now make that motherfucker....

Oh hell's bells, ya'll, New Year's Eve is almost upon us. And while I have never said anything so Southern in my life as that, I cannot wait to tell you how excited I am.

There's a venue that we have here in our little community. It's a FANTASTIC space and I can't emphasize that enough.

It's also goddamned cursed for me and that is where I am spending my NYE.
Every time I go to this venue, you see, I swear to myself that it's gonna be THE BEST EVER. I swear that I'm gonna have fun, that I'll be better, I'll be smarter, more grown up and a better daughter or son, and a real good friend. Singing Rilo Kiley to myself, I promise that this time, it'll be different.
Every. Single. Time.

Spoiler alert! It never is.

This venue is the site of  the first time of me making a royal ASS of myself in front of my roommate's hot friend (s.a.: it's ok, it'd never work between us; he likes pot), it's the place where I got kissed by two cousins on the night I thought I lost my phone at the Mustache Pageant & Rodeo, and most of all, it's the place where my friends and learned the difference between getting stupid drunk and getting Hammertimed.

Gettin' Hammertimed is a very special kind of excess, you see.
And while I know that "oh man, we were so wasted" stories are just small potatoes, this was intense.
I was drinking because I'd decided that a guy I was halfway interested in just wasn't a good idea (s.a.: that didn't stop me, but believe me, he wasn't),  my friendswhoareacouple were drinking because it was a good friend's birthday and they were in rollerdisco costumes and my other friend was drinking, well, 'cause it was a party. And things were glorious for a short while. We lunged around in short shorts. The female half of the couple pointed out a guy who she whispered about as being "that midget that I puked on at a party one time" and guess what, he really was! One of my closest friends was running around in an afro wig that I am convinced was at least as tall as her. We danced, oh how we danced, and lamented our lack of skates.

Then suddenly, we felt the evening shift into shittiness. We'd all been drinking heavily at this point. I was taking what Brad Neeley could only describe as oblivion seeking slurps. Male half of friendswhoareacouple was really drinking heavily, which is astonishing and I wish I'd been coherent enough to appreciate it. After a certain point in the evening, I began texting my friend and begging him to come get me and take me out of this situation. I'd already run my little ass ragged all over the whole party telling everyone how fun it was. I was embarrassed and sad and had tried, as I always try at this particular black hole of revelry and devil's music, to drink myself into having a good time. (s.a. hilarity ensued)

When our particular and rather more sober than we cavalry arrived, my jolly party was in sorry fucking shape. By this point, the line for the bathroom was beyond patience (one bathroom for the whole venue, with one toilet, that both genders shared). I'm not saying some people peed behind the partitions in the storage/construction area of the venue... but they did. Male half of friendswhoareacouple definitely started to feel his drinks and started throwing up, so his girlfriend had the brilliant idea that we should stand in front of him to block him from view. Two five feet tall girls, blocking a much taller guy who's puking, from view of the entire venue. Yeah... that worked out. Walking out of the venue when our friends got us to finally get the fuck out of there was one of the better moments. The venue used to be a garage, so we're exiting out garage doors, all of us are ducking. All of us except one. Forehead first into the fucking door, all 'cause there is such a thing as an iPhone.
God bless you, Steve Jobs.

Then shit got real. We all had to get home, somehow. But most of us needed our cars the next day. After a little while of trying to figure it out, it became abundantly clear that our rescuer was indeed going to drive every one of us home.

You need to understand what I was doing this whole time. Back when the rescue mission first arrived on scene. Back when the puking and the foreheading into garage doors was happening. Back to when everything first started to change. I, ladies and gents, was sitting in my seat, rocking back and forth, repeating two words over and over again, unceasingly, almost the entire time: I'm sorry.

Seriously.

While I was apologising to God, my mother and everyone, we managed to pour ourselves into rescue ranger friend's car and get back to my friendswhoareacouple's house... only to find they had left their keys in their car. Which was parked at the venue. So, naturally, instead of letting the sober person who drove everyone do it, tiny drunk female half of friendswhoareacouple basically scaled his body and managed to have him holding her above his head by the ass while she tried to climb the tree. In a giant sequined top. Then male half, who by this point had stopped vomiting, then tried to climb the tree. I distinctly remember seeing this, so it was around the time I figured out that I was alone in the car and stopped apologising to nobody. He leapt upon the tree and seemed to be making progress, when suddenly the branch he was on broke. He flipped upside down, clinging to that tree like a koala gripping an early 90s pencil. And then fell flat on his back like an awkward fucking turtle.

