress clean because I once had a date show up looking as if he had rolled around in mud), fashionable shoes, a sweater, and no baseball hat.

Now for where he went terribly, terribly wrong.

Words One Should Never Use on The First Date

Back in college a good friend of mine started a list of words she never wanted to hear in a pop song after she first heard Duncan Sheik’s “Barely Breathing” (the word being saline). I thought of this list the second time Thomas said the word hormones and decided I would start my own list:

Hormones 
Spandex
 Stalker 
Pervert 
Prime
 Sensual 
Baby’s mama
 Cats 

Now of course there are exceptions to all rules. For instance, if you are out for a very fancy meal at a steakhouse and you are 60 years or older you are allowed to order the Prime Rib. Perhaps you are in an argument with your date and you say something like, “you are perverting our founding father’s intended meaning of that amendment.” Though, I would caution you about discussing the founding fathers on your first date. Still, I think for the rest of us, it is good practice to not use the above noted words on a first date (or perhaps any date).

Topics of Discussion to Avoid on The First Date

When You Lost Your Virginity: I had to think back on this one, but I’m pretty sure I can safely say I don’t know when any of my ex-boyfriends lost their virginity. I think maybe Wharton and I discussed it, but that conversation was more along the lines of who he lost it with not so much when – I think. I have had this conversation with a couple of my close girlfriends, but not all of them. And some of them I have known for years. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure I know how old my sister was when she lost her virginity and I have known her for 32 years. We might have even been living in the same house when it happened.

Any Fetishes You May Have: Remember when I read that dating book about why he never called back and I was up in arms that the author suggested I hold back who I really am just so I can get a second date. Well, I take back everything I said then. Sometimes it is best to save parts of your personality for when you know your date better. For instance, if you have a thing for girls in spandex – I don’t want to hear about it. At least not within the first hour of knowing you and certainly not when I am sober. I don’t want to hear about how much you like looking at women in spandex. How you prefer a woman in spandex even to seeing a woman naked. And I most definitely don’t want to hear about how you have thought about me in spandex – even if you think I would look really good. Spoiler alert: I don’t look good in spandex. I’m not sure there are many women that do.

Your Exes: Enough said.

General Best Practices

Listen: One thing that annoys me more than anything on a first date is when I know a guy isn’t listening to me. Now, I understand there are sometimes when your date drones on and on and you can’t help but let your mind wonder. However, if at some point during the date you say, “You aren’t telling me anything about you. I thought girls loved to talk but you aren’t saying anything.” Then you damn sure better listen when I do say something.

How can I be sure that Thomas wasn’t listening to me? Well one, he kept cutting me off. Two, I mentioned that I rowed in college and he had nothing to say about it. Which in itself is odd since everyone always has something to say when I tell them I rowed in college. But then, a few minutes later, he started telling me about this really pretty part of the city. It is in Fairmount Park. During the day you can see a bunch of people rowing down there and at night it is all lit up. Maybe I saw it once, he asked. You can see it from the Schuylkill Expressway, just past 30th Street Station, headed towards the zoo.

I just smiled. For those readers not from the Philly area, my date was describing the practically world famous Philadelphia landmark Boathouse Row.

Don’t Touch: Okay, I know I am on the extreme end of the touching spectrum so I willing endure the hug hello, the occasional touch of the arm, if the date is going really well, I will even let a guy go so far as to lean in and brush his lips against my ear as he whispers something to me -- though I prefer to save that level of intimacy until the second date at least. What I am not prepared to experience is the simultaneous arm around my shoulder squeeze/head resting on my other shoulder move. This is particularly awkward when you are more than five inches taller than the person whose shoulder you are resting your head on as you remind said person that you like cuddling.

Don’t Say It’s Not A Date: If you’ve sent me multiple text messages, if our meeting was arranged days in advanced, if I shaved my legs and reapplied make up and you spring for my venti vanilla rooibos tea, then it's a date. So during our conversation when I'm saying something about it being a date, please don’t stop me midsentence to correct me that we are just having coffee. First, again, it's a date. Second, we aren’t having coffee , we're having tea.

Of course, if you really don't want to find yourself on a date, then there are preemptive measures one can take to ensure that you don’t find yourself in this awkward situation. Starting with setting the date: don’t make a plan in advance. Instead, randomly call or text the person and say, “Hey, I’m in your neighborhood, wanna grab a cup of coffee?” Two, don’t greet your friend with a hug, a kiss on the cheek and the comment “you look great.” Three, don’t pay for your friend’s drink – that is the universal sign for a date. Four, don’t spend the hour telling the person how beautiful they are, that is when you are not telling them really intimate details about your life. And, finally, don’t text the person a couple of days later asking “u think u can handle me?” Because all of that spells date.

Now, if you are already acquaintances with this person (or friends even) the above rules don’t necessarily apply. But, word of warning, the line of friendship gets thinner and blurrier each time you tell that person you find them attractive.

As always, I hope my disastrous love life can help one or many of you out there. Oh, and I apologize for those of you that now have Duncan Sheik’s Barely Breathing stuck in your head.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Home

2010-11-19T17:17:00.002-05:00

I was on the subway, reading Keith Richards' autobiography – it’s a good subway read because he is so frantic and all over the place when he is telling his life story that I can only take it in small doses before it gives me a headache – not really noticing anyone or anything around me.

As we approached my stop, and I approached a good place in my book to pause, I got up and headed for the door.

Already standing by the door was a guy, taller than me, smiling at me. I smiled back, to be polite, but then looked away.

He said hello.

I looked back up. “Hi.” Thankfully the train came to a stop and I could exit the train.

However my friend from the subway followed me. “Can I ask you a question?”

Further proof that I am not as horrible as some people take me for, I didn’t respond “umm, you just did.” But instead said, “sure.” And tried to twist my face into something that resembled engrossed.

“Are you single?”

I tried to catch myself from rolling my eyes, but I probably didn’t get it in time.

“I’m just wondering, because I’ve seen you. On the train and on broad street and even downtown and I wanted to talk to you …”

His stammering gave me a chance to think about my response. Normally when I’m sober and random strangers come up and ask me if I’m single, I lie and tell them I live with my boyfriend. What? I’m a single girl that lives in the city by herself. It is my first line of defense.

But as Thomas the Train Guy continued to enumerate all the different places he had seen me, I thought about how I can’t justify the waste of money that is online dating, and none of my friends have anyone they can fix me up with, and Salty’s firefighter husband refuses to fix me up with any of his firefighter friends, and I refuse to date anyone from my office, and it is damn near impossible to meet anyone of substance at a bar, so just how do I expect to meet someone if every time a guy approaches me I lie and tell him I am seeing someone.

So, instead I told Thomas the truth.

He walked me to my apartment, nervously chatting the whole way about nothing important. At some point he asked if I would like to grab coffee sometime and I said yes. When we got to my door, he had his phone and his business card out and eventually got around to getting my number and giving me his business card before we said good-bye.

That’s right. I gave Thomas the Train Guy my number. And yes, I realize he could be a deranged stalker and given his list of all the places he has seen me maybe that is something I should have considered earlier. But really, what could he do to me now that he has my number that he couldn’t do once he memorized my entire schedule? Plus, there is always my second line of defense – the Louisville Slugger I keep next to my bed.

Let Me Clear My Throat

2010-11-18T22:25:00.002-05:00

I know. It has been awhile since I last wrote. I promise you, I can explain. Sort of.

See, I had a blog post prepared. Seriously, I did. I was just going to ignore the fact that I had been absent for so long and post this one piece (which I swear you will all be able to read tomorrow or the next day or even the same day, depending on when you read this), but then I was out tonight and was berated by friends and realized I just couldn’t pretend these past couple of weeks didn’t happen.

So, some of you know I used to have a column. Well, occasionally, I would use conversations and situations with friends and colleagues in this column to better make my point. Now, I thought I was being fair. I would never use my friends’ actual names nor would I ever physically describe them and sometimes I would even alter some of the details of our relationship to protect the innocent.

But then, towards the end of my run, a partner at my old firm, who I had mentioned in my column, approached me. It is important to note, he didn’t reproach me, he merely pointed out that while most people reading my column didn’t know I was talking about him -- he knew. More importantly, he worried about it; wondering who else knew it was him.

Call me daft, but I never thought about this side.

And I thought I got it -- until I posted about the Cowboy.

See, the Cowboy post took a lot out of me. It took me a lot to write it and even more to post it.

After I posted it, just moments after, Marie called me to gush about it and I anxiously asked, “Was it too much?”

Her response, “Oh god no. It’s just enough.” And then, because she is Marie, she went on to confirm that she thinks I should have hooked up with the Cowboy.

Still, I worried about it. Actually, that's not true. Only part of me worried about it. Only part of me worried it was too much. But that part of me also felt betrayed. That part of me felt like these were private thoughts, not for public consumption.

At this point feel free to roll your eyes. Because, yes, I realize that my blog is completely voluntary and that all of this is for public consumption. But the truth is, that while, yes, my blog is voluntary, and everything is for public consumption (though, to be honest it still shocks me that anyone reads this), it is an edited version of my life. However, the Cowboy post was a lot less edited than maybe I am comfortable with.

And I got even less comfortable with it as more and more people approached me with comments like, “Didn’t you say you wanted to be spanked?”

Or, “I read the Cowboy post, I know what you want.”

Or, “Giddy-up!”

I didn’t even say giddy-up. Marie said giddy-up and now people are saying giddy-up to me and I blush easily and I am just so embarrassed even if it was the most honest I have been and so now it is hard for me to write anything because I am afraid of what I might say, or what you might think or that I might not be able to ever top what I said before.

So, I wrote this. An explanation and an apology and a disclaimer. This blog is the truth, however it is not the whole truth. Because I need to keep a piece of me for me.

If that is okay with you -- keep reading. If not, I will understand.

Warning to All Those Persons Related to Me: You May Want to Skip this Blog.

2010-10-25T20:37:00.005-04:00

The strangest thing happened to me in Mississippi last weekend.

I was visiting Ivan, my younger brother, and his new bride Alexia. They were having a party to celebrate their nuptials with all their southern friends, and a few of their northern friends. I was standing in a corner, taking it all in (and by taking it all in I really mean sending mass text messages to my friends) when I overheard one of Ivan’s friends say to Ivan, “I’m gonna break her.”

To which Ivan replied, “Good luck with that.” And walked away.

Now, I can’t be 100 percent sure they were talking about me. I started paying attention only midway through the conversation. But something other than my own inflated ego told me I was the her he was looking to break. Maybe it was the way the friend was behaving toward me earlier or maybe it was the way Ivan grimaced and then walked away. Either way, this feeling was later confirmed by (in my own inflated ego's opinion) by all the attention this friend continued to pay me.

And while I still find it strange that men are attracted to me, that wasn’t what has been bothering me since overhearing this conversation. What has been keeping me up at night (in addition to the upper respiratory infection I picked up on the airplane ride home) was my reaction to it.
Readers, I wasn’t righteously indignant or offended or affronted or angry or any of those things I think I should have been.

I was turned on.

Let me be perfectly clear, before that moment, I wasn’t the least bit attracted to this guy. Sure he was tall and Marie thinks he's good looking (her actual response to his picture was “giddy-up”). But he was also wearing cowboy boots and Croakies and a collared shirt tucked into way too faded blue jeans. Furthermore, I have never found a southern accent charming.

But four little words later and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I had to give myself the “this is Ivan’s friend, Tatiana,” pep-talk followed by the “he has a girlfriend, Tatiana" pep-talk repeated several times over the course of the next couple of hours. And, honestly, if I wasn’t so very afraid of the Cowboy, those two talks may have failed me completely.

Thank god I still have my fear to keep me in check.

So, once I sobered up on the flight home I started to think about why I was so affected by the Cowboy. I had already been thinking a lot about the whole generation of guys phenomenon as I was surrounded by my brother’s friends, most of whom were definite guys (some are still borderline boys). And I’m not about to suggest that the Cowboy was a man – he’s more a leader of the guys.

No, I wasn’t thinking the Cowboy was a man, but of another conversation all together that Bob and I have had on a number of occasions. And because our recent conversation about guys versus men was already on my mind, this other conversation may have been lurking not far behind.

The second conversation always starts innocently enough -- what am I looking for in a guy. This inevitably turns into me listing the things I liked about my ex-boyfriends and the things I couldn’t stand about them. And because it is Bob, and because we have had one too many glasses of wine, it moves to the bedroom. While I am not about to say that my exes have been disappointing, none of them have been the sort that would throw you (me) down on the bed (or against a wall) and, for a lack of a better phrase, fuck you (me).

And I know this isn’t very feminist of me, but sometimes a girl really needs that.

Now, over the course of the last two years I have been on several dates with guys who couldn’t even make a plan, leaving me to pick the time and the place of our dates. And, whether it’s laziness or a lack of confidence, I assume if you won’t pick a place for us to meet for a drink, you aren’t going to be the sort that is ever going to pull my hair or smack my ass.

So maybe, when I heard those four little words I realized that before me stood a man that would probably do both. It’s the only thing I can come up with. That in that moment, as my subconscious raced through the last several years of dates with wishy-washy wusses and being almost completely in control of my life almost all of the time for as long as I can remember, it was attracted to the Cowboy who could offer me a break from both.

At that moment, I wonder what it would be like to be broken.

Who am I kidding? I'm still wondering.

Change Me (Revisited)

2010-10-22T15:15:00.002-04:00

It would seem some clarification to my last post is needed. Let me make it perfectly clear that I am in no way suggesting I need to change in order to find someone. I merely realized that in order to have a successful relationship, I must be open to the idea of change.

This probably seems like a no-brainer to most of you and you are wondering why I would even need to blog about such an obvious realization (let alone blog about it twice). Maybe you are even questioning my intellect because it took me so long to discover this.

Let me explain. In the past, nothing has frightened me more (not even cats) than the idea of a guy changing me. Before this realization, I couldn’t stand when my friends changed for guys. I would gag when I got into a friend’s car and heard them blaring the latest CD from their latest boyfriend’s favorite band. I would roll my eyes when one of them would show up for a run wearing a ball cap from their boyfriend’s favorite baseball team.

Now mind you, the friend with the new CD loves music, and the band was pretty good. The friend with the baseball hat has no soul and therefore never followed baseball before she met her now-husband. So it wasn’t as if they were putting aside their thoughts and feelings on a particular matter to side with their current beau. But at the time I couldn’t see that.

Meanwhile, when I would declare to my mother that I would probably never get married, but if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be in a church, and she would ask, what if it is important to your fiancé? My response: well, I can’t imagine it would be important to my fiancé, but if it were, he would have to understand my feelings on the matter. If he couldn’t accept them – we wouldn’t get married.

My mom would counter: What if it is important to his mother? Or his grandmother?

Me: I think I would be concerned that he was putting his mother’s feelings in front of my own.

And no, I’m not kidding. This is taken from an actual conversation I had with my mother.

I even took it a step further. It was a personal affront to me when Douche Bag said he could never date a smoker. Never mind that I hadn’t had a cigarette in more than a year and DB knew I had been a smoker. I still saw red and remember those words ringing in my ears a couple nights later when I asked Bridie if I could bum a cigarette from her.

Yes, my fear of changing for a guy is so powerful, that I would actually pick back up a deadly habit just so I could then crow that I won’t let a man tell me what I can and can’t do.

Keeping this aversion to change in mind, I am sure you will believe me now when I say I have no intention of changing myself just so I can find someone. Instead, my post was about how I now realize that once I meet that someone special, I will probably change

I have even started my list of areas where I would be willing to bend. As predicted it isn’t very long.

Change Me

2010-10-05T16:51:00.003-04:00

I have been thinking a lot about relationships recently. For the first time in my brief history on this planet, more of my friends are in relationships than are single (unless of course you count eighth grade when everyone but me had a boyfriend). And as I thought about these friends and their relationships and talked to other friends (and sometimes my mom), I started to see a common theme. Well, I didn't really see it as first. It was more like I could feel there was something there that I was missing. Like looking at one of those 3-D pictures they have at the fair. You stare and stare and you know you are suppose to see a sailboat, but you just don't.

Until you do.

I was going over a recent conversation I had with one of my few remaining single girlfriends. We were talking about a mutual acquaintance and his relationship and she said, rather cynically, “I doubt that is what he signed on for when he joined Match.com.”

I’m sure she was right. I’m sure when he pictured in his mind the sort of relationship he wanted, the one he was currently in didn’t spring to mind. At the same time, our mutual acquaintance didn’t seem the least bit bitter. Quite the opposite – he is happy and excited. And why shouldn’t he be? He is in love, I argued with myself. He has found an amazing and wonderful woman that loves him and wants to spend the rest of her life with him. So he will be a little inconvenienced for a bit. Is that really worth giving up all the rest of it?

That is when it hit me – like an apple falling from the tree that I was resting under – maybe the only way we can fit together is if we are all willing to adjust. And by all, I really mean me.

Now, I have long given up on the whole idea of a soul mate – that there is one perfect person out there for all of us. Until that moment, though, I did believe there was someone out there that was going to love me just the way I am. That he was going to fit perfectly into my lovely little life I created and I was going to fit just as neatly into his.

As I typed that I realized my silliness makes looking for one’s soul mate seem practical.

We have all heard countless times that you can’t expect to change someone. This is typically given to us as advice when we are annoyed or frustrated with a partner. Sometimes, as if often the case with my mom, it is given more as an I-told-you-so. Either way, we have heard it so many times we have all accepted it to be true – and who are we kidding? It is true. But somewhere along the line, I got to believing that the inverse was all true. That so long as I don’t expect to change someone, I won’t be expected to change. However, I’m beginning to understand that I got this bit wrong (and algebra has once again failed to serve any practical purpose in my life).

I’m still working through all the details and consequences of my realization. For instance, what are things that I am willing to change? What are things I am absolutely unwilling to change? (I imagine this list will be quite a bit longer). How much change can still be called “good change”? My guess is it comes when you wake up one morning and no longer recognize yourself in the mirror (or worse, no longer like who you see staring back at you). Or maybe it goes back to that list of things you are absolutely unwilling to change. If you find yourself compromising on more and more of those items, your change has gone bad.

Of course these are just theories as I have never bent on anything in a relationship. (Insert bad joke about bending over plenty of things here if you must. But keep ‘em clean folks, my dad reads this blog).

An Open Letter to AT&T

2010-10-05T16:47:00.002-04:00

Dear AT&T,

I noticed on Sunday that you renamed the Pattison station, AT&T station. I’m not going to point out to you just how ridiculous this is and that no one will actually call it AT&T station, but instead will continue to call it Pattison station. Much like the way no one calls MLK Drive anything but West River (well, except those few individuals who are new to the area and get lost when anyone gives them directions involving West River).

I do have one question, though. Why is it, on Sunday, on my way home from the Eagles’ game, I couldn’t send or receive any text messages while I waited for the northbound local? Meanwhile, Marie, who has Verizon, had no problems. I would think, while standing in a station named after my wireless carrier, I would be the one with the better service.

Just curious.

Yours,

Tati

A Whole Generation of Guys

2010-09-30T13:07:00.002-04:00

I had two really interesting conversations with two very different friends about relationships this past week.

It started on my way home from dinner with some friends. I was planning on walking home, but it was getting late and I really have to stop pretending I live in a super-safe neighborhood. So when my friend, Kelly, offered me a ride, I accepted.

Because we were out with a group, I hadn’t really had the opportunity to catch up with Kelly. So, as soon as we were in the car, I asked her about work, her home, her running, and then her boyfriend.

“Oh, we’re not together any more.”

