Martha and Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.