And that, dearlings, is Hammertimed. And the last time I was at this particular venue.
NYE get ready... 'cause I'm coming for you.

Well never mind.

There's this weird thing I've noticed in a bunch of my friends. They sit around and talk shit about all their other friends because their buddies haven't got their shit together, with the implication being that the person doing the shit talking does--which is rarely ever the case. Most of the people I really love are about the same: they've got a good job or a nice car or are in a steady relationship or something that gives them the feel of respectability. But I know they all do things that are simply jaw-droppingly stupid. And I know because honestly, for a lot of them, I'm one of the ones who helps them pick up the pieces. Because I don't judge. Because I understand. This may come as a surprise, but I do jaw-droppingly stupid things, too. Kind of professionally. I hope you haven't died from the shock of this admission. I've got my mind mostly together, but my life is a mess. I know this. I wouldn't have a blog with these kind of stories if it weren't, ya'll. So don't think I'm trying to judge or preach when I say the following:

Just because you always land on your feet does not mean your shit is together.


Ask yourself something. Did you get that nice car entirely on your own? How about your flashy, 'grown-up' job--do you wake up every day thrilled to go to work? How together would you be if suddenly, nobody was there to help you? How much of what you've "accomplished" would stand up on its own if you had to go it alone? And how much is based on, well, you choosing some arbitrary fact to lord over those around you because you're scared or feeling unfulfilled?

I know that for me, it's taken a combination of luck and the people who love me to get me through most of my disasters. Whether it's a romantic entanglement gone awry, all the times my darling dog has decided to try to take on a beast four times her size or just the lonely awkward parts of being human, I've managed to skate across some fucking thin ice by chance and with a helping hand. And I understand the need to share with someone what's on your mind, especially with a particular friend who's irritating you or hurting you or just plain being goddamn stupid. Just don't use some arbitrary fact to act like you're better than those you surround yourself with, because if you need that kind of distraction, you've got bigger problems than whether you're together or not. Trust.

So here's a suggestion. Instead of acting like you're the only one of your group of friends who's an adult, who's got it all figured it, climb off your damn high horse and realise that you surround yourself with these people for a reason. Whether you want it to be true or not, we're all narcissistic enough to care about people who remind us of ourselves. So if all your friends are trainwrecks, well, brother: choo choo.

At least in my life, I'm all about family. I'm all about community. I think the people that I choose to spend my time with are far more important than the things I do--maybe that's why I completely lack ambition. Caring about people comes naturally to me, as does my willingness to jump in at a moment's notice and save the day. Or beat you down with what one of my favorite humans describes as The Righteous Stick of Learning. So I use so much energy loving/worrying about everyone around me, I'll never be able to single-mindedly pursue what others would view as a great career or get really into politics like so many people. Or maybe I'm just so grassroots you can't even see the sprouts of what I'm hoping to achieve.

My activism is something much smaller than any grand scale movement, less flashy and doesn't require a single moment holding a picket sign or a petition. I'm going to be the person who makes their life a little harder at times to help someone who needs them. I'm mostly going to just try to be fulfilled and content with what I have and to to take care of my little chosen family as best as I can. I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. I'm aware that a lot of times it makes me do stupid things that don't even help. But it is how I live my life.

Not everyone wants to save the world. But nobody wants to be alone or let everything crumble into dust. So maybe if we all take care of just a few people around us, we can save so much more than this vague idea, we can save ourselves.

So please, guys, if you're hurting, if you're aching, don't focus on the parts of your life you think are better than other people's. Focus on the fact that you probably have someone who has your back, who doesn't care if suddenly your car breaks down, your job lets you go or you're in a relationship with someone who doesn't even understand you but looks great in pictures.