You know how there are friend’s relationships that when you hear they have ended you aren’t surprised, but you sort of have to act surprise – at least at first? Well, this wasn’t one of them. I was genuinely shocked they weren’t together anymore and so I had to follow up.

“What happened?”

“He disappeared.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, I considered for a minute that he actually disappeared. Like in some freak Manhattan Experiment or alien abduction. And because I was intrigued by the chance that these things actually could happen, I asked, “What do you mean he disappeared?”

“He disappeared. One day he just stopped calling. Stopped texting. Stopped e-mailing. And he wasn’t returning my phone calls or text messages or e-mails. He just disappeared.”

I was speechless.

“Then, one day, he did pick up the phone when I called and said that he has just been really busy and trying to focus his life and he just doesn’t think he has time for me in it.”

I have to admit I was disappointed to learn he didn’t actually disappear. For a moment I dared to hope that boy disease wasn’t the epidemic I feared. That maybe, just maybe, men really are disappearing.

“And what? He didn’t think you earned the right to know about this decision?”

Kelly sighed. “The problem is we are surrounded by an entire generation of guys. Not men. But too old to be boys. Just guys.”

An entire generation of guys. I felt as if I had stumbled upon a small truth. Like my life would never be the same now that I knew this.

She continued, “They refuse to be grown-ups. They don’t want to settle down, buy a house, be responsible. They want to play and not make decisions and just not care about the consequences.”

Kelly pulled her car to the curb and I realized I was home. I wanted to sit in her car and continue to discuss what more she knew about this generation of guys. But I knew we both had to get up early the next day and so I promised myself to bring it up the next time I had her alone.

Then, a couple of days later, e-mailing with one of my close male friends, Bob, the conversation turned to our respective love lives. Bob asked me about mine and, remembering my conversation with Kelly I said, “I think the problem is I’m surrounded by a generation of guys.” (Of course I gave Kelly credit for naming my plight).

Bob responded back that women were partly to blame. That the movie Say Anything ruined a whole generation of men because women wanted that. They wanted drama. And love shouldn’t be about drama. He then went on to say that women can be selfish (something I don’t disagree with, but I also think selfishness has a certain virtue to it) and that women in their 30s are acting like they are in their 20s.

I didn’t disagree with anything Bob said, though I did wonder if I shouldn’t point out that men started it when they decided that they were better off as bachelors and started spending all their money on hair products and baseball games and going to clubs and not settling down with the woman that loved them, instead holding out for that something better that was sure to come along.

However, I refrained. Because I knew he could come right back at me that women started it when we started taking on traditional male roles in the relationship (e.g., the breadwinner) leaving men confused and insecure. And on and on we would go and really nothing would get solved.

He also added, toward the end of e-mail, that he believes relationships come down to two things – chemistry and timing.

For the second time in a week I felt like my life would never be the same.

If you are anything like me, you sometimes sit around, maybe with a bottle of wine, wondering why all your past relationships have failed? What if it is all just a matter of timing and chemistry? What if right now (or back then as the case may be) you had great chemistry with someone but it just couldn’t work because the timing wasn’t right. Or maybe the timing was perfect, but without chemistry why bother?

Sadly, I fear, for most of us (and by us, I mean single women who have their lives pretty much together and are now looking for someone to share the life with) we are surrounded by a generation of guys. So the timing could be off for quite some time.

Oh and before you ask, yes, you can expect a couple more blogs about this idea of a generation of guys. And probably a couple on timing and chemistry. So if you disagree or are already bored of these topics (this was a long post after all), I suggest you not check back for awhile.

I’ll even do you the favor of announcing on Twitter when I have tired of the subject. Promise.

Drinking with The Enemy

2010-09-20T09:46:00.002-04:00

Ladies (and gentlemen), I have met the enemy and she is a tiny little myopic thing that works in accounting.

I was out with old co-workers drinking at the Spank Bank – I know, I know, I hate this place, but they keep giving away free happy hours to my friends – what’s a girl to do? So, I’m standing there, catching up with a woman I used to work with, asking her how things were going at my old place of employment, when she started talking about Senior (her boss) and the Enemy rolled her eyes.

Okay, I didn’t actually catch the eye-roll, I only assumed it happened because my former co-worker, whom we should call Polly because she sort of looks like a Polly, commented to her, “I know you don’t like her, but she really is a great person.”

I looked down at the Enemy (and I was wearing flats so imagine how tiny she must be) and her face was still contorted in disgust. So I asked, “Oh, you don’t like Senior?”

She twisted her face up even more and shook her head.

“Why?”

She continued to shake her head as Polly protested, “She’s really an amazing woman, you just don’t know her.”

Which is when the enemy finally piped up, “If she’s such an amazing woman, why isn’t she married?”

Readers, I almost hit her. Thank god I had only had one glass of wine at the time or I may have. Instead, I asked, “Your definition of an amazing woman is that she’s married?” with all the attitude mixed with horror that you can imagine.

“Well, no, but I mean, if she is really so remarkable, why isn’t she married?”

Polly jumped in and started singing Senior's praises as I staggered back, shocked at this little girl’s ignorance. As Polly explained to this little insect that Senior could have been married, had she wanted to settle, but instead worked on herself and her career and her spirituality and is now really happy with her life.; a life so full it leaves little time to find a man – a life so full it begs the question whether one really needs a man.

Still struck dumb, I nodded and looked into the face of the enemy. All I saw was smugness. Her face clearly said, “Sure, whatever Senior needs to tell herself to get to sleep at night. But at the end of the day, we all know she can’t possibly be happy without a man in her life.”

At this moment I found my voice. I turned to Polly and said, “I have to go before I hit someone.” I then glared down at the enemy, who no longer looked smug, but frightened. I started to walk away, but doubled back. Now that I had my voice, I realized I had more to say.

“Can I ask how old you are?” I was still glaring and the Enemy who was still clearly scared I might hit her.

“Umm, 22.” She squeaked out.

I smiled. “That explains a lot.”

Here’s the thing. At 22-years-old, you don’t know anything, but you think you know everything. How can I know this? Because I was once 22 and I remember thinking I knew everything. I remember thinking it was all so easy. That you can have your cake and eat it too and still fit into your size two jeans. And yes, you can have it all – but it isn’t easy. It’s a full-time job on top of your real full-time job.

And because it is so hard you learn to value what is really important to you. Some people call these compromises, but I don’t think that is the right word for what you are doing. I think prioritizing is a better word for it. Yes, you would like a boyfriend, but you want a promotion more. So you work harder, longer hours, maybe go to school, and this leaves less time in your social calendar. So you have to decide how you would rather spend your few free hours, on an awkward first date or out with your girlfriends, laughing your face off.

Then when your schedule does free up some time to meet a special someone you find even there priorities have changed. Yes, it would be nice to meet someone with a full head of hair, washboard stomach and Popeye forearms, but what would be even better is to find someone that supports your goals and likes your friends. And, as you look around at your life and realize things aren’t so terrible and actually are pretty awesome, you realize that there are things won’t compromise on. That whomever you decide to share your little perfect world with will have to be pretty exceptional.

And inevitably your mother will call you too picky and, apparently, 22-year-olds will question your awesomeness.

Well, 22-year-olds, now you know the truth. Your ignorance on this matter will no longer be tolerated. If I ever hear you say anything like, “Well if she is so great, why isn’t she married?” you will be punched.

In the throat.

Hard.

A Tale of Two Pimps

2010-09-14T08:41:00.002-04:00

Growing up in Allentown there were two dance schools (well, maybe there were more, but only two that I knew of): Dolly Dance (I am keeping the actual name here because it is just too good) and The Other School (not actually the school’s name, but since I will be speaking disparagingly about the place, I figured I should mask its identity).

Dolly Dance was run by Miss Dolly, an older woman that labored under the misguided belief that all her students dreamed of one day performing for the National Ballet and it was her job to prepare us for this future. Her classes were not fun – they were hard. We weren’t allowed to wear cute leotards – black leotards and pink tights were the required uniform. Our hair was to be pulled back in a bun; if your hair wasn't long enough to pull back into a bun you employed bobby pins to create a reasonable facsimile. Our shoes were proper, leather ballet shoes, not glittery, pink slippers. If you wore pink slippers, your mother would get a lecture from Miss Dolly. During recitals, Dolly frantically ran around back stage, making sure everyone’s hair and shoes and make-up were perfect and yes, that none of us were wearing underwear. I imagine Miss Dolly’s nightmares included five-year-olds perfectly executing her choreographed dances with unsightly panty-lines.

The Other School was run by a younger woman, we’ll call her Miss Holly. At Holly’s school (because you didn't have to call Holly Miss Holly), you could wear whatever fun leotard and coordinating tights you could find. At Holly’s school you could take Jazz and Modern Dance after only one year of instruction (at Miss Dolly’s school you were required to be more than 13 years-old and have at least five years of basic ballet and tap lessons). At Holly’s school, her dances, even her tap and ballet dances, were set to new, hip music – stuff you could hear on the radio and not just in elevators. But the main difference between the two schools were the recitals. At Holly’s recitals, whole classes of girls would stand in the middle of the stage, looking left, watching Holly (standing just off stage) for what step to do next.

My parent’s sent Lana to The Other School but learned from that mistake and sent me to Dolly Dance. The result – I am an excellent dancer, while Lana, not so much. Though she has finally broken the habit of staring over her left shoulder.

My point? Friday night I had two pimps out with me, Salty and Pepper, and the two styles of pimping reminding me a lot of Miss Dolly and Holly.

Now, Salty has been my pimp for a very long time. And while occasionally, she does get hand’s on (the time she actually lined guys up to talk to me for five minutes a piece before literally pulling them away if I wasn’t interested springs to mind). So, Friday night, when a group of guys walked in, two of whom were both over six feet tall and one of whom was exactly my type, I knew Salty would have something to say.

At first, her something to say was that I should make out with the funny (though short) friend of the two tall drinks of water that was talking to us. Salty sometimes does this. She finds a guy that she would like to make out with, but because she is married, she tries to force him on me. After I convinced her that I just couldn’t do it – she turned her focus to the second tall drink, we’ll call him Bobby.

“You know what? It is late. We’ve all been drinking, he seems just as shy as you are so I say, just walk up to him and ask, ‘do you want to go outside?’ and then start making out with him.”

I shook my head. I had heard this advice before and I was pretty sure it wouldn't work. “How about if I go over there and make myself available to him to talk to me.”

Salty rolled her eyes but knew this was still a pretty big step for me.

What I didn’t realize was that in moving across the bar, I was stepping into Pepper’s territory.

Pepper’s style is definitely more stage mom than Salty’s. For instance, I was only standing there a moment when Pepper stage whispered to me, “Tati, he’s six-four” and pointed at Bobby. I smiled. He smiled. Pepper commented on his smile and asked me, “Doesn’t he have a great smile?” All his friends smiled. And the next thing I knew Bobby was asking me if I wanted to go outside.

Thank god, Salty had explained to me that "do you want to go outside" was code for "do you want to make out?" or else I might have said no. It was kind of cold outside and I had on a sleeveless top.

The Grandfather Clause

2010-09-09T16:21:00.004-04:00

As anyone who also follows my adventures on Facebook is aware, I was at the shore last week. See, Marie and I both decided that since neither of us had a real vacation this summer, we would borrow our friend Salty’s condo in North Wildwood and spend the days in the sun, baking ourselves until we were golden bubbly (and spend our nights drinking and laughing and eating crackers and hummus).

For those of you who have never been, the nightlight in North Wildwood leaves a lot to be desired (unless you are under the age of 25 or over the age of 65). Still my friends and I could have fun with a paper bag so I wasn’t really too worried about it. We had wine. We had beer. Oh and look, both came in paper bags. Marie did want to go out one night – Monday night to be exact. She had heard the Soul Cruisers were playing at a bar only a couple of blocks away and Marie loves Soul music. So after a long day doing nothing by the pool, Marie and I got gussied up and headed to the monstrosity that is Keenan’s Irish Pub (a monstrosity because this “pub” pretty much takes up an entire city block).

Now, before I go any further, I should explain that when visiting any beach town, my 20lbs of hair expands to at least 45lbs of hair. The Wildwoods are no exception. And since I was tan (from the day sitting by the pool wearing only SPF 4) and already had huge hair, I decided it was the perfect occasion for my bright red lipstick. Marie would later hypothesize that no man can resist my big blonde hair and bright red lips. I am thinking about testing this theory out in Philadelphia tomorrow night.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the night. Instead, I will fast forward to the close of the evening. The Soul Cruisers were rocking and Marie and I were chair dancing in our bar stools. A very old man was standing not too far from us and asked me why I wasn’t up there dancing. This was approximately the 18th old man that had stopped to talk to me and Marie in the two hours we were sitting there. I smiled and said I wasn’t much of a dancer. Marie stepped in and announced, “She’s just shy” (I swear she also gave me a little pushed towards him but she denies this of course). And with that, Pop-pop, took my hand and led me out to the dance floor.

My first thought was how the heck am I suppose to hold on to my cookies while grinding with Pop-pop to “Give Me Just A Little More Time”? Then Pop-pop grabbed my hand, put his other hand on my waist and I thanked the heavens above that Pop-pop was too old to even know what grinding was – that or his fake hip wouldn’t allow it.

Once I was able to relax, I have to admit, it wasn’t the worst three minutes of my life. It wasn’t even the most awkward. We danced and he twirled me and thank goodness he didn’t try to dip me (between his back and my strapless dress it could have been a disaster) and when the song was over so was the Soul Cruisers’ set and so Pop-pop and I walked back to our bar stools. He thanked me for the dance and kissed me on the forehead. The closest I came to upchucking was when Marie leaned over and whispered, “You totally gave him a boner.”

So a couple days later, we are reliving the week for Salty. We get to this point and Salty asks, “Wait, how tall was Pop-pop?” (My height requirement has become a bit of a thorn in everyone’s side as they are all looking for someone for me to date).

I shrugged my shoulder, “I don’t know, I guess he was a little taller than me in flip-flops.”

“And you danced with him?” (The basis of my height requirement really boils down to not wanting to look ridiculous when I am dancing with my boyfriend).

“Yeah, but he was old and has probably shrunk. My guess is that he was once six feet tall, so I grandfathered him in.”

I understand this opens up a loophole for 5’10” 80-year-olds, but it is quickly closed by my father’s rule forbidding me to date anyone twice my age or older.

How Old Were You The First Time You Fell In Love?

2010-08-27T16:52:00.002-04:00

Everyday I get an e-mail alert from Women’s Health. Some days this alert promises me new sex positions I have to try tonight (fat chance of that happening) other days they are offering me the best workout for my body type. One may wonder why I don’t discontinue these alerts to my inbox. Simple really (no, I am not just a glutton for punishment) the alerts also include reminders to sign up for Women’s Health’s daily giveaways.

Everyday Women’s Health gives away some really cool prize one cannot live without, with a grand prize drawing once a month. All one has to do is answer a poll question and then click submit. Have I ever won – no, but still I play everyday. It’s like my version of playing my numbers everyday.

So today, I got my alert (Five Ways to Look Better Naked – an article I devoured having recently learned men do internally criticize our naked bodies and just don’t think “oh my god she’s naked” as Cosmo had promised me). The giveaway was a picnic blanket – maybe not the coolest prize ever, but I have been meaning to take in more shows at the Mann Center and a picnic blanket would come in handy for that sort of outing. So I clicked on the link and the poll question appeared: “How old were you the first time you fell in love?” with the options: Elementary School, Teenage years, College, Post-college, Still waiting!, and Doesn’t apply to me.

Forgetting about the option “Doesn’t apply to me” (when I hit submit 2 percent of the respondents had replied this way – that makes my heart hurt. How can this not apply to you? I think I fall in love all the time. Just this morning I thought I could love a tall guy with a beard at Fourbucks who also ordered an Iced Chai latte with soy.), I paused, wondering just how to answer this question. Typically, I don’t have to give these questions much thought (unless I’m trying to remember just how long it has been since I have had a date or sex). But this one – what do they mean by love?

My gut said elementary school; kindergarten, actually. Michael L. He lived down the street from me. He had red hair and a carrying case with 99 different colored crayons. I used to walk by his house wearing just my purple Miss Piggy bathing suit until he came outside to talk to me, which is when I showed him how good I was at turning cartwheels. Then one day, while playing Farmer in the Dell, Michael broke my heart and picked Jaime K. to be his wife instead of me. Worse than that – I ended up the cheese. For those of you that don’t remember this game – at the end, the cheese stands alone. Oh the humanity.

Was my first love Jason D, the skateboarder I fell for as a teenager? I met him during the summer. He was riding his skateboard, I was walking my dog. He followed me home and wrote my address on his skateboard so he would never forget it. He told me he loved me the moment he first saw me. I thought he was so sweet I let him stick his tongue in my mouth. But was that love?

Did I love the One, or did I love the idea of the One? Did I love Wharton or did I love the way Wharton made me feel? Did I love the Douchebag? I trusted him, but is that the same as loving someone?

Mind you, I have never actually uttered the words “I love you” to anyone outside of my family so maybe I should have hit the “Still waiting!” button. But I hate exclamation points (as most of you know), especially unnecessary exclamation points.

So, in the end I went with elementary school when I remembered that I may have written “I love you” on the back of my school photo that I gave to Michael. That and he always let me color with his pink crayon (before he dumped me for that slut Jaime). And if that isn’t love, then I don’t know what is.

I Got A Magic Skirt

2010-08-23T17:33:00.002-04:00

Some of you may remember that a couple of months ago I was debating moving from my pad on Broad Street to somewhere a little bit quieter. After getting some feedback from you, I decided it was time to fly the coup.

Oh, just a quick side note here: for any of you out there in cyberland that find yourself in a situation similar to the one I was in – don’t be afraid to talk to your landlord when the time comes to renew your lease. I didn’t (because I was afraid and because I had already found a new place) but when I gave my notice, he was very amenable, asking what he could do to keep me. As I later learned from friends of mine that are also landlords, good, paying tenants aren’t always easy to find, so when they have one, they want to keep him or her. Important note for landlords out there: if you have a good tenant that you want to keep because she is quiet and never complains and always pays her rent on time, you may want to rethink raising her rent every year. Just sayin’.

Okay, now back to my skirt.

One of my last nights at my old place, I had the girls over to sit on my stoop, drink wine, reminisce and make some last minute decisions about what to do with things I wasn’t sure about taking to the new place – including some clothes. So, a la Carrie and the girls in the first Sex in the City Movie, Salty, Marie and Bridie laid across my bed as I pulled the unloved items from my closet.

Somewhere in the middle of this mayhem, after we determined I only need two (not six) strappy, black mini-dresses and that I would never be preppy enough to wear argyle, I pulled from my closet my lucky skirt.

My lucky skirt, soon to be referred to as my magic skirt. I bought her when I was still in college and needed something fun, but dressy, but also sexy without being slutty to wear to a banquet where both my parents and CK would be. You would think something I bought more than 10 years ago would be hopelessly out of style, but she is just a simple greenish-blue, wrap skirt that still looks pretty good – mostly because I rarely wear her. She is much to powerful to wield regularly.

The first night I wore the skirt I swear to god CK flirted with me. Of course, it is only in hindsight that I realize he was flirting, at the time, I was so nervous that he was talking to me, I smiled, nodded and walked away. I still shake my head in disgust about what a dolt I was.
The second time I wore her, when crossing Walnut Street, Bridie and I overheard some guy exclaim to his car full of friends, did you see that girl’s skirt. Bridie stopped me, “Did you hear that guy?”

I smiled.

She looked down at my skirt, “That thing is magical.”

The third time I wore the skirt – I met Hung. I don’t think I need to go into any more detail about why that night was awesome.