There is so much more to life than that, then this made up scale of what 'together' is or isn't. It's like listening to the harmony while being deaf to the melody. Nobody cares how postcard perfect the picture in your head is when you're calling down others' lives in comparison. You may hear the glorious crescendo of your own perfect little symphony but to anyone else, it's just a random string of notes, warbling and incomplete. It'll never be as together as the most vile, off-key but whole piece of music. Because that's what I feel my kind of person has to offer. We aren't always pretty to look at, we're fucked up and we're messy, but underneath it all, you can hear it, the love and genuine excitement we have for living and caring about each other. For my part, I'd rather have that. I'd rather sing out loud and know I'm hearing every note than ever be more concerned with how it looks to anyone else. That's just how I know my kind of people. I can hear them coming long before I ever notice how they look.

To quote Leonard Cohen, We are ugly but we have the music.

Happiness hit her like a bullet in the brain.

This is home.

When you have a brain like mine, a life like mine and you have to write, HAVE to write or you lose your mind, this is home; it's totally necessary. You need these words and the freedom of putting them where they aren't echoing in your brain and aching in your bones.

It's worry-making when what you're writing about is your life and people you love and care about and interact with, though. And I'm not the kind of person who wants to be passive aggressive. When it comes to aggression, I'm more the regular kind. So when I write about feelings on here, it's not with the intention of being mean. And it's never because I don't know how to deal with the situation in real life.

It's that it's in my head and when it's there it's white noise and waves crashing onto a beach like so many mixed metaphors. But when it's here? I can see it for what it really is and that is so wonderful.

So. Let me see, how to put this.

Well, have you ever gotten yourself worked up over a situation? Something you couldn't control, a puzzle you were working yourself to the bone to solve? Then suddenly, you're given a piece of information that fits into all the gaps, something vital that you didn't even know was missing; it fits perfectly and makes you see the whole thing, the actual picture, for the first time. Because you were so busy trying to master it, to make it fit together, you just never saw. But once you finally see it, everything changes. And it stops being about how to solve it. You can let that go, because you have a better perspective.

Freedom is never in the places you think it'll be.
And can I just tell you how phenomenal that feels? Right now?

People can't always look into their hearts and interpret the mess that they find there in a logical fashion. And while it's nobody's fault, it sucks to look back on something and realise how little you knew about what was going on. Especially when you're someone like me, who defaults to defensive arrogance when confronted with something that just plain doesn't make sense. I hate being that person. I really do. I hear the words that happen out of my mouth and I just want to hide my face in a pillow, like I do during embarrassing scenes in movies. My biggest flaw may be my lack of imagination, but a close second is my desire to have all the answers the second I pose a question. Even moreso when I really thought I had it all together-- or together enough to be able to have questions about it in the first place, anyway.

The process of putting yourself back together sometimes means that just having plans stripped away is a relief, whether you really wanted what you were planning or not.  Finally finding that little piece of the puzzle in the sofa of your soul that lets you walk away from something you just can't solve is kinda the best damn thing sometimes. Regardless of the fallout or how stupid you feel having made a big deal out of something that it turns out, wasn't, at least you know it's over. It ends up being just one more step in the process instead of something you're lost in. It's an immediate answer, clean and precise, instead of a layered series of questions that may not evoke any response worth having. And that's important.

If you can't see what you're doing, and I mean the whole picture, you're not going to put yourself back together right. You can't walk around with this half-assed Escher soul and a Picasso heart. Fuck the puzzle you're failing to solve, it's your pieces that you need to fit. It's ok to make mistakes. It's ok to get angry. It's always ok to be a little fucked up. But you can't live there. Sooner or later, you've gotta try to look around to spot what's stopping you from seeing. Chances are it's a tiny piece. So even if it's something that you carry with you as you walk away, I can guarantee you that it's still lighter than the weight of not knowing and carrying around all these possibilities in your skull. Oddly enough, nothing is heavier than things that end up having never been real to begin with.

That Time I Got Stuck In A Barracks Room for, Like, 21 Days.

This story is probably the most perfect example of exactly how I end up in some of my more spectacular moments. It is the record of a time where I made decisions with exactly the information I had available to me and they ended hilariously. Because quite frankly, I chose... poorly.

So flash back to that point in my life. Once upon a time, I was dating a boy in the military. And I would zoom all around in my little Kia  to be with him. His family lived about an hour from my house and he would come home every weekend from where he was stationed, which was about three hours away.

I would go see him and fight with his little sister and hang out with his mom and they would take care of me. And it was great, he was affectionate and clever and he bought me things (which is only notable because he was pretty much my first boyfriend to ever buy me anything) and was generally a good boyfriend. For about six months. Spoilers! He didn't stop buying me things, but he DID stop being a good boyfriend.
I feel that this story is kind of the beginning of that.