The fourth (and final) time I wore it was to Wharton’s going away party. Except I never made it to the party. Wharton was being a bit of a jackass (at least in my mojito-clouded opinion) and I decided he didn’t deserve to see me in the skirt.

I’m not sure why I never wore it again. Maybe I was afraid it’s magic had worn off or maybe I just didn’t have the occasion to wear it. But when it came time to clean out the closet, I decided it was time to pass the magic skirt on to someone else.

When Bridie saw that I was giving it away she was shocked and asked me what the heck I was thinking. And maybe it was because I had too much wine. Or maybe it was because I was surrounded by the women that love me the most. Whatever it was, I decided to be honest. Because the truth was it had nothing to do with passing the magic on to someone else (have I ever been that magnanimous?). I just didn’t feel like the same girl that wore that skirt.

Worse, I wasn’t sure I could ever be her again. So why have that reminder hanging in my closet.
A couple of days later, Salty was coming over to help me take my oversized, industrial trash bags to the Goodwill. I was pulling the third bag from the back room when I noticed my lucky skirt had escaped and was half hiding underneath a bookshelf. I inspected the bag for tears but found none. It seems, while I was ready to be done with the magic skirt, she wasn’t done with me.
I scooped her off the floor and stuffed her into my pocketbook.

Maybe there was some space for her in my future after all.

The Jason Statham Exception

2010-08-20T08:31:00.002-04:00

Did I ever tell you how much I love a good action movie? Well, I do. I even love a really bad one.

So when Bridie suggested we could see a movie this past weekend, my eyes lit up. “Can we see the Expendables.”
Now, I expected her to say, “Absolutely not.” I didn’t expect her to then look the movie up online and say, “You know what? Sure.”

I could hardly contain myself. At the pool on Saturday it was pretty much all I could think about. So much so, that when we walked by two guys that were just hanging out and Bridie asked, “were either of them cute?” I had to quickly make up a lie to cover-up the fact that I didn’t even notice them. My mind was too occupied with the thought of seeing Sly and Bruce and the Governator and Jason all in the same movie.

Now, before you all start in on my about just how terrible and misogynistic these sort of movies are – believe me, I have heard it all before. And I simply don’t care. I love action movies. I love the explosions and the excessive violence and the way they snap people’s necks and break people’s backs and the impossibly convoluted plotlines and the improbable way that all the good guys come back to life in the end and yes, even the terrible acting. The terrible acting is what makes all those one liners so effin’ funny.

After all, would “I’ll be back,” be half as catchy if it were delivered by a good actor? I’ve never actually noticed but I bet that phrase is uttered in dozens of movies and t.v. shows by countless actors – yet we all associate it with Ah-nold.

Not to mention, I really don’t think the acting is all that bad. For instance, while watching him in Expendables, Jason Statham totally sold me as a badass by day, broken-hearted guy by night. I had no trouble believing that if he were my ex-boyfriend and I called him up because my current boyfriend hit me, he would pick me up on his motorcycle and we would go find the creep. And after putting a serious beat down on him and all is Adidas track pant wearing punk friends, he would say something clever – yet menacing – get back on his bike and we would ride off into the sunset.

I believed it so much that when Jason was telling his on-screen ex-girlfriend (the chick from Buffy the Vampire Slayer that got migraines and could see the future) that she should have waited: that he was worth it, I felt like he was looking into my eyes and saying, “Tati, you shouldn’t have a stupid rule about dating guys under six feet tall. I understand it means giving up all your favorite heels, but believe me, I’m worth it.”

You know what, Jason? I agree. You are totally worth it. For you I will date someone that is 5’11”.

So long as that someone is either you or also a mercenary with a really cute British accent.

Me, The Jerk and Match.com

2010-08-17T17:07:00.002-04:00

Contrary to what you may believe, I didn’t leave Match.com because the only guys “winking” at me clearly hadn't read my profile – that, or they didn’t believe me when I said I wasn’t looking for someone in their 50s with kids and cats and a house in the suburbs. The ones that really made me laugh were the ones that were also 5’8”.

Honestly, though, I probably could have suffered through another month of that. I probably could have also endured another month of e-mailing with potential matches, wondering when the heck he was going to ask for my number or try to set up a date.

Yes, I could have endured all of that and so much more had I never stumbled upon the Jerk’s profile.

The Jerk, I really wish I had a better name for him, but I don’t, he is simply a jerk, is an acquaintance of mine – a friend of a friend of another friend that I see out occasionally and after he leaves I ask the friend – why the hell do you put up with him? She just shrugs her shoulders and says she doesn’t know. The Jerk is tall, with dark hair and dark skin (thanks, I'm sure to a tanning salon membership). He has an impressive job and I even thought he was good looking, once upon a time.

Then he opened his mouth.

The Jerk knows more about everything than everybody. The Jerk once argued with me about trends in pocketbooks. Women’s pocketbooks. He thought he knew more about women’s pocketbooks than me.

The Jerk loves pointing out the designers he is wearing – even when it is obvious by the little guy on the horse stitched on the breast of the shirt.

The Jerk also likes to name drop. Mind you, we live in Philadelphia, so you can only imagine the names he is dropping. Most days I don’t know the people he is talking about and I make a point of asking him, “who?” His other favorite thing to do is just say a person’s first name. “Oh, yeah, I was at this party with Chase and Jen.” Umm, yeah, sure you were.

And then one day, I log onto Match.com and see that The Jerk viewed my profile.

At first I didn’t recognize him – his profile shot has more scenery than face in it. So I clicked on his screen name and then through his photos. And since I was already there and since Match.com was going to tell him I was there, I figured what the heck, let’s read what he has to say. I really wish I hadn’t.

By the end of the profile I was nauseated. Not by what he said, but by all the stuff he didn’t say. Where was the line about only dating “women” in their early 20s because they “aim to please” and come with significantly less baggage? Or the stories about dropping hundreds of dollars on bottles of vodka to skip the line at a club in South Beach. What about the fact that one of his favorite things is to pause during sex to check himself out in one of the many mirrors set up around his room (or so I heard).

None of that was there. Instead it was all “enjoying good food and checking out new restaurants in the city,” and “hanging out with friends at the shore,” and “watching foreign films and reading the classics.” He listed his favorite book as The Fountainhead. I could taste vomit as I realized if I didn’t know better, I would probably e-mail this guy. I would probably spend 20, maybe even 30 minutes working on something clever and cute and charming but not crazy or over-telling to send him and then would obsessively check my e-mail and Match.com account to see if he returned my e-mail or viewed my profile again.

And down the rabbit hole my mind went. All of these guys that I'm e-mailing, every last one of them could be just like the Jerk. Well, maybe not just like him – I have to believe he is one of a kind. But they all could be really cool and funny and interesting online, but complete weirdos in real life. No body is going to list their bad traits. I didn’t include the fact that I like the smell of my own hair, except on most Sundays when I tend to not wash it and I write a blog about my life so if you go on a date with me chances are my 27 readers are going to hear all about it. So what is hiding behind their profile smiles and list of favorite hot spots?

I know that there are just as many fakes and phonies in the real world – but here it is easier to see through them. I knew the Jerk was, well, a jerk, after only listening to him for 15 minutes. In Match.com world, it could have been a month (or more) before I figured that out. And I’m paying for that time, where as in the real world, I got a free drink out of it.

This Year's Birthday Present to Myself

2010-08-12T13:34:00.004-04:00

I was sitting at a table with four of the greatest women I know, having just polished off a fantastic meal, some decadent desserts and a couple bottles of wine. Bridie look over at me and asked, “So, any plans for your thirty-second year?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’m going to try to stop obsessing over things I have little or no control.”

Salty nodded, “That would be nice.”

“And,” I smiled. “I’m going to stop being so mean to myself.”

“I like that,” Bridie smiled and lifted her glass in my direction.

However, I can’t take complete credit for that last one.

I recently read Women, Food and God, a book I keep mistakenly referring to as "Women, Love and God," a Freudian Slip the author would have a field day with if she ever heard me make it. I never considered myself an emotional eater, having been raised by one I know what they look like. But when I was laid-off last year, I found myself eating to excess every a lot. I started to notice that every time I got anxious or scared or upset, I would get something to eat. So when I heard about this book, I was definitely interested in reading it.

In the book, the author writes about how we talk to ourselves. The things we say to ourselves everyday and how hurtful and awful they are and how we would never let anyone ever say anything like that to us, but we take it from ourselves all the time.

A thousand years ago (or nine) Bridie and I were at a bar with friends. One friend was talking to two guys and as I headed towards the ladies’ room, I stopped by to make sure she didn’t need rescuing. One of the two guys, we’ll call him Mutt, turned to me and asked, “Which of us do you think is the most athletic?” I looked at Mutt, tall, well-built, attractive in a frat-boy sort of way, then at his friend, we’ll call him Jeff, shorter and skinnier, but also cute in geeky sort of way. I immediately knew what the answer was supposed to be.

However, I have never been a fan of doing what I am supposed to do, so I asked, “Of the whole group or just between the two of you?”

Mutt shrugged a shoulder and said, “The whole group.”

I nodded and replied, “Me.” Maybe I also smiled.

Mutt was aghast. “How can you say that? You don’t even know me.”

This confused me, seeing that Mutt didn’t know me, which is what I tried pointing out to him but he just kept insisting that I couldn’t possibly answer that way since I didn’t know him. I then countered, that in all fairness, then I shouldn’t have been asked the question. But since I was, I gave my best answer. I then walked away, wondering what those two guys could have been saying to keep my friend interested.

A few minutes later, Bridie walked by the group, and Mutt grabbed her arm and asked, “Where did your stupid friend go?”

Bridie, admitted later that she said a silent prayer that this guy was talking about me because she knew it would be fun watching me rip him apart, asked, “Who is my stupid friend?”

“The blonde, with all the hair.”

She smiled. “Let me go get her.” Bridie then found me, relayed the events that just transpired and watched as my face turned red, my eyes narrowed and my nostrils flared. At this point, some of our guy friends had joined us, so as I turned to find Mutt, they followed. I would like to think they did this to protect him, but it was probably to keep me from getting hit.

I won’t detail the barrage of insults I threw at this guy. I’ll just say this: I really don’t like being called stupid and I think I made that very clear to him.

Now, I haven’t thought much about Mutt in the last several years, for a while we would run into him and he would yell loudly, “oh look, it’s the smart girl,” but even that hasn’t happened in some time. Still, when I read this bit about the things we allow ourselves to say to ourselves about ourselves, I immediately thought of him. I almost physically assaulted this complete stranger because he called me stupid – once. I call myself a lot worse things several times a day.

But all that stops at 32. If I even so much as think about insulting myself, I have promised to unleash my 23-year-old self, complete with her denim tube dress and Christina Aguilera fro (what? I thought I looked cute).

Of course, I’m not really sure what my 23-year-old self will do other than hurl more insults, but who knows. She’s had nine years to learn some new tricks. Plus, it seemed to work for Mutt – he never said another nasty thing about me again.

Oh wait. Come to think of it, he did call me a bitch. But I took that as a compliment.

A Lesson From My Little Brother

2010-08-10T17:04:00.005-04:00

“So, is it weird for you, having Ivan get married before you?”

It was after midnight. I was standing outside my hotel with a number of my brother’s friends contemplating whether I should continue to drink with them or I should just go up to my room, get out of my uncomfortably tight dress and get into my not so comfy bed. Andy, one of Ivan’s Allentown friends, was sitting on a low wall in front of me, smoking a cigarette. He was the one that just asked me whether or not I was upset about Ivan getting married before me.

Now, natural order sort of dictates that I should have attended by younger brother’s wedding with my husband, and possibly a baby bump. Instead, I showed up solo with a bit of a beer (and wine) gut. So I was prepared for this question because I had been asking myself it a lot.

This is the time of year when I typically do my self-assessment and so it was only natural for me to add this to my list of questions: like, how are you feeling about turning another year older? Am I happy where I am at, both physically and metaphysically? Am I still okay being single? Am I still sure I don’t want kids? Then, when I’m not quite sure about any of the answers, I do something to ensure I do have answers the following year. For instance, this year I joined Match.com. Yeah, I’ll be quitting that real soon.

However, unlike all the other questions I am constantly asking myself, I had an answer for this one.

I nodded down at Andy and said, “You know what? I am.”

The best part is, I meant it.

Most days I am unsure about what I want from my life. Sure, I would love to be a world famous writer, but this new job I have isn't so bad. Maybe it would be okay if I never published a novel, never meet Stewart Bradley, buy a big house in East Falls and have two of his babies. Maybe it would be okay to just stay in South Philly, with my friends and my new apartment, and maybe one day a new puppy. Or maybe that is the worst thing that could possibly happen and in a couple of months I will be bored out of my mind and I can't possibly be happy unless I am a real live writer, touring the country, signing books, and having people as important as Oprah hang on my every word.

But watching my younger brother get married I was suddenly sure of one thing -- I want what he and Alexia have and I’m okay waiting for it. If that means waiting until I am 60 or 70 to get it, that’s fine. If it means I won’t have kids because of it, that's fine too. If it means never getting it because I just never find it – well, I’m pretty sure I’ll survive. Because after seeing how happy in love those two are, I just can’t imagine settling for anything else.

I’m Too Smart for My Own Good or Maybe Now I’ll Listen to My Own Advice

2010-07-07T14:30:00.002-04:00

How many times have I said you should never develop a crush on a bartender? Six? 12? 37? 198? Why not just ask how many numerals are in Pi?

So I was back in NoLibs, hanging out with Salty, Bridie and Bridie’s beau (who I think may not be named so why don’t we just call him Beau). We were not at Hottie Bartender’s bar, but at a Mexican joint, enjoying margaritas (and quite possibly the worst service in the city, though I suppose we weren’t really enjoying that part). Salty commented that she wanted to head over to Hottie’s bar because she has yet to see him, when Bridie softly responded, “Umm, yeah, Tati, Hottie has a girlfriend.”

Of course he does. Big sigh.

There really is no need to go into detail as to how she knows this, we’ll just say she knows for sure and leave it at that. I looked at Salty and said, “See. This is why you don’t fall for bartenders.”

She laughed and said it was okay to have a crush on one, you just can’t expect to make out with him.

The thing is, I kinda wanted to make out with this one.

Great. 19 More Reasons to Hate Single People

2010-06-23T16:14:00.003-04:00

When I saw this, "19 Things You Should Never Say to a Single Person," on Lana’s Facebook page I had a lot of hope for it; I really did. And when it started out talking about all the tired clichés surrounding single women, I cheered (even as the author used several clichés to make her point). But then I started reading from the list and my heart sank. Really? Really we need another article that makes single women sound mean and spiteful and just plain miserable.

The only one (or two rather) I really could get behind as something I could go the rest of my life never hearing was the third one (and No. 17), “So, why are you single?” and “But you’re so pretty, why don’t you have a boyfriend?” Think about what you are asking here, people? You are literally asking the person to list her faults (which must be numerous) because obviously it is not all the losers out there. It is her.

I must admit, however, I also secretly love these questions because they allow me to answer in outrageous ways that leave the questioner dumbfounded. For instance there was a time when a guy asked me “How is it you’re still single?” And I whispered back, “I have a little penis.”

Yes, I get that this guy was probably trying to pay me a compliment, but if he couldn’t just accept his good fortune of meeting me while I was still single and not question it, well, then he is probably not the one for me.

Okay, maybe I really need to start answering this question, “because I’m a bit of a smart ass.”

The rest of these clichés, however, seemed more like a list of polite things people say to each other when you're not quite sure what to say.

Take the first one, for example. Yeah, I too am tired of hearing, “you’ll find him when you least expect it/when you stop looking.” (And actually I combined cliché No. 1 and No. 15). I heard this a lot over the past year when I told people I really didn’t have time in my life for a relationship right now.

Now, I just told you I don’t have time for anyone in my life. So here’s hoping I don’t meet someone because it wouldn’t be the right time (see cliché No. 7) now you could come back with cliché No. 16, but if you know me, you know there is no way I am going to let a guy ruin my life (yeah, I didn’t get that one either). So you come at me with No. 1/No. 15. But here’s the thing, get in real close because I am about to tell you a huge secret, single people are always looking. It’s the way we are programmed. Countless magazines and “news” stories have told us that we will find him when we least expect it so now we expect it all the time, meaning according to you we are doomed to never find him.

So yes, even when I didn’t have time in my life for a boyfriend, I was still looking for one. Not very actively. But still. The only reason I am telling you I don’t have time for someone is because that is my polite, nonpathetic response to you asking me if I am seeing someone. So what did you do? You responded with “oh, you’ll find him when you least expect it” as your polite, noncombative response to me. Sure you could have called bullshit and said, “So what you’re telling me Tati is that if Stewart Bradley walked in right now and told you he loved you and couldn’t live without you, you would tell him it wasn’t a good time?” But you didn’t, because you are my friend. And for that, I am grateful.

Another one that really annoyed me was No. 13 “Wow, I wish I was in your shoes!” and the poster’s comment, “Really?! I’m pretty sure you CAN be single if you actually wanted to be. That there is an attainable dream, so if you aren’t messing with me right now out of pity (which I suspect you are), please go for it!”

First, Poster, please never use a question mark and an exclamation point together again. Both those punctuation marks have suffered enough.

Second, I think you are doing something wrong. I know for a fact that a lot of my married friends and coupled-off friends really wouldn’t mind switching places with me on occasion. Being single can rock at times when being settled down sucks. And vice versa. Yes, it is awful having to get up during a wedding for the bouquet toss (or hearing cliché No. 14 “your turn next” though, that is such a grandma thing to say and how can you hate grandmas). But you know what is worse than enduring the call for all the single ladies to join the bride on the dance floor. Your son screaming “I have to poop, Mommy,” during the service. And all eyes turning to you, judging you, wondering why you didn’t just hire a baby-sitter instead of bringing your child to ruin your friend’s wedding.

And what about when your down and out because some jerk dumped you (You! You should have been the one dumping him he was such a jerk). And your friend offers “He just wasn’t the right guy for you.” Okay, that's not great. But we’ve all been there. She calls him a jerk and before she knows it, you and the jerk are back together and she is worried that you now think she hates your boyfriend. So she has to come up with something to say to make you feel better. Will it make you feel better? No. Neither will hearing No. 7 “It was just bad timing,” but let’s be honest. At that point in time would anything make you feel better?

And if that is the case, then how about, the next time your married friend is complaining about how her perfect husband watches too much sports (No. 19) you don’t jump down her throat about how great she has it, or roll your eyes and say, “the grass is always greener.”

No. 19’s Poster (who I suspect it is the same poster as No. 13) complains that single people in general don’t want to be complained to about “petty relationship stuff.” Are you kidding? Please continue to complain to me about all your petty relationship stuff. That is when I feel best about being single. Well, wait, no, actually I feel best about being single after I buy an expensive pocketbook, knowing no one at home will make me feel bad about my purchase or ask “how much was that?” or “do you really need another black purse?”

But I feel second best when my friends are complaining about how their seemingly perfect boyfriends (or husbands) leave their dirty underwear on the floor of the bathroom. I close my eyes and thank my lucky stars that the only dirty underwear I ever have to pick up is my own. On nights like that, I run around my apartment, blissful that, even when it's messy, it is all my mess.

Of course, none of this compared to how the article ended. Stating that it was still okay to offer “He’s just not that into you” because that’s not condescending. I’m going to forget about the it not being condescending part and just say, I was tired of hearing that even before they made a book out of it, followed by a movie. And no one has ever even said it to me. Because I mean, come on, of course he was into me. There had to be another reason he didn’t call.

Anyway, I linked the article here. (for those of you who are not friends with Lana on Facebook). Feel free to disagree with me. It won’t be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.

To Move or Not To Move

2010-06-22T16:55:00.003-04:00

So, my landlord is trying to raise my rent. Not by much, mind you, but it is the principle of it – because he has raised it every year for the past three years.

And while I love my apartment, there is a lot I don’t love about it. Like the fact that my doorbell has never worked – this has caused a couple of problems, especially on New Year’s Day. The back yard, isn’t so much of a yard as a concrete slab where the air conditioning units noisily hum all day long and cats find shelter from the sun and use it as a litter box. My bathroom literally freezes in the winter and now there is a 500lb dog living above me.

No, not Brandi. Brandi’s dog. That likes to run around the apartment barking when Brandi and whatever guy she brings home come in somewhere between 2:30 and 4 a.m.

And now the rent is going up again and I’m thinking I may want to move out.

The problem is, I don’t have much time to make this decision. And once it is made, it is made. Once I tell my landlord where to shove his lease, I will have to find a place I love or else I will be homeless (or less dramatically, forced to live in a place I like even less than where I am living now).

So why am I telling all of you this? Well, when I’m struggling with a decision, I usually like talking it out – mostly with my mom. When that doesn’t work, I write it all down.

I spoke to my mom this morning. She wasn’t terribly helpful. Or maybe she was. It’s hard to decide. While she definitely drove home all the reasons why I want out, she also started pointing out all the things that suck about moving. By the end of the conversation we were about even on whether or not I should move, but agreed that if my landlord would fix most of the problems with my apartment, staying would be better than moving.

But after three years of pretty much ignoring me I’m not sure he would suddenly be willing to help me out.

Now I’m writing about it. Unfortunately, I’m most of the way through and no closer to a solution. Nor has any of the decent places I have e-mailed contacted me to say that the place is still available and they would be happy to show it to me this evening. Because even that would give me some hope, but because most of the places respond that their apartments are no longer available, I worry that it would make more sense for me to continue to be a doormat for another year.

The thing is, I hate being a doormat.

A Girl That Wears Red Lipstick

2010-06-18T08:44:00.001-04:00

Whenever I find myself not particularly satisfied with my life I like to change my person physically, hoping it inspires changes mentally (or metaphysically). In high school (and college) it was piercing things, which is why, if you look closely you can see up to six (or is it seven) wholes in my left ear lobe.

In college, in addition to piercing things, I experimented with hair color. And when I say “experimented” I mean it. In 1997, the last time the Flyers went to the Stanley Cup, my hair was a short, black bob with orange fringe and stripes. Man, I thought I was so cool.

But now, well, I rarely wear earrings in the holes I have now (plus I think there is a cut-off age for piercing things) and I’m pretty sure my hairstylist (and maybe some of my friends) would kill me if I changed my hair color again. Even if I went for something normal. Besides, I only recently went back to being a blonde.

So, I was just about to get in line at a big cosmetic store, still feeling funky and wondering what I could do to get out of it when I saw a display of brightly colored lipsticks. I turned from the line to the display. There, I put my purchases down and started swiping some of the bold shades onto the back of my hand.

A sales girl approached. “Can I help you?”

I looked over at her and said, “I want to be a girl that wears bright red lipstick.”

She cheered and I knew I was onto something.

I know a lot of you out there have no idea what I look like so this might not seem like a very big deal to you. But for most of my adult life (I consider my college life separate from my adult life) I have subscribed to the less is more school of cosmetology. Sure, occasionally I’ll smoke up my eye (with mostly disastrous results) but day-in, day-out my palette is very neutral. Very beige. Very boring.

The sales girl lead me to a lip stain called lust. It overwhelmed me at first. She smiled and said, it really isn’t as drastic as you think. I put it on, rubbed it in and took a look. I felt like Cameron Diaz.

Now, I don’t expect this lipstick to make me happy or fix whatever it is that is making me feel funky in the first place. But I have noticed that when I am walking around downtown, my head is a little higher, my shoulders are back, I’m sort of smiling and I feel more confident.

And that's a good start.

A Chubby Vegetarian

2010-06-16T08:55:00.002-04:00

Over the past year, while mostly sitting at home finishing my novel, I have packed on a few additional pounds. Something I either didn’t notice or ignored until I tried to get into my old work clothes.

This shocks a lot of my friends (not that they haven’t noticed). I’m a vegetarian (and most days a vegan). So, they wonder how it is possible to gain weight. Well, I’m here to tell you it is.

Because chips are vegetarian. And candy is vegetarian (though most is not vegan). And they make vegan cheese (though most of it isn’t great) and dips and ice cream and cookies and brownies and Citizens Bank park even has vegan hotdogs and it is really easy to think you are eating healthy, but really you’re not.

Okay, so I never thought I was eating healthy when I was devouring a vegan oatmeal and chocolate chip cookie from Whole Foods. Still, I think you get my point.

And maybe that is more my point. Most of us know what we should and shouldn’t eat. Still we eat the crap anyway because it either feels good or because we think it tastes better. And in the past (before this past year) it was easy for me to find the balance between eating junk food and working out. But this past year, while I did workout occasionally, clearly not enough to still fit into my favorite pair of seersucker pants, however.

So, there I was, up one night, tossing and turning, wondering what in the world I was going to wear to work the next day (or more importantly to happy hour the following day). And the more I thought about it, the more obsessed I became. And when I become obsessed with something I find it helps if I start writing things down. But then my journal started to become nothing but me whining about how big I am and discussing what I did and didn’t eat or what I did or didn’t do.

Which brought me to the Internet. No, dear readers, after that long hiatus I don’t intend to bore you with my struggles with losing my unemployment weight (well, not after this post, anyway). Instead, I am going to bore the Twitterverse (that’s right, I used the word Twitterverse).

I’m not sure what I hope to get out of thescalenmyfury other than just a release. Nor am I sure it will be really interesting or entertaining for anyone else out there (but then, so much of Twitter is neither interesting nor entertaining). But who knows, maybe my pathetic and self-indulgent tweets will actually help someone out. Or, maybe Jillian Michaels will see my tweets and stop by Broad Street for an old school ass-kicking.

Lord knows I could use one. Especially if I want to fit into those seersucker pants before the end of the summer.

Uh-uh

2010-06-13T11:36:00.003-04:00

So, while on vacation with my parents two months ago (though it feels so much longer) my mother was reading Jennifer Love Hewitt’s new book, The Day I Shot Cupid. When I saw her pack it, I eyed her suspiciously.

“What?” She defended herself. “I heard it was funny.”

I thought self-help books on dating are targeted towards single women (though, sometimes men, too). So either my mom is planning on getting back out there soon or she purchased this book for me. Her daughter. Who is so hopeless when it comes to dating, she would take advice from Jennifer Love Hewitt, whose only qualification for writing this book is that she has dated a lot. Oh, and she’s famous.

I didn’t argue any of this with my mother. I just silently resolved to finish Norman Mailer’s Executioner’s Song and check my luggage before we come back; less the ol’ girl tried to slip it into my bag “by mistake.”

So fast-forward to a few days later when my mom and I are sitting by the pool. She is appropriately covered with a hat and a light cover-up and sunscreen on all the spots those other two items leave exposed. I am lying next to her in a bikini and SPF 4. She was reading JLove's book. I wanted to read Norman Mailer’s but it was just so heavy, and the sun was so bright, and my iPod kept playing really good songs.

Out of nowhere my mom starts laughing. I open my eyes, expecting to see my father. See, on the first day of vacation my father used a spray-on sunscreen but didn’t rub it in so it looked like someone spray painted his sunburn with white. You couldn’t help but laugh.

But no, no dad. And no one fell climbing into or out of their lounge chair. So I couldn’t understand what my mother was laughing at. And then she did it again. I looked over and saw her smiling down at her book.

I knew this trick. Heck, I invented this trick. During a trip west in college (for crew) CK was sitting behind me on the plane and so I kept cracking up laughing at the book I was reading, knowing that if I did, he would eventually ask me what I was reading and we would fall hopelessly in love, get married and have lots of babies. Eventually CK did lean around my chair and ask me, which is when I saw the flaw in my plan. “Bridget Jones’ Diary: The Edge of Reason.” He raised his eyebrows and returned to his seat. What was I thinking? CK read John Dos Passos for crying-out-loud. He wasn’t going to fall hopelessly in love with a girl that laughed like a hyena to such low-brow literature.

But I digress. Recognizing my mother’s ploy, I smiled, lowered my head back onto my chair and turned up my iPod. I could still hear her laugh a couple more times, but I didn’t react. I guess she grew tired of my ignoring her, because she smacked the back of my arm with her hand. I took out one of my ear buds and lifted my head. She was handing me the book, pointing at a paragraph.

I rolled my eyes, but I was also wearing sunglasses so she didn’t see. I grabbed the book and read what Miss. Hewitt had to say. This passage was on text messaging and how some guys will only text a girl and that these texts can go on (and on) and you can feel like you have a boyfriend, but you actually never see him. Just his name when it pops on your phone alerting you to a text message. Miss. Hewitt goes on that, sure this is cute and exciting and fun at first, but this is not a relationship and that you (you out there!) deserve better and he will realize the error of his ways, but of course by then it will be too late.

I shrugged my shoulders. “So?”

I’m not sure what my mom was expecting but it wasn’t that. “Well, is that true?”

Now I was really starting to get concerned. My mom doesn’t text. She doesn’t even carry her cell phone (it just stays in her car). So why should she care if modern technology (while making us always available) is making it harder to actually connect with anyone?

“Sure.” I nod. “It’s one of the reasons I’m not a fan of online dating. You meet,” you bet your sweet patootie I used air quotes around the word meet, “these guys and you think, huh, there is some potential here. But then all you do is IM or e-mail and then a month goes by and you realize you have a crush on a guy that you've never met.”

“Do you sext?”

Now where in the world did she learn that word? “Umm, yeah, I guess. If you’re like 16.”

“Huh.” She went back to reading her book and I started thinking of all my arguments for why my mom shouldn’t leave my father.

Fortunately, it never came to that. The next day my mom, obviously defeated, handed me the book and said, “you should read this. It’s funny. And it will take you less than a day.”

And so I did.

Well, she was half right; it only took me a day to read. And besides the workout plan (yes, you read correctly, the book comes complete with a JLove approved workout) and the odd aside about the high school girls that were prohibited from wearing thongs to their prom (I have no idea where that came from either) Jennifer Love Hewitt wrote nothing me and my girlfriends hadn’t already said to each other a thousands times.

Okay, there was one thing. But I am almost too embarrassed to even type it. JLove suggests --- oh my god I don’t think I can write it --- she, umm, suggests bedazzling your va-jay-jay.

I’ll give you a moment to let that sit.

In addition to all her other cutesy tips about how to love yourself more (wear a tiara, sleep naked) and prepare for a date (spray tan, buy cute pajamas) she also recommends BEDAZZLING YOUR GIRL BITS! Of course she stressed it is not for “him” but for “you.” That you’ll never feel cuter or sexier than when your bits are blingin’.

I was going to Google search this, to see what all is involved in this process but I couldn’t have that sitting in my Google search history. Not to mention I can only imagine the resulting Google ads I would start getting. Instead, I'm just going to sit here with my un-sparkly private parts and hope like hell this is just some stupid L.A. trend that doesn’t catch on everywhere else.

About A Bartender

2010-06-10T08:48:00.002-04:00

I am a terrible flirt. And by “terrible flirt” I don’t mean it the way old, southern ladies exclaim, “Oh, Mr. Jones, you terrible flirt you.” But, I mean, I’m awful at it. Unless I’ve had a couple of drinks in which case I’m worse.

By way of example, I was once sitting next to a very tall, very cute (though maybe time has made him taller and cuter) guy. That night I was wearing a large amber pendant and the guy complimented the piece. I thanked him. He said he wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at it. I offered to take it off for him. I would like to say my cool response was due to the lameness of his line, but it wasn’t. I didn’t know it was a line. All my friends in the room collectively slapped their foreheads at my incompetence and the guy quickly called it a night.

And mind you that was after a couple of drinks so just imagine what I am like when I’m cold sober.

Oh, wait, you don’t have to imagine, I have another example. I was once walking Bridie’s dog when Hot-Skateboarding-Teacher was out walking his dog. Trevor (Bridie’s dog) and I were almost home, when HST’s dog stopped, across the street, and stared at Trever (T is a very cute dog). HST called across the street, “I think our dogs want to be friends.” I pulled on Trevor’s leash, quietly begging him to stop and make friends with this dog. However, Trevor wasn’t having it and continued to pull me towards home.

I looked at HST and asked, “is your dog female?”

He responded in the affirmative to which I replied, “Yeah, my dog’s gay.”

Bridie never gets tired of laughing at that story.

When I met the hot bartender, who I still haven’t nicknamed so feel free to comment with suggestions, I wasn’t sober. I was out with the Duchess, JD and Pepper. We had met up earlier for the Flyers game and were now headed to Northern Liberties to grab something to eat and watch the Phillies game. All day, the Duchess and Pepper had been checking out guys as potential mates for me. A game I appreciate but tire of quickly. So when we sat down at the bar, they immediately assessed the situation and decided the only suitable candidate was behind the bar.

Oddly enough their first candidate was the same one Salty had for me on Valentine’s Day of this year when we found ourselves at this same bar. I turned to them and said, “No. For two reasons, one he is a bartender. Two, he’s wearing a wedding ring.”

Well, he was on Valentine’s Day but it wasn’t there tonight. Still, I nixed it, arguing he probably took it off to get better tips. They relented, but I think that was because they were hungry.

After some food and a couple of drinks later, they broached the topic again, this time pointing to the other bartender. I said he was too short, which was met with a series of guffaws. And maybe because I was tired of saying no to them. Or maybe because they were right, the only good looking guys were behind the bar. Or maybe it was as simple as my desire to make-out with someone, I admitted that I did think the third bartender was cute.

This is where it all started to go downhill. First, no one else from our group was allowed to order our drinks but me. And I was only allowed to order them from him. Now, normally this would be okay, but we weren’t sitting at his end of the bar. So short bartender number two kept asking me what I wanted and I kept getting yelled at for flirting with the wrong one. Finally, I stopped ordering from the wrong one and ordered from the right one, but then I was accused of being too curt. In between all of this, I turned from the bar to readjust my cleavage (hoping that would catch his eye) only to turn back to the bar and see Mr. Valentine’s Day waiting to see if he could get me anything.

Yeah, he totally caught me.

So, after all of this, the drink orders, the embarrassment, the yelling and finally my resignation to just give up and watch the game, we decided it was time to leave. As we were leaving, the hot bartender smiled and said, “Are you taking off?”

I smiled back and from out of nowhere responded, “Yeah, why, you want my number?”

More unbelievably he responded, “Actually,” with a shrug of his shoulder.

Now, in addition to all my other charming qualities, I sometimes can’t stop talking. It’s why I like writing. Writing I can put everything down on a page and go back and delete what I wish I had never written. You probably think this post is too long, but believe me, it was a lot longer. Fearful that this was about to be the case, I shut up. I refused to say another word.

Meanwhile the Duchess, still wide-eyed at my bravado, sprung into action, searching for a pen and a napkin, screaming, "what is her number?"

I bit my lip down and stared up at the hot bartender. Shaking my head.

He looked out at me and said, “Don’t make this weird.”

I swallowed and thought about responding, “oh, we blew past weird about thirty seconds ago,” but worried about what else would come out. Instead I grabbed the Duchess’s arm and pleaded with her to leave.

It should come as no surprise to any of you that he hasn’t called. Though the Duchess is convinced that it is because he never actually got my number (and that Bartender Number Two took it and threw it away).

A New Theory is Born

2010-06-08T08:54:00.002-04:00

A while back, after my sixth or seventh friend went crazy immediately following getting engaged, I began to wonder if there wasn’t some sort of physiological reaction your body has to putting a ring on that finger that causes this behavior. I understand that the reason for wearing a ring on this finger comes from the myth that a vein runs from this finger directly to the heart (any cardiologists out there want to confirm that this is in fact a myth?). Well, my theory is that the vein doesn’t travel to the heart, but the brain, and that restricting this vein (the way a big diamond ring might) can lead to craziness (so I guess it would have to lead to a particular section of the brain, so neurologists out there feel free to chime in as well).

And, since I can’t say my friends remained crazy, after a while your body must self regulate and that portion of your brain can return to normal functioning with less blood flow, much the same way you body will eventually return to normal functioning after you give up caffeine.

I’m also starting to wonder if prolonged restriction of this vein doesn’t affect men as well, most notably, the lack of blood flow to this section of their brain makes them insanely attracted to me.

I was at the FOP Survivor’s Benefit this past weekend with the Duchess and her new beau, JD. You know (or should) that I have a thing for cops, so I look forward to this event every year and was convinced that this was the year I would be officially inducted in the Secret Sisterhood of Badge Bunnies.

So there we were, the three of us, searching the crowd of young, hot cops for the perfect one for me (read: taller than me in my five inch wedges) when a gentleman with a lot of potential found me.

He was tall and bigger, which I prefer. He had a full head of hair and really nice teeth. Most importantly, he thought (or so he said) I was pretty. There was only one, little, tiny problem with the guy. He was wearing a wedding ring.

Now, this is not the first time a married man hit on me – do you really think I would formulate an entire theory based on one isolated incident? Most times, I typically nod, smile, participate in some banter (maybe) and then I politely take my leave. But maybe because I had more than my fair share of Miller Lites, or maybe because the novel I am working on at the moment’s heroine only sleeps with married men, I couldn’t let it pass. This time, after he told me how I am the prettiest girl he has ever seen, I smiled and said, “I wonder what your wife would say about that,” and pointed to his ring.

He replied that he’s not married.

I asked, “Engaged?”

He responded (and no, I'm not making this up, because let’s be honest, I couldn’t). “Yeah, but you’re going to change my mind.”

Umm, no I wasn’t.

After a couple more minutes of him telling me how pretty I was and how young I looked, the Duchess leaned over and said, “Do you want to talk to this guy?”

I shook my head and said, “he’s married.”

Then, while he was distracted, telling his buddy he just needed a couple of minutes, the Duchess switched spots with me and we both smiled up at him as his attention turned back to us.

He was disappointed and didn’t understand why I didn’t want to talk to him. I was through being coy and blurted out, “your engaged, dude.” (Yes, sometimes when I’m drinking, especially when I’m drinking Miller Lite, I use words like dude. Don’t judge me.) He lifted his hand so I could get a better look at the ring. It was made up of tiny little skulls. I looked back up at him.

“So, what is she goth?”

“I’m not engaged.” He exclaimed.

“Then why don’t you wear the ring on your other hand?”

“I can’t.”

And I couldn’t help it. “Why because your fiancé would get mad?”

JD then drew me and Felicia into a conversation and my gentleman suitor left, mumbling that I couldn’t possibly be more than 22 years old.

As JD and Felicia tried to figure out what just happened, and most notably if that guy was in fact my type, I wondered if I missed something. Maybe he didn’t have a ring finger on his right hand (I didn’t notice). Maybe he can’t wear a ring on that finger because it’s his trigger finger (though that would be weird). But in the end, JD confirmed that every guy knows what a ring on that finger means, and any guy looking to meet someone wouldn’t wear a ring on that hand. They would do what married men do and wear it on the other hand.

I plan on testing this theory in the coming weeks. No, I’m not going to go around only hitting on married men. Instead, I think I am going to go back to hot bartender and apply pressure to the base of his ring finger. See how long it takes him to want me.

Working 9 to 5 Ain’t No Way To Make A Living

2010-06-04T08:35:00.002-04:00

I have returned to the land of the clock-watchers. At least temporarily.

The whole weekend leading up to my first day at the new (real) office I was freaking out quite a bit. See, for more than a year most days the only words I had to utter were, “venti chai latte please." Or, after I realized all those venti chia lattes might be the reason I was gaining so much weight, “large coffee, just black please.” Or, when I gave up coffee completely, “a cup of peppermint tea, for here please.”

My point is, it didn’t take a whole lot of verbal skills on my part. Then, when I did have to talk, I found myself unable to articulate my thoughts. Which was weird, since I was still having thoughts when I was all by myself. I was having lots of thoughts. Some of these thoughts I was even putting to paper but when I tried to shoot from the hip and just express my thoughts it was all, “umm,” “uh,” “well,” “it’s like” and of course “you know what I’m saying.”

In college there was a girl that sat in front of me in some required introduction to literature course. She always raised her hand and when she was called on, her response was something akin to, “Well, it’s like…there was this guy…but umm…well, he was like…you know what I’m saying?”

It took all the strength I had to not hit her in the back of the head and scream, “No. Because you haven’t said anything.”

Now, oh so many years later, I found myself uttering those very same words. Words that would not fly at my new job in communications. Because it is presumed when you take a communications position, you can actually communicate. A point I made to Bridie the other day adding, “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Then looked up at her and asked, “Wait, is that irony. I don’t think it is.”

I had even lost my ability to define irony.

Not wanting to make a complete ass of myself (or get fired on my first day) I started practicing communicating, not allowing myself to utter the phrases, “You know what I’m saying?” or, “You know what I mean?”

I even started talking (out loud) to myself. That made for some interesting looks while walking down the street. I practiced using my words all weekend, well, that is until I lost my ability to communicate in front a particularly adorable bartender. But that is a story for another time.

By Tuesday morning I was feeling very confident in my ability to string several sentences of conversation together. I even impressed myself during the tour of the new office, stopping to ask Big Boss about his weekend and answering Little Boss’s questions about my weekend without so much as an “umm.”

But there are other things about working in an office that I had forgotten for which I wasn’t quite prepared.

For instance, when my crazy heavy hair started to annoy me in the middle of the afternoon yesterday, I couldn’t just walk to my bathroom and pull my hair up into a sloppy bun on the top of my head. Speaking of bathrooms, I have a very tiny bladder and a water addiction. This leads to a lot of bathroom breaks, but now every time I have the urge, I have to hold it for as long as possible, less my co-workers think I'm a freak.

Oh, and my co-workers. They expect me to know stuff. And not just how to speak and write eloquently but other things. One yelled out the question, “What is the abbreviation for Missouri?” I responded, “MO.” But I wasn’t sure. Not like 100 percent positive. She didn’t care. I answered and so that must be the answer. Not like at home when Alec Trebek asks a question and I respond and then the person on the TV responds with the correct answer (or actually, in this case, question). Thank god for Mrs. Davis’s fifth grade geography class or I may have gotten the state abbreviation question wrong.

And this doesn’t include the whole process of getting ready in the morning (do you have any idea how long it takes to blow dry 70 pounds of hair) or taking the subway into work (I forgot how germy it is down there). Key cards to get into the building and running into the turnstile because you didn’t realize there was a delay in the time you swipe your card and the time the lock releases. Elevator rides where I freak out about more germs the lack of air, the sweat running down my back and the possibility of the car getting stuck. Having to bring your lunch or go out, not just stand in front of your fridge, staring into it, willing something yummy and delicious to magically appear. And where is the TV? And what time is naptime?

Still, I think after only two days I’m adjusting quite nicely. Really the hardest part has been the not being able to check Facebook every 15 minutes. But, actually, that might be a good thing.

I'm Back

2010-05-11T13:30:00.003-04:00

So you may have noticed it has been awhile. I wish I could tell you I was busy traveling the world or engaged in an illicit affair with a much younger man. Sadly neither were the case. Instead, I have been spending most of my time feeling sorry for myself. That is when I am not busy looking for a job.

I went to high school with this guy we’ll call Mike -- not because that is necessarily his name but because 33 percent of my high school’s population was named Mike. Ever since Mike could say hike-hike he wanted to be a professional (American) football player. And this wasn’t a wholly unrealistic dream for Mike because Mike was quite good. He went to college on a full football scholarship and was even drafted to the NFL.

But then he was traded to another team that then cut him before his first professional game.

That didn’t stop Mike from trying out for another team the following year. And the year after that. And the year after that.

Sometime before Mike turned 30 he decided to hang up his cleats, settle down, marry a girl he knew in high school and begin his life after football. I can’t tell you what Mike is doing now or if he is happy. All I can tell you is I have been thinking a lot about Mike lately as I pursue my own dream, at what seems at the moment, against all odds.

Sure, querying editors and getting back rejection letters may not be as grueling as football camp. But it does hurt. And with anything in my life that hurts -- to push through, I need to see an end.

The first time I ran a marathon, completely untrained and having only quit smoking a few days before, I managed to finish, not because I am a machine as some of my friends have suggested, but because I could push through the pain knowing with every step I was that much closer to a finish line. That, and I had to prove something to Lana who was worried I would die of kidney failure somewhere in Fairmount Park.

When I got my tattoo, it hurt, but I just bit my lip, closed my eyes tight and continued to sit perfectly still knowing that it would all be over soon and soon, I would have something really cool to show for it. And believe me, it wasn’t easy. Especially since the tattoo artist was playing Guns n Roses and every bone in my body wanted to get up and dance.

But with this project, there is no end. I mean, there is an obvious, great ending. I find an agent and (s)he finds me a publisher, I go on a book tour where I learn that the Times declares my first novel could single-handedly save the failing book industry and everyone in America loves it.

And that is what I was thinking about when I turned to my book shelf to find other author’s whose agents might be interested in me. No, not the awesome ending, but the never-ending. As I stared blankly at those same spines, I honestly wondered if I shouldn’t but a time limit on my dream. Mike had 30. Of course it’s too late for me to use that one. So, what? Maybe 32? 33? 35?

Then my eyes caught the unbroken spine of Hugh Rosen’s first novel SILENT BATTLEFIELD. Mr. Rosen had given me a copy of his book after I interviewed him for a piece in the Chestnut Hill Local. He had just completed his MFA at Temple University and SILENT BATTLEFIELD was his final project.

Mr. Rosen was well into his 80s when I sat down to talk to him in his little apartment.

I wanted to smack myself for how stupid I had been (but instead, I drank copious amounts of red wine knowing my hangover from that would be much worse than anything else I could inflict on myself).

After all, unlike my ovaries, my dream doesn’t have an expiration date. And I know, if Mike physically could (without being laughed at the way I would be laughed at if I showed up at Bleu Martini or Glam) he would be at Eagle’s training camp again this summer giving it another go.

So I’m back, until the next mini-mental breakdown.

The Perfect Day

2010-04-16T18:18:00.003-04:00

Rarely have I experienced absolute perfection in my life, but it happened to me today.

We took a parasailing trip today. There I was on a boat in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. I had already taken my turn, so my nausea had passed. It was sunny, warm, but not hot, and the boat skipped along the gentle sea. I sat at the bow, my back to water, and looked at group I took the trip with -- people from my mom’s work. They were all smiling, laughing, taking pictures and planning the rest of their days.

It could have been a scene from a J.Crew catalog -- except none of our models were starving. Just then, Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours” (a personal favorite) came on the boat’s stereo and the captain turned it up just a bit.

There it was -- perfection. Even my outfit felt right for the occasion. It was as if some cosmic Martin Scorsese had planned it all. I relaxed back into the sea breeze and tried to just enjoy it, because I knew it wouldn’t last forever.

And, of course, it didn’t. The song ended, the trip ended and back in the hotel room, as I logged onto my computer to upload my pictures from the day, there it was, sitting in my inbox -- the last of my grad school rejection letters.

I doubt even Marty could have planned it so perfectly.

Tales from the Caribbean Islands

2010-04-14T20:58:00.004-04:00

I was standing in front of a mirror this week, in a bikini, thinking to myself, man, if only I were 10 pounds thinner, I would look awesome in this bikini.

And then I laughed. Because last year, at about this time, I was 10 pounds thinner and no, I didn’t think I looked awesome in a bikini. Actually I thought pretty much the same thing -- if only I were 10 pounds thinner. I started to wonder -- how much of my life have I spent wishing I was thinner?

I’m in Aruba with my folks -- I know my life is so hard -- it is a trip they take almost every year with a group of people with whom my mother works. In this group of 30 or so people, my parents are on the younger side of the median age. I didn't mind being the youngest person on the trip, however, because I love old people.

I remember once, in bed with Wharton, we were talking about an assignment I had to interview this 80-something-year-old man that just finished a novel. I remarked that I was really looking forward to meeting him because I love old people. Wharton rolled his eyes and said, “yeah, right.”

But, I actually meant it. I really do like old people. Old people, and perhaps that is not the nicest way to label them but I’m sticking with it, have a really grounded sense of reality. They have lived through so much. They know what is important and what doesn’t matter.

Not to mention they have the greatest stories.

So, after a couple of minutes staring at all my least favorite parts, I pulled on my cover-up, turned off the lights, grabbed by bag and headed for the pool. On my way, I stopped at the float/fresh towels hut. See, it was hot as balls already, though, because I was in paradise there was a warm, gentle breeze, so I decided instead of frying myself on a lounge chair, I would bake while floating in the pool.

I set up a base camp and breathed a huge sigh of relief that the pool was blessedly free of children. In fact, it was completely empty. I looked around at all the other sun bathers as I slowly took off my white linen sweater and picked up my float.

I laid on top of the water, with my eyes clothes, repeating my mantra, “tan fat is cuter than pale fat” when two old biddies that were sitting on nearby chaises started talking. “Oh, doesn’t that look refreshing,” said Biddy One.

“Oh, that’s Natasha’s daughter,” replied Biddy Two.

Biddy One then sat up and looked closer. “Oh, you know, you’re right. She looks just like her mother.”

“You should go get a float and join her,” offered Biddy Two.

Biddy One replied, “Oh yeah right. Maybe if I had a body like hers I wouldn’t mind showing it off like that. But I think I’ll stay right here.”

I had to smile. Not just because of what she said, but because I knew she was right. Well, sort of. I knew that when I'm her age, I will look back to this vacation and wish I still had this body that was so disgusting to me earlier that morning. I relaxed into my float and stopped comparing myself to all the other woman that were hanging around.

A couple of hours later I even felt good enough to walk to the bar without my cover-up. Of course that could have been the three pina coladas I had.

Where Did I Put that Push-Up Sports Bra?

2010-04-06T10:32:00.002-04:00

Ladies, have you ever noticed how many catcalls you receive when you are working out? Well, I have. I will be out for a run, sweaty and gross, no make-up, hair pulled into a bushy ponytail (that gets bushier by the minute because of all the sweating I am doing) wearing running pants or shorts and a sports bra that makes me flatter than I naturally am and all these guys will be giving me double takes or slowing their cars down to smile at me.

All the attention makes me worry that there is a hole in my pants or I have sweat so much one can now see through my top because it never occurs to me that I look good -- though maybe it should.

See, Theresa and I were out enjoying a couple of adult beverages on an especially lovely afternoon recently when two girls walked in wearing running shorts, tank tops with built-in sports bras, their hair pulled back into ponytails and running shoes. Now, they were also wearing make-up and jewelry and carrying pocketbooks so it was clear to Theresa and I that they didn’t just come from a workout, but that didn’t matter to the men in the bar. These two girls in workout clothes were the female equivalent of a tall man sitting in the park reading poetry with a puppy at his feet.

Now Theresa and I aren’t ugly. Truth be told, Theresa is hot and I’m at least a six, but as we sat there not a single guy approached us. These two girls, sans their Nike shorts, were nothing special, but guys were tripping over themselves to talk to the two of them.

This got me thinking. Was this just a matter of having an opening or was there something bigger going on here? Are men wired in some weird way to pant heavily whenever they see sweat-wicking fabric in neon shades of pink? Is there some magical, hypnotic quality to the ponytail? And if this is the case, why do I spend so much time getting ready to go out and torture myself wearing uncomfortable, strappy wedges and a dress that is just a shade too tight, when I could be wearing yoga pants and sneakers?

I mean, I know Clinton and Stacy would never approve, but landing a boyfriend (or even a date) would make my mom and dad (not to mention my friends) very happy.

You Can Only Be After One Thing, Old Man

2010-04-01T10:13:00.002-04:00

There has been a lot of discussion about online dating in my circle of friends recently. And one of the questions that came up was whether or not to put your age on your dating profile. While one would never want to lie about one’s age, there is a certain stigma attached to women of a certain age. Specifically, that women in their late 30s are desperately looking to get married as soon as possible so that they can have kids before it’s too late.

Or, as one drunk guy friend of ours slurred so eloquently, women over the age of 35 are “aging out of the system.”

Being under 35 I have noticed a different sort of phenomenon. A lot of much older, single, never married with no kids (if you are to believe their profiles) have been poking and winking and sending me ice breakers even though my profile clearly states I am looking for someone closer to my own age.

At first, I just thought this was another case of older men thinking they are much hotter than they really are and looking for someone much younger than them to play into that delusion. But then I started to really think about it and focus on those words: Single. Never married. No kids.

Huh. Could it be we are seeing a whole crop of male grasshoppers that sang and played all summer and are now scrambling for a home to keep them warm and safe for the long cold winter?

Stay with me here. These guys, some of whom were closer in age to my dad than there were to me, are sending me e-mails, trying to sell themselves as young and fit and fun, but really how much can we possibly have in common when there is close to a 20 year age difference? Why aren’t they trying to find someone closer to their own age that they might have more in common with? Could it be because they have decided that 50 is a good age to settle down and have kids, but unfortunately women their own age can’t give that to them and so they must seek the company of younger women -- in some cases, much younger women?

I was out with Theresa and Marie, both of whom wanted to know how my online dating life was going. I told them about these old guys and added, “Here’s the thing. I’m not sure I want kids. But if I did, I wouldn’t want to have them with a much older man.”

Is that terrible of me to say? Maybe. But I’m just trying to be practical. If I go out with a guy that is 50, today, by the time we have a kid, he’ll be what? 52? 55? Which means, by the time our kid is graduating from high school my husband would be in his 70s.

Not to mention the whole sexual aspect of it. Let’s pretend he is a really hot 50-something (and yes, there are some of you out there). All the erectile dysfunction ads on TV lead me to believe there is a good chance he might not be able to perform without a little help. And what if he has a heart attack while we are, you know, doing it? My mom knows a lot of doctors and nurses in the area and they know me -- not to mention the ones I dated at one time or another. How embarrassing would it be to walk in an emergency room and see Dr. Bill, a guy that I thought I could love my whole life? What would I say? "Oh, hey, Dr. Bill. Yeah, that's my boyfriend. Yeah, he's a lot older. Oh, no, he's not supporting me and before you ask, no he didn't pay for my breasts to be augmented -- it's the new bra from Victoria's Secret. Oh, right, well, we were doing it and he had a heart attack and (reading from the back of the box) I'm suppose to advise you not to use nitroglycerin because he took a little blue pill just before we got to making the beast with two backs.

Yes, this is how my brain works and, yeah, okay, maybe this is why I am still single. But on a going forward basis, I will now assume when a guy, over a certain age, who has never been married tries to pick me up that he is desperate to get married and have kids because he is aging out of the system.

Stalking Stewart Bradley

2010-03-22T12:21:00.002-04:00

I’m thinking about becoming a stalker. Hear me out.

You all know I have been really bored since finishing the novel. And once my synopsis is written it really will be nothing more than a waiting game. I can’t really do much because doing things costs money and so I have been trying to come up with something to do with all my free time.

So, I was sitting in the coffee shop, working on a release when I was alerted to a new Tweet. I Apple+tabbed over and lo and behold it was from Stewart Bradley asking which is better -- fruit flavored candy or chocolate. I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed as I returned to my release. I was hoping for more of a diversion than that. But then I started to think about answering him.

Now, because I have a touch of crazy in my family I really had to pause and think about this in ways most people wouldn’t. Most people would giggle (if they were a girl like me) and try to come up with something pithy or clever or sexy to say in response. Not me. I had to sit there and ask myself, “What would Bridie say?” And by “say” I don’t mean what would she say in response to Stewart, but what would she say to me when I told her this story.

Would she laugh? Would she ask me what the hell I was doing on Twitter? Would she tilt her head, grimace and ask, “Really?”

I shrugged my shoulder and decided she would probably ask, “Who is Stewart Bradley?” and decided it was okay to respond to him. For the record, my response was neither pithy or clever or sexy. Because as I responded a stroke of brilliance hit me.

I could start stalking Stewart Bradley.

I mean, how hard could it be? I start on Twitter -- responding every time he posts. Following everyone he follows and everyone that follows him. Then I could start hanging out in the “clubs” in Old City -- a friend told me that is where the Eagles' players like to hang out. Then, because I will probably have to move back to Allentown when my unemployment runs out (and I doubt stalking would pay the bills at first), I can hang out at the Lehigh practice field during training camp, wearing a number 55 bikini.

And here where the brilliant part comes in -- as I get better and better at stalking, you know once Stewart has blocked me on Twitter and filed for a restraining order against me, the world will be my oyster. I'll be offered my own reality show on E!, followed by a clothing line from a discount chain and then, finally, my very own book deal.

Sure it isn’t the most direct or obvious route to getting published, but I like to think outside the box. Besides, it is much more interesting than waiting by my mailbox for rejection letters.

It's War

2010-03-19T12:13:00.004-04:00

My Mailbox is Taunting Me.

And not in a How-I-Got-Into-College sort of way. There aren't two men living inside, giving me crazy math problems every time I open it. Crazy math problems I can handle -- give me a graphing calculator and the Pythagorean theorem and there isn’t a velocity problem I can’t solve. But this -- this is just torture.

It started the other day. Now, typically my mailman comes between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m. so I try to distract myself in the morning so I don’t go nuts. Sometimes that means running all my errands or obsessively cleaning my house or sitting in the coffee shop working.

Most days, however, it means simply sleeping until 10 a.m. and then watching TV until I hear the front door open and the rattle of the mailboxes being filled.

But on this day, I had gotten up early, ran errands and then went to the coffee shop. I opened my front door, casually turned to my mailbox, opened it and spied a thick envelop sitting all by itself.

“Oh, would you look at that. A thick envelop. That has to be good news.” My mailbox cooed.

I smiled, gingerly lifted the envelop and turned it over. Would today really be the day I got to send a mass text message to my friends and family letting them know my suffering was over.

Nope. It was from the IRS. For the record, a thick envelop from the IRS is never good news.

My mailbox laughed.

I scowled.

The next day was one of those days that I just stayed in bed -- which is understandable considering the events of the day before and all the alcohol I drank the previous night. I heard the call of the mailbox from my bedroom which was the only reason I got out of bed.

Two magazines -- InStyle and Women’s Health. As I was shutting the door my mailbox cackled, “I dog-eared that ‘Lose Belly Fat Now” article for you.” Later, when I finally had the energy to page through the magazines, I found an envelop tucked into the spine of my InStyle. Of course the back was facing me giving me hope that I was about to learn my fate from another school, but no, it was just a bill. I shook my fist in the general direction of my mailbox. After all, who else could be responsible for this.

The next day brought more bills.

The following day, as I put my key into my box, it smiled. “There’s an envelop in here from Cornell.”

As I whipped it open, it laughed, “Oh, but it’s a thin one.”

I slammed him shut and ran back into my apartment. There is no way I would let my mailbox see me cry.

Yesterday, I had been running errands all morning and was feeling pretty good about myself in general as I approached my nemesis.

“I’m pretty full, today,” it mocked.

I opened the door and started flipping through all the items. No letters from any schools, but a bunch of catalogs.

“Nothing good?”

I glared up at it.

“What about the J.Crew catalog? You love J.Crew.”

I closed the door.

“Oh, right. You don’t have a job, so you can’t buy anything.” It laughed.

I started to walk away.

“And you have a tax bill,” it laughed harder.

“Well then you don’t want to look at the last page of the Macy’s Super Shoe Spectacular circular.” It was laughing so hard tears were coming down the front of it. I could still hear it laughing at me in my kitchen where I threw the catalogs into the recycling bin.

Yesterday, however, it went too far.

I was sitting at my computer in the kitchen (my makeshift office since it started raining in my real office the other day and I haven’t moved everything back in place yet) when I heard the unmistakable sounds of the mailman. I waited my requisite 15 second after listening to the front door close, got up, grabbed my keys and went to face off with the evil in the vestibule.

“Oh, hey, Tati. How are you?”

“I’m good, Mailbox. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain.”

I should have known something was afoot. I opened it and it was completely empty. My face fell.

“What’s the matter?”

I bit my lip.

“Oh, were you expecting the new W with Jen and Gerry? I know. I was disappointed too when it didn’t show up today.”

I looked up at the mailbox.

“Oh. Oh. You were expecting a check.”

I swallowed hard. “Ne. Well, yes, but that’s not it.”

“Right. You still haven’t heard from all those schools yet. Well, maybe tomorrow.”

I narrowed my eyes, closed the door and walked back to my computer.

Half an hour later the front door opened again, the mailbox jostled again and then the front door opened and closed -- again.

I stood up and walked to the front door. “Mailbox? Who was that?”

“The mailman.”

I could almost hear the laughter in its voice.

“Then who was that earlier?”

“Your neighbor.”

I let out a deep breath, grabbed my keys and stomped to the foyer. Great, I thought, my mailbox recruited Mutt and Jeff (my downstairs neighbors) to assist in its terror plot. I swung the door open and saw a lonely piece of paperboard.

“Oh, what, another piece junk mail? I’m so sorry.” It said in a completely insincere tone.

I turned the announcement over. “No, actually,” I looked up. “It’s a coupon from For Eyes.” I showed my mailbox the notice. “35 percent off contacts. This rocks. Thanks, Mailbox.” I grinned and closed the door.

I could see steam coming out from its top.

A small victory, mind you, but right now I will take whatever I can get.

Are Guys Pigs Or Are Some Girls Asking For It?

2010-03-15T12:59:00.003-04:00

Before I begin, let me just state for the record that by, “asking for it,” I’m not talking about rape. I am a very firm believer that no matter what a woman is wearing, she is never asking for a man to force himself on her.

That being said, I am beginning to wonder that maybe, sometimes, women are asking to be ogled, even treated like pieces of meat.

It was Friday at 5:00 p.m. on the corner of 18th and Market Streets. For those of you that don’t live in Philadelphia, it was cloudy, rainy, windy and approximately 40 degrees. I was hiding in a corner of a building, doing my best to protect myself from the wind, sipping a cup of hot tea I just picked up at the Fourbucks, when a woman turned the corner and brushed by me.

In her heels she was about an inch or so taller than me, so 5’10” (I was slouching). She was wearing a tank dress that was so short, it barely covered her ass. It was so short (and tight) that as she walked up 18th Street she was holding down the hem so it wouldn’t inch up. If it did inch up, she would have been committing a crime. But that wasn’t even the worst part. She was a triple-D or a double-E (when they get that big it is hard for me to tell) and the scoop in the front was doing nothing to hold those girls in place. In fact, really the only thing the dress was doing was covering her nipples. I wish I could tell you what her face looked like, but as I explained to Salty later, I couldn’t see past her boobs.

As I stood there, aghast, I noticed I wasn’t the only one. Women were fighting their umbrellas against the wind to stop and stare. Men were hitting each other in the arms to make sure they saw what they were seeing. I turned away, shaking my head and smiling, only to see one guy stopped, almost paralyzed, staring, hoping that she would lose her grip on her hem and he would catch a glimpse of more of her. Another man stopped and asked, “Did you catch that?” He nodded, “I’m still catching it.” Then they both watched her walk into the wind tunnel.

But not before the second guy said, “You know that girl over there totally knows what you are doing.” That girl over there, was me.

The first guy shook his head and said, “I don’t care.”

And thus, the internal struggle begins. The feminist side of me wanted to scream -- she’s not a piece of meat you pig and defend this stranger's right to wear whatever she felt like without be objectified. But then the pragmatist in me stepped in and said, “Tati, let’s be real here.” After all, she wasn’t wearing that outfit for comfort. It was freezing and the skirt was so short and tight she had to hold it in place -- from experience I know that that isn’t comfortable.

So she was looking for attention. And there is nothing wrong with that. But then one can’t get upset when men stop and gawk as you walk down the street. See, it’s a lot like planting flowers in your backyard. Yes, they are pretty and smell nice and make it so much lovelier out there when you are enjoying your morning coffee. Sadly, though they also bring bees. You have to take the good with the bad.

Of course, in this instance, she could have avoided all the onlookers had she simply put on a coat. She would have also prevented that cold I am sure she caught walking around like that in the cold, wet weather. But I’m not her mother.

Dispatches from The Online Dating World

2010-03-12T15:09:00.003-05:00

For purposes of full disclosure, I still haven’t officially signed up for the online dating service. I just can’t. I know people have had success, but the more bozos without photos that send me icebreakers saying if I e-mailed them they would definitely respond, the more I think the membership fee would be better spent belly-up at a bar.

But I do think I ascertained another bit of advice for you out there fighting the good fight. I hypothesize that the more eager a suitor is to be in contact the less pure his intentions. I had one guy send me his phone number as an ice breaker -- saying I should hit him up because we could have lots of fun.

Interesting. My profile is exactly two sentences. What about those two sentences tells you that we would have lots of fun together? Could it be my proximity? I didn’t call him -- he was too fake-baked -- so I guess I will never know.

Then there was bachelor number two, who had a breadcrumb trail in his profile as to how I can contact him without joining the service. And because I thought he was cute and he was tall enough and because he lived in the city and wasn’t an unnatural shade of orange, I decided to go for it; after several days of humming and hawing that is.

So how many e-mails did it take before sex was mentioned? Four. Now, in fairness, he asked for the name of my novel and I told him -- Faking It, which obviously opens the door for some inappropriate comments. Responding back that he hopes I won’t have to fake it with him wasn’t what I had in mind though.

Still, I gave him another chance. Mostly because I have been bored out of my mind, that is when I’m not freaking out about grad schools and query letters. So having someone to e-mail was a pleasant distraction. He kept asking me about instant messenger and finally I relented. So, how long were we IMing before sex came up again? About four minutes.

The scary thing is, I think I read this bit of advice before, I just can’t remember where. But, because I didn’t take the advice seriously, I have to guess it came from either Dr. Phil or Steve Harvey. In this one instance, it would seem, they may have been on to something.

But hell, even fortune tellers get it right every once in a while.

Good Crush Hunting

2010-03-04T11:25:00.002-05:00

Since high school I have been playing a game whenever I get a drink with a straw. Though, it’s not really a game. See, I carefully pull the straw from the wrapper, put the straw in my drink and then, while thinking about a guy I like, I tie the wrapper into a knot and pull on both ends. If there is no knot, than he is thinking about me too.

So, the other day I was at a diner, sitting in front of my diet soda, staring down at a straw wrapper that was almost tied. But I couldn’t pull the ends because my mind was totally blank. I could not think of a single guy that I was wondering if he was wondering about me.

Sure, I could have thought about Peyton or Stewart or Curtis, but since they don’t know me, they couldn’t possibly be thinking about me and thus a knot would surely appear. With a sigh, I put the twisted straw wrapper on the table and sipped my diet coke.

A girl without a crush is such a sad sorry sight. She no longer cares about calories consumed or the last time she shaved her legs. When my black bean burger arrived, I ate all the French fries. I couldn’t help myself.

Later, when I got home, I opened an e-mail from an online dating site I used many moons ago. The e-mail claimed they had new matches for me. I looked and it did seem like there was one guy with a little potential and so I clicked on the link. Unfortunately you have to create a profile before you can look at someone else’s. I posted the quickest profile possible, including two photos of myself, one with blonde hair one with long hair. I figured if any suitor asked I would explain to him that I now have long blonde hair so he will have to use his imagination. I wasn’t, under any circumstance, going to take a “MySpace” shot of myself. I don’t care what dating site experts say about those photos effectiveness. I think they look stupid.

So, my quickie profile was posted and I went back to Bachelor #1’s profile. He hasn’t been active for at least two weeks. Blast.

I closed out of the site and wished I had a pint of dairy-free ice cream.

The next day I got another email telling me that 67 men had viewed my profile and I had three new messages. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. What the heck, I thought. I need a new crush and I do know at least one couple that met online.

Man, was that a mistake.

Once I weeded through the guys without pictures and had headlines with the word “looking” in them -- for those of you that don’t know, that’s code for married or in a serious relationship. And the guys with the creepy, poorly lit webcam shots of themselves -- guys, seriously, nothing makes you look more like a serial kill than a webcam shot as your profile picture. I was left with a guy whose headline actually read something to the effect of, “Hunter Looking For A Trophy.”

Umm, excuse me, but aren’t “trophies” plaques of animal heads that hunters hang on the wall. I’m sorry, guys, I lied earlier. Nothing makes you look more like a serial killer than saying you are looking for the next head to hang on your wall. The webcam shot is the second creepiest thing you can do.

Thank goodness we are getting back on the water soon. If I can’t find a crush amongst rowers, than I really am in trouble.

After Shocks After The Rose

2010-03-03T09:57:00.004-05:00

Do any of you watch The Bachelor? More importantly, did any of you receive an out-of-the-blue text or phone call from an ex saying he was sorry or that he made a mistake Monday night? Because I think the two may be related.

Let me say, before I get too far into this post, that I don’t watch The Bachelor. Never have, and god-willing, never will. However, from the tweets and Facebook and coverlines on magazines, I’m guessing that Jake tossed good girl (and fan favorite) Ally and then proposed to crazy in the head, so she must be crazy in the bed Alana. (Please tell me if I’m wrong here because my theory here depends on these facts).

Those same coverlines told me that Ally (who just from pictures looks adorable and sweet and very nice) has since moved on and Jake now regrets proposing to Alana (who, quite frankly, looks a bit trashy).

I can understand Jake’s predicament. It is one I have seen time and time again. Guys passing on the girl next door for the wild child only to realize later that while the wild child may be fun, she is also crazy. And while crazy can sometimes be fun, it can also be kinda scary. Like when she cuts out all the women from your pictures (including your mom and your sisters) or starts beating your dog because she thinks you love Tiger more than you love her.

Which brings me to the second question I asked. See, I think it is always easier to to see someone else making your mistakes. There is probably even a psychological word for this phenomenon (Bridie?). And I’m betting as our exes watched The Bachelor (with their crazy girlfriends) they shook their heads when Jake made “the biggest mistake of his life,” turned to their girlfriends who had been rooting for Alana and had their “a-ha” moment that led to the phone call or text.

At least that is what I think precipitated the Republican sending me a text yesterday.

See, I know the Republican watches The Bachelor (a fact I didn’t know until after we stopped seeing each other). I also know he had a girlfriend that he started seeing after he stopped seeing me. Now, I think he fancies himself Bachelor material, so I speculate that he was probably seeing both of us at the same time. And after going out with us, he extended his rose to the crazy, though not exactly attractive one.

Before you start in on me about how can I be so conceited - I'm not. My looks are the one thing I am insecure about (well, that and my boobs). Other than looks, I think I am a pretty awesome package. I’m smart, funny, well read, fit, good with kids, an excellent dresser and I love watching football. I’m also not a nag and I have a lot of friends so I’m not the sort that needs a man to keep me entertained.

Still, even with my insecurity about my looks I can say when I think a girl is not as cute as me. This girl wasn’t. As for how I know she’s crazy? Well, that is based solely on the outfits I have seen her wearing in pictures on Facebook.

So, what’s a girl to do? I guess if I were a contestant on The Bachelor and I knew after only spending a couple of days with a guy that I (sob) love him (sob), I would give him another chance. And one day we would appear on the cover of People as a happy couple, planning our wedding and laughing about how he picked Alana first. But then again, there’s a reason why I've never been a contestant on The Bachelor.

Okay, counting my small chest there’s two reasons.

Dance, Dance, Dance, Dance, Dancing Machine

2010-02-28T22:09:00.004-05:00

I accidentally found myself out dancing this weekend. And while at first I was disturbed, I soon realized dancing is exactly what has been missing from my life.

See, I was in Allentown again this weekend. And before you start asking why I have been spending so much time at my parent’s place understand two things. 1) I get my hair done in Allentown and don’t trust anyone but Hairdresser to show these locks love; 2) ever since Lana left and I started applying to grad schools Mom and Dad have been wigging out. So I have tried to spend a bit more time there, helping out and letting them know they are still loved.

Okay, so Saturday, Hairdresser was doing my hair and asked what I was up to this weekend. I told her that my best friend from high school, Colleen, and I were going to get together to catch up. She asked where and I told her I wasn’t sure. She suggested we go to this new sports bar, which was by far the newest, hippest place to hang out. I shrugged and said cool. Later, when Colleen sent me a text message asking what I was in the mood for, I recommended the sports bar.

I should have known by the delay in getting back to me that I made a poor choice.

But, Colleen was gracious, agreeing to meet me there. Only after getting lost (briefly -- why aren’t Union Street and Union Blvd. the same road?) did I learned why Colleen was hesitant about the coolest, hippest place in Allentown. Because it wasn’t a sports bar. It was an adult arcade.

No, not like “adult” arcade with nearly naked women walking around (at least not before 10 p.m.). No, adult arcade like a place with bowling alleys and ski ball and Dance Dance Revolution. Not the best place to catch up, still Colleen and I managed. Fortunately, thanks to Facebook, most of the catching up had been done and so we entertained ourselves making fun of the band and the other bar patrons.

Now, earlier when we were sending text messages back and forth, Colleen had said that 12 Pack was going to be at the bar. I stupidly assumed 12 Pack was a band and so when we got there I thought it was 12 Pack that was wreaking havoc on our ears. Colleen soon cleared up the confusion. She explained 12 Pack was a reality star. Memories of a Sunday spent hungover in the Duchess’s living room, drinking vegan shakes and watching Daisy Chain of Love came flooding back to me. When I asked Colleen if he was called 12 Pack because he had more than a six-pack she laughed. This would explain why the sports bar was starting to fill with women in short satin dresses, teased hair and heels that were not appropriate for a bar smack in the middle of a city that was hit with 8 to 12 inches of snow just the day before.

So, how did I find myself accidentally out dancing? Well, between the really bad band and the appearance of 12 Pack, a dance party broke out next to the VIP lounge (which much to 12 Pack’s chagrin, I’m sure, was nothing more than a couple of chairs pushed around a coffee table) and in front of the stage where a hula-hoop girl enthralled us all. And since we had nothing better to do, and Colleen’s dancing fool fiance had shown up, we decided to join the fun.

As Colleen’s fiance made a bit of an ass of himself, but in a good, goofy way, Colleen and I stood on the sidelines and did what we do best -- made fun of everyone else (including her fiance). But as I stood there, laughing, judging and occasionally busting a move, I realized the only thing missing was my get-up. Sure I was making fun of those girls out there, but secretly I was jealous. Even as much fun as I was having listening to old school hip-hop and drinking cheap beer from plastic cups, it felt somewhat incomplete in my GAP trouser jeans and cute flats. Not that I had packed scut gear for my trip home, but suddenly I wished I too was wearing a really short dress and inappropriate heels.

See, somewhere in between all those storms we recently had, I complained to Salty, Bridie and the Duchess that I was sick of neighborhood bars and desperately wanted a big girls’ night out complete with fancy drinks and heels. Now, the Duchess has promised to take me out to celebrate finishing my novel and I think I'm going to insist on a night of dancing. I can’t remember the last time we went dancing (and no, I don’t count the shore). I think a night out, all gussied up and rubbing my badunkadunk against some stranger’s junk is just what the doctor order.

Oh, and before you ask -- yes, we did wait around to meet 12 Pack and all I have to say about him is he’s a lot shorter than I expected.

Give It To Me Baby

2010-02-26T15:25:00.004-05:00

Warning: I am about to speak favorably about an establishment here in Philadelphia. No, they didn’t pay me. Nor did I hook up with the bartender or the owner. I don’t even know the owner. Just thought I would spread some love.

Contrary to what my ex-boyfriends may say, I am not hard to please. I just want what I want the way I want it. And, to be fair, I let them know what it is. I don’t make them guess or read my mind or say I want one thing but really I want something totally and completely different.

Never is this more true than when I am out to eat.

Theresa and I saw Valentine’s Day last weekend and after we decided we needed a couple of beers. So we stopped at a bar and after a couple of rounds, we decided it was time to eat. We decided to leave our current bar, much to the bartender’s chagrin, and head over to Pub and Kitchen.

When the bartender asked us why, Theresa responded, “She’s a vegan.” He then looked at his menu and said. “Yeah, good luck,” told us to say hi to the bartender there and walked away.

It’s cool. I’m used to it. Mostly, when I’m out I just make do with whatever is on the menu as I try to be a cool vegan. I had been to P&K with Theresa before and so I knew there was something there for me to eat. Of course the last time I was there, I was slightly intoxicated and so the details as to what it was they had for me to eat were a bit fuzzy. Maybe that was the real reason I wanted to go back -- to actually taste whatever meal I had ordered that night.

When we arrived, I told the bartender that the other bartender said hi and he raised his eyebrows. I just assumed they knew each other, but maybe this was some sort of code. He then asked why we had left and Theresa responded, “We wanted to get something to eat, and she’s a vegan.”

This bartender didn’t skip a beat. He smiled and said, “Let me see what the cook can do for you.” And when he came back he said, “He can put something together.”

I didn’t ask for details about what it was or how it was going to be prepared. Why? Because I’m not difficult to please (see above) and when it came out, it was delicious. Simple, but oh so good. I even made Theresa eat some -- trying to seduce her away from the pork chop she was enjoying.

My point? Well, first that the Pub and Kitchen rocks! And I don’t think it is just because the bartender had a thing for me (as Theresa kept suggesting). Second, I don’t think the bartender had a thing for because while he was super nice and accommodating, he is also a bartender. And what have I told you about bartenders.

Oh, and before you ask, no Theresa and I didn’t meet anyone out. We almost did, though. A group of very tall, handsome men came in just as we were about to leave. But sadly, they ordered pink drinks that were served in martini glasses (too frothy to be cosmos) and didn’t seem at all interested in us.

Faking Disappointment

2010-02-24T19:10:00.003-05:00

Let me start by saying I love my dad. I do. I really do. But like so many men, sometimes he just doesn’t get it.

Yesterday, we were sitting in the living room. I was finishing up a press release and my dad was simultaneously watching curling and playing solitaire on his computer. My e-mail alert chirped and so I switched screens and learned that school number three sent me my second rejection letter.

Understandably, I was disappointed and so I turned to my father and said,”Well, I won’t be going to Syracuse.”

“Oh, why?”

“Umm, because I just got their rejection letter.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

I would add details about emotion or inflection, but there wasn’t any. He barely looked away from the curling match. And he doesn’t even like curling.

So, looking for someone to commiserate with, I sent a mass text to friends and then tweeted about my sad news. While on Twitter I learned that Brian Westbrook was released from the Eagles.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“The Eagles released Brian Westbrook.”

He threw his head back. “Jesus. What the hell? I swear that Andy Reid has his head up his ass. Why did they get rid of Tony Hunt if they were just going to turn around and get rid of Westbrook. And what are they doing with Vick? Or McNabb?” He shook his head. Visibly upset that Brian Westbrook, not even his favorite player on the Eagles, was being released from the team.

I struggled to hold back my righteous indignation. Instead I told him he really needed to get over the loss of Tony Hunt.

I realized my old man couldn’t help himself. I also realize that there are probably a lot of guys out there that struggle with this very problem. So I think you should take a lesson from my dad.

First, I want you to think of a sports scenario that would really upset you. Then, the next time your girlfriend or fiance or wife comes to you, upset about something that happened during her day, think about that scenario (as if it just happened) and react accordingly.

Of course instead of saying things like “I swear that Andy Reid has his head up his ass.” Make it personal to her: “I swear that boss of yours has his head up his ass.” See, not so hard. Plus you really can’t overreact in this sort of situation. Even if you get so angry that you throw something, the woman in your life will probably appreciate it. Even laugh at your bravado and feel better about her crummy day -- making you an even bigger hero to her.

And men think women are so complicated.

Martha and Me

2010-02-22T21:01:00.003-05:00

Have I ever told you I have a huge girl crush on Martha Stewart?

I don’t want to make out with her or anything like that. I just want to be her bestie. You know, go to her house for a sleepover, make heart-shaped vegan cookies, crank call Donald Trump and later, when we have changed into our pajamas, I’ll let her French braid my hair while she tells me stories from her time in prison.

It started back when I was still living with Will (my first gay). He had a subscription to Martha Stewart Living and at Christmas time he sat me down in front of a couple of the Christmas issues he had collected (you never throw out a Martha Stewart Living). I was to use Martha as inspiration for our Christmas Installation -- some people have Christmas decorations; gay art professors have Christmas installations. And because I was unemployed and Will was busy finishing up the semester, it became my job to create a Winter Wonderland.

After I finished our paper ornaments, the choirs of paper plate angels (man, that Martha is clever) and hung our gum drop wreath, I revised my Christmas wish list to include my very own subscription to her magazine.

Now, recently, I have been feeling not quite myself. I don’t know if it is the fallout from finishing the novel or that it is going on a year that I haven’t had a “real” job or finding out that I didn’t get into my first choice for grad school but whatever it is I haven’t been sleeping well and I’m definitely not loving what I am seeing in the mirror and instead I just feel gross and unsettled and very, very scared.

So avoiding work that is due on Wednesday, I was reading the recent issue of body + soul (another Martha Publication). I’m not sure if the last page always has ten inspirational messages or if this is something new (my love of this magazine is some what new) but there it was, at the very bottom. The last of the 10 thoughts on whole living: Sometimes getting lost is the only way to figure out where you really are.

Cheesy, I know. But if I were Rihanna, I would tattoo this on my shoulder, backwards so that everytime I looked in the mirror, I would remember.

Instead, I'll just cut it out and tape it to my refrigerator. Thanks, Martha.

A Night at The Museum

2010-02-21T19:17:00.002-05:00

So in the spirit of trying new ways to meet guys that don’t involve coming up with a clever way to describe myself in 10 words or less, Marie and I headed over to the University of Pennsylvania’s Museum of Archeology for their Valentine’s Day lecture “Cougars, Playas and Baby Mama Drama in the Ancient World.”

Now, as the name of the event would suggest, it was a lecture. A point that was totally lost on both me and Marie until we walked into a dark room, shocked to find a woman standing at a podium giving a PowerPoint presentation. We had decided to stop and get a glass of wine first so we wouldn’t be the first there. Instead, we were practically the last people there. Fortunately, there was still an open cafe table in the back.

We sat down just in time for the start of the “Cougar” section. Sadly, there weren’t many ancient Egyptian cougars for us to learn from. There was an interesting sculpture depicting one woman being serviced by several well endowed men. If I could remember the woman in the statute she would be my new personal hero.

During the player section we learned all about Ptolemy VIII who killed his brother and married his sister, one of the Cleopatras who was married to Ptolemy’s brother until his untimely death. When, Ptolemy got pissed at Cleopatra he killed his nephew/her son, from the first marriage, chopped him up into pieces, wrapped him in a box and gave the gift to her for her birthday. Kinda gives me a new perspective on all those terrible gifts guys have given me over the years.

Still, all of this didn’t give Ptolemy VIII his player status. No, that was solidified when he grew tired of his Cleo and decided to seduce and marry her daughter (his niece) whose name was also Cleo. They were known as Ptolemy, Cleo His Sister and Cleo His Wife. And no, I'm not making this up.

I leaned over and whispered to Marie that when we were allowed to mingle I was going to ask the first eligible bachelor I came across if he thought Ptolemy was a player or did he just crush a lot. If he didn’t get the reference I would know it wasn’t meant to be. Marie agreed there was no future with a guy that didn’t immediately respond with something along the lines of “well, the real problem was that Ptolemy represented Queens but Cleo was raised out in Brooklyn." Thus a new rule was born -- if he doesn’t recognize LL when he hears it, then he's not the one for me.

Finally, the lecture was over and we were invited to get a drink. Marie and I (who had already snuck to the bar just as soon as we arrived) sat at our table to see if there was anyone worthy of our clever pick-up line.

With the lights on we saw that there were approximately eight guys and 100 women at this event. Of the eight guys, two were there together, like on a date, another was with a date with a woman, two weren’t tall enough to talk to, two were old enough to have known the first Ptolemy and then, finally, there was the creepy gentleman wandering around wearing a visor. I’m pretty sure I told you how I feel about guys that wear baseball caps. Well, it goes double, no triple, for visors. Unless you're guarding a beach, you shouldn’t be wearing a visor.

A Rule for Picking-Up Bartenders - Don't

2010-02-18T14:41:00.003-05:00

So you know that I was out on Valentine’s Eve. What I didn’t tell you is that Bridie and Salty did make an attempt to pimp me.

I don’t think I'm being vain when I say that the knowledge that I haven’t kissed anyone since by 30th birthday (unless you count the Republican, which I don’t) is weighing heavy on my friends’ minds. Okay, maybe not heavy. I don’t think it is keeping them up at night. However, whenever we have been out recently, a lot of attention is paid to the other guys in the bar on my behalf.

And Valentine’s Eve was no exception. We were at the bar for less than one drink when Salty came over to me and announced that she and Bridie like the bartender for me.

I looked up at the gentleman behind the bar; tall, thick, bearded and good looking. If he had been on this side of the bar I would have been impressed. However, he wasn’t and so I turned to Salty and said, “He’s the bartender.”

See, ladies it is never a good idea to set your sights on the bartender. Please note, I said THE bartender not A bartender. The article here is very important. Why you ask is it never a good idea to set your sights on the bartender? Because, kittens, it is the bartender’s job to be nice and flirt with you. It doesn’t mean he is actually interested in you.

It is sort of the female equivalent of falling for a stripper.

Guys go into strip clubs, sit down, maybe take their coats off. Then they see a hot chick. And she is looking back at him. Oh my god, is she smiling at him? Crap, she’s coming this way. And she’s taking her top off. I am the luckiest man alive. So she just took a twenty from my hand, but still I think she likes me. I mean really likes me.

It’s pretty much the same thing for bartenders. Yes, there is a very good chance that the bartender will be the best looking guy in the room and he should be the most sober. But you will be wasting your time flirting with him when you could be meeting other eligible, albeit maybe not nearly as charming, men.

Believe me. Some of my longest standing crushes are on bartenders. I know what I’m talking about here. In fact the next time someone asks me why I'm still single, I may say, I’m a sucker for bartenders.

Now, this doesn’t mean that the next time you are out and you happen to meet a good looking, charming, tall man on this side of the bar that happens to be a bartender you should walk away. Quite the opposite. Revel and delight in the rare occasion to flirt with him away from his work. But be warned. If you take things to the next level with a cute bartender, your bartender/patron relationship will be changed forever. And most times not for the good.

Oh, and before you comment that all this advice is nice and all, but didn’t I come away that very night having only met the bartender. Yes, but exceptions are to be made. A) it wasn’t the same bartender Salty pointed out, he was married. B) It was Valentine’s Eve and thus there were no eligible bachelors in the bar for me to ogle.

The Dénouement

2010-02-17T14:43:00.003-05:00

I finished my novel.

First, I should tell you, I didn’t have the Valentine’s Day weekend I expected. Friday went off as planned. Drank some wine. Ordered Chinese. Had a vegan carrot cake cupcake for dessert. I didn’t watch any action films, though. Instead, I opted for the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. And, before you ask, yes, I cried. Like a baby.

Saturday, I got some writing done. Then the text messages started. Everyone wanted to go out. And by everyone I mean Salty, the Duchess and Bridie. At first I stuck by my guns. No. I will not go out and feel bad about myself as cute couples all around me enjoy pink drinks and suck face.

I delighted in my rebellion. I decided the perfect way to celebrate a Saturday with myself is by doing some laundry. I was moving my wash to the dryer when I saw Brandi had brought her laundry down -- she was holding a spot. What was she washing you ask? Black satin sheets.

No. I’m not making this up.

I went back to my apartment, promptly sent a text to the girls asking where I should meet them and then started putting my hair in curlers.

Out, everyone was asking how the novel was going and I lamented that if I wasn’t out drinking, I would be home finishing it. Yes, I was that close.

The next day I was sure I would finish. But I couldn’t open my laptop. I mean, maybe I could, I just couldn't bring myself to try. I walked by it. Looked at it longingly. I even brought it into the living room and plugged it in and thought about it during commercial breaks. But I never opened it. Something in me wasn't ready for it to be over. Instead I just lied on my couch, eating more garbage and watching really bad television.

Then Monday came and with it another deadline I didn’t want to meet. And since my laundry was already done, and I didn't have any dishes to do since everything I ate that weekend came in take-out containers, I had nothing left to do but finish my novel.

When it first happened, I hardly realized it. I was sitting in front of my computer, typing and retyping the last couple of lines -- after all they were going to be the last couple of lines of my first novel. They had to be good. No, they had to be great. Not necessarily epic. I wasn’t looking for anything quite so amazing as “This is not an exit.” But something that would leave my readers feeling something and so I battled and finally I put down words that were somewhere between good and great and I hit the enter key to continue the story when it hit me. The story’s finished.

The story is finished.

I turned off my computer. Still not feeling quite as I imagined the narrator of Stand by Me felt when he finally finished typing his saga and ran out to play with his son and his son’s friend. But maybe that is because I don’t have a son. So I called my mom. I had to share it with someone.

When I told her I was hit with a wave a nausea. Oh my god. I’m finished. I had to sit down.

I started shaking and told my mom I had to go.

And I don’t know why, but I did need to go. To Staples. To print a copy of my novel. Printing it made it more real. Sitting on the subway home, the big box containing two copies of my novel resting safely in my lap, it started to to sink in. I have finished the first draft of my novel.

I started sending text messages to friends and family and relaxed a little more with each message of congratulations and suggestion of libations to celebrate. Of course I couldn’t go just then. One, I looked terrible. Two, I had the only two printed copies of my novel with me. What if something happened to them? I needed to get them home where it was safe.

Once we were all safely home and my novel was securely placed on my desk, I poured myself a glass of wine. It was finished. I couldn’t stop smiling. I also couldn’t stop shaking. Though it wasn’t really shaking so much as I felt like I was shaking on the inside. Like I had Restless Leg Syndrome, but everywhere.

I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. So I poured myself a second glass of wine. Then a third. If it helps, I didn't finish the third.

The strangest part is on Monday morning, when I woke up, I read my horoscope and it told me I was going to finish a project that I had been working on for a very long time. I laughed. Good one, horoscope. When I thought about it later, a chill ran up my spine.

Now, on Saturday my horoscope said I was going to meet my next romantic interest. And since the only guy that caught my eye was the bartender, I guess my next boyfriend will be a beer slinger.

Who Loves You, Baby

2010-02-11T10:35:00.002-05:00

Not since the seventh grade have I had a date on Valentine’s Day -- and that date is now out of the closet so you know he set the bar pretty high (even for a seventh grader). I suppose a couple of years ago, DB and I were together on VD, but technically not really. I mean we had hooked up by that point (just kissing, mom!), but we hadn’t been out on a date.

And our super romantic Valentine’s Day was spent at our friends’ house watching LOST. We were suppose to have dinner together too, but I opted for pizza at Bridie’s instead.

So it is safe to say the majority of my Valentine’s Days have been big disappointments, spent drinking copious amounts of alcohol, eating greasy disgusting (but oh so delicious) food and cursing this stupid Hallmark holiday.

But this year I’m taking a different approach. This year I am celebrating the greatest love of all; the one that is happening inside of me (thank you, Whitney).

I’m serious. I’m so sick and tired of feeling sorry for myself this one weekend a year. So this year, I won’t. I will celebrate with myself, just how awesome I am and how happy I am to have me.

Now, originally, I had thought about taking this holiday by the horns. I thought about going on the Love Letters tour and then going to see Valentine’s Day, which despite my better judgment actually looks cute. However, I don’t want to set myself up for failure. I don’t want to put myself in a situation where I might actually start comparing the love of my life with others and wondering why I’m all alone and completely sabotage the best relationship I have ever had.

Instead, I have planned the perfect evening for myself -- after all, who knows me better? I will pick up a vegan cupcake (or two, after all we are celebrating here), make myself a delicious dinner, open a nice bottle of red wine, put on super cute, Valentine’s themed pajamas and watch silly action movies featuring Sylvester Stallone, Bruce Willis or the Governator; and I won’t judge myself when I laugh out loud at the ridiculous dialogue.

Things I won’t be doing this weekend include, sending text messages to the Republican (or any of my ex’s for that matter), listening to sappy love songs, wondering what is wrong with me that I managed to chase so many great guys away (instead I will focus on all that was wrong with them) and most definitely I will not cry.

That is unless of course I decide to watch Terminator 2. I mean, come on, who doesn’t tear-up at the end of that movie?

Marry Him? No Thank You

2010-02-09T09:50:00.003-05:00

I may have to come out of retirement as a reviewer of relationship guidance self-help books. Why, you ask? Because the crazy bitch that wrote “Marry Him” in the Atlantic Monthly a couple of years ago, was given a book deal.

Now, I had thought I wrote a blog about this when it first came out, but I just checked and found nothing. So I’m guessing it was a column which means I can’t link to it here. The basic gist of the article was (for those of you that don’t remember) that Lori (the crazy bitch’s real name) was a single mom in her 40s who has decided that she wasted her life looking for Mr. Right when really she should have just settled for Mr. Good Enough. That way she wouldn’t be all alone now, with no one to take out the trash for her.

And, for good measure, I just re-read the article to make sure that my memory didn’t make it worse with the passage of time (as it is wont to do from time to time).

It seems, however, her book is less a case for settling and more a case for prioritizing. At least that is how she made it sound on the Today Show the other day. She was talking to Meredith V. about how women are too picky and that they should focus on qualities in a man that would make a good mate.

Meredith, who is my new personal hero after this interview, demanded examples -- seriously, she did. Lori tried to avoid the question twice but Mere kept after her. Lori finally responded, “Well once (and I’m paraphrasing here) I met a guy name Sheldon and wouldn’t go out with him because that was his name. Then a couple months later I was like, Lori, you can’t count him out because his name is Sheldon.”

Suddenly things became so much clearer to me. Lori, you’re not picky. You’re crazy. Who doesn’t date someone because their name is Sheldon? Seriously? I know I have a list of rules, but I openly admit that I break them often. They really only exist so after it all goes terribly wrong I can say, “Well, I should have known better. I mean, he’s from Michigan.”

But even better than the realization that this woman was just plain crazy was Meredith’s follow up attack. “What would you say to women that say, well, you’re telling me to settle, but you’re not married.”

Lori: “Oh, but I’m closer than I have been.”

Mere: “Yeah, but you’re not.”

Lori: “But I’m close. And that is all I am going to say about that.”

Ahh, Lori, I think you were trying to imply that you expect Sheldon to pop the question any day now. But I’m sad to say I don’t think it is going to happen. Why? Well, later that same day, Hoda and Kathie Lee had a panel of men answering women’s questions about why men do what they do.

On this panel was my other future husband, Curtis Stone, and he said (or maybe one of the other panelist said it but I was only paying attention to him so I am just going to give him credit) that men do like to chase women (thus, women, you should play a little hard to get) but they also want to feel liked by the woman they are with and (now, pay attention Lori, because this is the part that pertains to you) that being with that woman means something special. That she wouldn’t be with just anyone (ahem). That by picking him, he must be special.

Now, Lori, how can Sheldon possibly feel special when you go on national TV and say you are settling for him?

Of course, maybe I'm just angry because Lori calls me a liar in the first few paragraphs of her article in the Atlantic Monthly. According to her, because I am in my 30s and single I must be worried about being alone the rest of my life. She goes on to add that any single woman in her 30s that denies being worried about this is lying, and should look in a mirror and say "I'm not worried about being alone the rest of my life," just to see just how ridiculous she looks.

Here’s the thing, Lori. I’m not lying. Seriously. I looked in the mirror and said it and everything. Now, maybe it’s because all the relationships I have been in haven’t been that great. Or maybe it is because I have more important things to worry about -- like my hair, and what I am going to serve at my LOST party next week that my non-vegan friends will enjoy, and what I will do if I fall on the ice this week and break my ankle, and my parent’s health, my sister (in general), how I’m going to pay rent next month -- it seems I just don’t have time to worry about something I can’t really do much about and that really doesn’t scare me as much as being homeless.

That and getting married doesn’t really guarantee me that I won’t be alone -- not with the divorce rates in this country. Furthermore, if I am not using any standards to pick my mate, how can I possibly know that I will do a good job picking a partner to run the nonprofit that is my family. What if I manage to pick a man that wants to sit around all day Sunday watching football while I cook and clean and rear our children. After all, I expect to be sitting around all day on Sunday watching football.

Which reminds me, I'm also worried about what the Eagles are going to do about their quarterback situation.

The Tale of Two Batmen

2010-02-03T10:14:00.002-05:00

I recently read a quote by some guy that went “If men had to get married to have sex, more men would be married,” or something like that. It was by way of explaining why men are waiting to get married, if they get married at all.

Gather around kiddies, Auntie Tati has a story for you.

A long time ago when I thought graphic tees were acceptable, in a neighborhood on the other side of Broad Street, your aunt worked in a bar. Now, technically, I was a waitress, but on Monday nights it was just me and the bartender and this bartender had a really bad habit that involved snorting things through a straw and so on Monday nights when the owner would leave the bartender would have to run off to his apartment for any number of excuses leaving me all alone.

Now, because it was a Monday, it wasn’t very crowded so it really wasn’t a very big deal. Even when there was a problem -- like some freak trying to order a Purple Jesus at a neighborhood bar, but couldn’t tell me what is in it -- my attitude took care of it. I simply handed him a bottle of Miller Lite with a smile.

This is how I came to have a group of regulars -- my four musketeers: Manny, Moe, Curly and Bob. They would come in every Monday, ask where the bartender was. I would answer with whatever excuse he gave me before he left. They would laugh and order four pink squirrels and I would give them two Miller Lites and two pints of Lager.

Most Mondays, my four stooges were my only customers, so I grew quite close to them. Even hung out with them occasionally when I wasn’t behind the bar. Over the course of a month of Mondays I learned that Moe was still pining for a lost love and the Curly was funny and smart but sadly very short and that Bob was the only one of the bunch that had a serious girlfriend. Which made sense to me because Bob was tall, with a good head of hair and a decent job.

Eventually, I moved on. Got a job at a law firm, moved east of Broad Street and never looked back. But recently, I had the opportunity to go back to the old hood. See, it was Theresa’s birthday and for some reason she wanted to go to the bar where it all began. She said it was because she had never been and we were always talking about it. Personally, I think she didn’t believe a bar that would hire me as a server existed and so she had to see it for herself. Either way, there we were, standing in the bar, laughing and drinking domestic beer when Curly and Bob walked in.

At first I didn’t recognize Bob because, well, Bob got fat. All those pink squirrels found a home in Bob’s, big, round, 20 pound belly. He was losing his hair and, like a lot of men that are going bald, he decided to grow it long which only called more attention to just how thin it was. He was also wearing a hoodie on a Friday night -- it may have even been dirty.

We got to catching up, me and Bob, and I learned that Manny had moved away and was now married. Curly moved out of the bachelor pad as well and Moe was still pining for that same girl. I then asked Bob if he married his girlfriend from way back when and he explained that when Manny moved, they all decided to look for a new, smaller place. His girlfriend at the time had suggested they get a place together. But Bob wasn’t ready. He was having too much fun being a single guy. And he and Moe and Curly are still having fun being single guys, he added.

Then he asked for my number.

I politely declined to give it to him.

This brings me to the parable of the two Batmen. A lot of actors have worn the batsuit, but I want to call your attention to two names we would all soon rather forget ever played Bruce Wayne -- George Clooney and Val Kilmer.

Since playing in the Batcave, George has gone on to make really incredible movies (and some not so incredible -- Ocean’s 13 anyone?), he was nominated for Best Director, and, let’s face it, he just keeps getting hotter. Val, well, Val, have you seen Val lately?

And I think this goes to the root of the problem. I think a lot of you guys out there look at George Clooney and think, yeah, I’m only gonna get better with age. But the sad truth is most of you are going to grow up to look more like Val Kilmer. You are going to get puffy and chubby and lose your hair and your going to look back on your days of wearing the nipple-clad batsuit as your hottest. And you're going to be kicking yourself for giving away all that free sex back then when you could have secured your future by marrying a woman that would have to have sex with your bloated disgusting self. Hell, she might actually want to have sex with you because the stupid fool loves your punk ass.

Meanwhile that cow you returned to the market because you could get free milk elsewhere is only getting hotter thanks to diet, exercise, really expensive beauty creams and very talented plastic surgeons.

By the way, Val, I said your hottest, not your best. Your best is a toss-up between Real Genius and Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang.

A New Super Bowl Drinking Game Is Born

2010-01-29T15:33:00.002-05:00

Did I ever tell you I was an advertising major in college? Well, I was, for like a minute. Then I moved my focus to journalism. But for a brief moment in my life I thought I would really like to be in advertising. Why? Because I love commercials.

I think my love of commercials is what brought me to football. Because, of course the super bowl of commercials is well, the Super Bowl. I remember sitting in our family room with Ivan watching the Super Bowl. He was watching because he loved football, I was watching because I loved laughing at all the funny commercials. Of course in between all those funny sixty-second spots, I couldn’t help but pick up a few pointers on the game. Especially with Ivan as a tutor.

And once I saw how cute some of those quarterbacks were, a fan was born.

Now, for those of you that follow me on Twitter, you know a couple of weeks ago I was up in arms about a Carl Jr.’s advertisement that seemed to me a blatant rip-off of last year’s PETA ad that was banned from the Super Bowl for being too sexy. Was the PETA ad a bit racy? Yes. Was it too racy for the Super Bowl? Umm, I don’t think so. Not when you consider the GoDaddy ads that have women losing their tops -- of which, what the heck is GoDaddy?

Still, I didn’t raise too much of a stink about it. Mostly because I wondered if my affront wasn’t because it was PETA that was being banned -- as opposed the Carl Jr’s whose ad I’m sure will appear on the West Coast with little to no fanfare.

But I can’t keep quiet about the recent controversy surrounding the Tim Tebow and ManCrush ads.

For those of you that don’t know, Tim Tebow is the University of Florida quarterback who became famous when he was caught crying after his team’s loss to Alabama; a loss that prevented them from playing for a national championship. Apparently, it is also a miracle that he is even with us today, because, according to an ad that will air during the Super Bowl, his mother was told to terminate her pregnancy for health reasons. Obviously she didn’t and now the world has Tim Tebow.

That’s great. Good for you, Tim and Mrs. Tebow. Seriously. I don’t have a problem with this ad running.

My problem is that CBS is (or was as of this writing) refusing to run an ad by ManCrush, a dating site for gay men. The ad has two men watching football when their hands brush against each others while reaching for dip and then they start making out (oh if only it were that easy!).

What does the ManCrush spot have to do with Tim Tebow? Well, the organization that is paying for the Tebow ad is obviously pro-life, but they are also anti-gay. So why do they get to get their message out there, but ManCrush can’t?

CBS officials said it was because they were out of ad space but that turned out to be not true. Now they are saying it just isn’t appropriate for the small children that could be watching the Super Bowl to see two men kissing.

Of course this wasn’t a concern last year (or was it the year before) when Snickers showed two men kissing (thank you Miami New Times for reminding me about this ad). Of course an onlooker in that commercial was disgusted by the sight, so I guess that is what made it okay -- it is okay for two men to kiss as long as it is gross. It is also okay for two women (so long as they are hot) to kiss (or almost kiss) because that obviously doesn’t raise any questions for small children.

You know what else doesn’t make small children wonder, apparently? The words four-hour erection. I think we should all take a drink on Super Bowl Sunday for every time we hear those words at the end of Cialis and Viagra commercials. You know, to celebrate all the awkward conversations that are not taking place in families with small children.

Now some stink has been made that the Tebow ad will create just as many unnecessary conversations between children and their parents. This I totally disagree with. But maybe that is because I forced my mom to have this same conversation when I was just eight. See, wearing buttons on your jean jacket was the coolest-thing-ever back then and one day my best friend came in with a big, new button she took from her mom that said, “My Body! My Choice!” Of course we all pretended to know what that meant, but since I didn’t have a clue, when I got home I asked my mom. And my mom being a no-nonsense kinda woman and a nurse, sat me down and summed up the great abortion debate in a language a third-grader could understand.

Still, I’m sure there are parents out there that would like to avoid this conversation for as long as possible. Just as I am sure there are plenty of families out there that don’t want to have to explain homosexuality to their eight-year-olds. However, I am just as sure that there are a number of families, oh like those with two daddies, that would appreciate seeing their lifestyle acted out during a great American tradition as if there was nothing wrong with it.

Because here’s the thing, CBS, there’s not.

To Friend or Not To Friend

2010-01-28T14:57:00.002-05:00

Bosley sent me a friend request on Facebook.

Most of you should know, either because you followed me over from my old blog or because you found me after TLo blogged about me, that I didn’t work for a glamorous private investigators firm. You know that I worked for a law firm. But, because this is a brand new blog and for the sake of continuity, I will continue to use the old-new code names for everyone.

To refresh your memory, Bosley used to be my boss.

And I used to consider him a friend.

Okay, so now you know that I worked for a law firm, but you may not know what I did. I worked in the firm’s marketing department. How did I get such a fine gig? Bosley was a fan of my old blog.

Yes, the very same blog he would one day ask me to stop writing.

See, before I worked for Bosley, I worked for Old-boss as his assistant. Old-boss was an administrative partner at a firm here in Philadelphia and as his assistant, I got to see the shady (and sometimes funny) side of the legal industry. And because I always wanted to grow up and be a writer, I started writing a column (and eventually a blog) for the legal newspaper. This is how Bosley found me. He thought I was funny and talented and hired me away from Old-boss to be a writer in Bosley’s marketing department.

Then, one day, I wrote a blog about a bunch of male lawyers that worked for us that stood out from the pack because of their attention to grooming. Somehow, this group of PYTs figured out I was talking about them and were pissed. They cried to their boss, their boss screamed at Charlie and Charlie called me in for a teta-a-tete during which he told me not to call anyone pretty ever again.

I remember having lunch with Old-boss right around this time and telling him about the uproar I caused. He laughed so hard he snorted margarita through his nose. See, when I worked for him I used to write about our revolving-door policy with new associates, how I pimped out a summer associate to one of our partners and one time when a partner asked me to rearrange his office so he didn’t have to look at his secretary. I even quoted Old-boss in one blog saying “we already have enough assholes working here.” In other words, things an administrative partner wouldn’t want anyone to know about his law firm. I think Old-boss would have celebrated a blog about how good looking our associates were.

But back to Bosley. After my face-to-face with Charlie, Bosley asked me to stop by. I told him about my conversation with Charlie and my concern about the big fat target that was now on my back. I figured, at the minimum, he would tell me not to worry about it, that he and Charlie had my back and as long as I didn’t poke or feed the metrosexuals, I would be fine.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, Bosley pointed out that Charlie really went to bat for me and that it would be nice if in turn I just stopped writing the blog. After all, he said, “You have to grow up some day.”

Wow. I had no idea blogging was something only children did. Which is what I am sure my face expressed. That or, “how dare you?” Either way, Bosley went on to tell me a story about a guy that worked at a factory in Dallas who was fired during the NFL playoffs when he wore an opposing team’s jersey to work. His point? Maybe they wouldn’t fire me for writing my blog. Maybe they would fire me for having Peyton Manning’s photo framed and on my desk because they could.

Huh.

So, I decided to stop writing my blog. However, the very freakin’ week I was preparing to publish my big good-bye, Philebrity wrote a blog naming me their blog crush. I almost cried at the timing of it all and, thinking Boz was still my friend, I walked into his office with a print out of the blurb so we could both laugh and curse stupid eyeliner-wearing attorneys with no senses of humor.

The thing is, Bosley didn’t laugh or cry or even commiserate. Instead he looked up at me and asked, “What? Did you write this?”

Now, in my life I have made a couple of people cry, though almost always unintentionally. At that moment, though, I wanted to make Bosley cry. I wanted to punch him in his throat or spit in his stupid face or call him every mean and nasty name I could. Instead, I clenched my fists, opened my eyes real wide, snatched the page from his grubby grasp and said, “No, I didn’t.” I stared to leave but turned back, “You know, some people think I’m a talented writer. You used to be one of them.”

I also decided to punish Bosley the best way I knew how -- by taking away my friendship.

So when I got Bosley’s friend request, I shouldn’t have been torn. I should have hit ignore and laughed and laughed and then continue writing my novel. Bu the thing is, back in the day, when I was a columnist and blogger, I warned my readers about burning bridges. Which is why part of me thinks I should just let bygones be bygones and accept his friend request. After all, I’m not really “friends” with every one of my Facebook friends.

However, the other two-thirds of me is screaming -- ignore. You don’t get to hurt me, not apologize for it and remain in my life. Even if it is just my online life.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of He

2010-01-22T11:14:00.002-05:00

In the last month I have had three very explicit dreams about my high school crush whom I haven’t seen since our reunion three years ago.

The first two happened while I was home working on grad school applications and so I just shrugged them off as being some sort of dream memory brought on by sleeping in the same bed I did when I was in high school.

After all, I had plenty of dirty dreams about this guy in that bed. It seemed fitting that when I return to that bed, he should return as the star of those dreams.

But the most recent dream happened the other night. In my own bed in my own home in Philadelphia. A bed where I should be dreaming of Stewart Bradley or Andy Roddick (what do you want from me? I was in the middle of a tennis memoir), not my high school crush.

What makes these dreams stand out even more is that they are the only dirty dreams I have had since losing my job. All my other dreams have been anxiety induced. Like being chased around my old high school by lions or a new favorite -- discovering a hellmouth under my dresser so that every time I pass it to go to the bathroom creatures from the unknown rise up and try to pull me down with them. Worse than that, because it is directly under my dresser and blocking the entrance to my closet, I am forced to wear the same clothes until I figure out how to close the damned thing.

Now, I'm not the sort to believe there are hidden messages in our dreams. I'm from the school of thought that dreams are merely tools to protect one’s sleep. Which explains my anxiety dreams. I am worried about a number of things at the moment, but instead of keeping me up at night (okay, so sometimes it does keep me up at night), my subconscious is dealing with using lions, tigers and dismembered arms.

So, what then, is my subconscious protecting me from by sending me my high school crush to get me all hot and bothered?

The Text Revenge

2010-01-21T09:04:00.001-05:00

The Republican still occasionally sends me texts messages despite my making it very clear to him I could no longer be his text-girlfriend. And by occasionally, I mean every month or so, typically on a Saturday night at around two in the morning.

It’s not that these messages are a great annoyance. If I still slept with my BlackBerry on the pillow next to me, I might get bothered when the alert woke me up, but because my iPhone sleeps in a whole other room than me, I can’t even hear it. Still, once, when I was at my parents’ home he sent me a really important and esoteric message like “whatsup?” (yep, all one word -- told you he was a catch) and my mom, who was on her way to bed, heard it, looked at it, took note of the time and mentioned it the next day at breakfast.

Awesome. Now my mom thinks I am an even bigger whore than she previously thought.

I keep hoping that he will grow bored with my lack of response and eventually stop, but so far, not so good.

Then the other night I was out with Salty, PTH and the Duchess when the Duchess starts telling us a story about some crazy girl they all grew up with. In the middle of the story, we learn that she is seeing one of our friend’s exes and that ex sent a midnight text to our friend. Our friend new her ex was seeing someone and was really annoyed by the late night interruption (she still sleeps with her BlackBerry). So the next day, instead of responding via text, she responded via Facebook. Something similar to, “Hey, got your text last night. I was actually asleep. Sorry. I’m fine, my trip was great. Good hearing from you.”

You know that little post on his wall did not sit well with his crazy girlfriend.

Aren’t my friends clever?

Anyway, I am not sure if I am going to use this with the Republican, mostly because I am not sure he is seeing anyone that this would drive crazy. But, as I am sure this is not just a me problem, I figured I would pass along this plan of action in case any of you have some late night callers you would like to rid from your life.

Just Say No

2010-01-19T11:31:00.002-05:00

I stepped out of my apartment yesterday and paused a moment to take in such a lovely day for the middle of January in Philadelphia. I took a deep breath and started down the stairs when I saw a large poster of a discarded fetus.

I breathed out, hard. Oh, cripes.

In addition to several row homes converted into apartments, I share my block with a credit union, a seminary, an Italian restaurant (and soon an Italian sandwich shop opened by the same owners) a weight-loss management clinic, an MRI center, a dentist and the office of a U.S. Congressman. My guess was this guy, and yes, it was only one guy, was protesting either me, the liberal feminist blogger, or the congressman.

I then noticed the word choice with a question mark sprawled across the top of the poster and realized he must be there for me.

I took another deep breath and finished walking down my steps.

There was no way to avoid the 197-year-old man that I could now see was also handing out bright red fliers. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk that leads to my coffeeshop. And while part of me realized in his own perverted way he was just trying to save my soul, and I have a general rule about being nice to people that are trying to save my soul -- there are a couple of women that typically stand on the other corner handing out WatchTowers and other reading material, and I always smile at them and say “no thank you” when they try to pass something to me. But those ladies, and occasionally a gentleman, never make me look at a discarded fetus before I have had my coffee and so I decided all bets were off as I set my jaw and narrowed my eyes (though, I was wearing sunglasses so I doubt he picked up on my menacing gaze).

As I approached I could see he was also passing out rosaries. He reached out to hand me a flier and a rosary and I looked him in the face, with my jaw set and said no. I didn’t spit on him or kick his cane out from under him, nor did launch into a tirade as to what business it was of a 197-year old man if a woman chose to terminate her unwanted pregnancy.

Instead, with my one word and hard look I let him know that I respected his right to free speech and peacefully assemble. Just as he should respect my right to choose. Neither of us has to like it, but we should respect it. And I’m pretty sure he got the message because by the time I came back, not a half hour later, he was gone.

That or the congressman’s office called the cops and had him removed.

When Push Comes to Shove

2010-01-18T12:42:00.001-05:00

I recently finished Push and had hoped to see Precious before the Golden Globes, but that didn’t happen. Hopefully I catch it before the Academy Awards.

Push was a short read, but a really hard read -- for those of you that read it or saw it or know anything about it, you know what I am talking about. And it took awhile to get used to the dialect. But by the end, I was just overwhelmed by the strength of the main character Precious.

In my many years of arguing with idiots I have heard time and time again that poor people don’t have it any harder than rich people when it comes to opportunities to enrich themselves.

That and people on welfare are just lazy.

And while I know that this wasn’t a true story, given Sapphire’s background, as a reading and writing teacher in Harlem, I can’t help but wonder how much of this story isn’t true. Even if only 50 percent of it is based on reality then I think it makes one heck of an argument against the poor-people-are-poor-because-they-want-to-be argument.

Now, since it is Martin Luther King Jr. Day and a day of service is expected of us all, I think I am going to take a play out of Tina Marina’s book and head down to a corner in Center City and throw copies of this book at men I find attractive. Because you know if I think they are good looking they are probably Republican.

Ahh, James Dean

2010-01-13T07:53:00.002-05:00

While in Allentown I was at my old stomping ground, the South Mall, looking for an Eagles jersey for my mom when I paused at a calendar kiosk set up outside the sporting goods store. I browsed for a bit. Truth be told, I have a strange fascination with calendars and for a moment, I thought about getting another French phrase-a-day calendar. Sure, I didn’t resolve to learn French this year, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still practice.

Somehow I found myself in the heartthrob section, staring down at a black and white picture of James Dean.

Big sigh. James Dean.

I smiled, remembering how every year for Christmas my father would get me a James Dean Calendar. I turned it over to look at the back, at all the pictures I have seen a dozen or so times before.

I bent down to return the calendar to the rack when I noticed in the rack above my former beloved were calendars featuring none other than Edward and Jacob.

My initial reaction was one of disgust until I remembered the calender I was just swooning over.

Then I remembered that I own all three of James Dean’s movies on VHS and obsessively watched them as a teenager.

I remembered how I saved my paper route money to buy the limited edition James Dean watch that I loved so much (and still have somewhere).

I then shook my head. It was different. I didn't have t-shirts with his face silk screened on it. I didn't have a blog talking about how much my life is like one of his movies. Also, James Dean was dead, so I couldn’t follow him around Comic-Con screaming his name and swooning when he looked my way which is when it hit me. Oh my god, James Dean is dead.

He’s dead.

Just like Edward.

A while back I was at a happy hour with former co-workers, including an ol’ favorite of mine that we will rename here Brad. Brad and I get to talking about Twilight. He mentioned that he read an interview with Anne Rice and some other given vampire expert (or an expert on teenage girls) about why the sudden vampire craze. According to Brad, Anne said something about women are drawn to vampires because they represent exactly what women are looking for in a man, an older, more experienced man, in a body that will never get fat and go bald. Young women in particular are drawn to Edward’s character because he's wise and mature, from another time when men were respectful of women. So unlike the immature guys that are in their homerooms and classrooms and hallways.

And just like Edward (and Jacob) James Dean will never grow old or ugly. Just like Edward, James Dean was from another era. He seemed old and wise beyond his years, but more importantly, my years. He wasn’t like the guys in my high school. He was deep and sensitive and brooding and well dressed and I just knew he would understand all my angst. I mean, once we sorted through all of his.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry. And I get it. Sort of.