So, blah blah blah, we're running around like we're young and don't have anything better to do with our time and money, which is really the way it was and that part's still pretty cool.
Then I got my kidney stones. Then I left my job. Then I didn't look for a new one.
And then one day, I went to visit him on post. Even though I was actually going to pick him up the next weekend, I'd driven to visit and whoops. I forgot my current insurance card. You  may be unaware of this, but as a civilian visiting a military base, to get on with your car, you present your driver's license and your current insurance. I didn't have mine. And unlike when you get pulled over and they'll verify that you're current, the military has better things to do, which isn't meant to sound disparaging. They politely informed me that, no, I couldn't take my car on post. And that was that for them.

After having driven three hours to get there, I didn't know what to do.  To me, the only choice available was to park it at the gas station near post. I was tired, I was only going to be there for a day and well, I'd done it before, the last time I'd visited when I'd forgotten my driver's license. Are you starting to sense a pattern here?

So, regardless, I'm here, I'm visiting, we walk casually up into his room (as it's after six and that's when visiting hours start) and we pull the usual routine, where after a certain point, I just don't leave the room. The next day, it's also business as usual, where when he wakes up late for PT in the morning and his CO is knocking on the door, I hide under the bed, half tucked into one of the rucksacks, half covered with a couple folded blankets. I had to make sure I was hidden for when they did roomchecks, you see. I also want you to reread that, because, yeah, that was actually commonplace enough of an occurrence in my life back then that I still remember, years later, exactly what looked the most like piles of stuff under his bed instead of a girl who is NOT supposed to be there trying to vainly sleep a few hours more.

So I'm there for a day and a night, decide I want more time. One extra day? It's cool. We're going to dinner and then I'm going to leave and I realise my phone is dead. Oh! That's not good. But I'm smart. I'd forwarded a text to him with the phone number I needed earlier in the day, 'cause I kinda figured my phone wasn't gonna last. He's in the bathroom, I grab his phone to get the number.... and what? Wait, I'm sorry, did I just see what I think I saw in his text menu?

Yeah, guys, I'm not proud of what I did next. I have never done it before and I have never done it to another person since.Because I loved that guy and I had never really had reason not to trust him. Nobody had ever really been unfaithful to me. But I saw what I saw and so, I started going through his phone. And what I found was a bunch of messages from this girl named Missy. Missy lived in a city near his grandparents, he had met her through myspace (FUCKING MYSPACE.) and she had a foot fetish (and if he ever protests this, I invite anyone to check his phone records from that time. He had indeed made a new friend with a phone number from that area and while I may not be able to prove the foot thing, I know and so does he). These are the things I learned in the minutes he was in the bathroom while I was reading and my entire body was going all hot and cold from the adrenaline, shame, anger and jealousy coursing through me. It was pretty rough. We ended up in this screaming fight and I, like the idiot I was, forgave him. And having forgiven him, well, what could I do but stay another night? We're onto three now, for those of you keeping count.

By this point it was Wednesday, I wouldn't be able to leave til after 8 PM (visiting hours!) and I was coming back on Friday anyway... so I might as well stay til the weekend and then just drive us both home. Beats adding an extra twelve hours worth of driving, right? Sure does! Until you find out that he doesn't get to go home that weekend. He has drill. So I stay the weekend. As of Sunday, my one day trip has turned into a week and I'm ready to go the fuck home. Haha. But we all know that's not gonna happen.

Because Sunday is the day I started to pass yet another kidney stone. And I was sicker than a dog for that entire week. I was either throwing up in his shower, sleeping under the bed or watching The Shield with his roommate in a vain effort to try to not want to die. Kidney stones hurt. And not in a stubbed your toe kinda way. Or a scraped off half the skin on your finger almost slamming it in a door kinda way. It is a straight up please-god-somebody-anybody-just-make-it-stop-kill-me sort of way. Flash past all the crying and screaming and vomiting and it's Friday again and we're both ready to go home. It's been 12 days and I'd meant to stay one night. So his roommate gives us a ride to the gas station.... where my car is no longer parked. Because it's been towed. Obviously.

We find out it's the military and not the city that's towed my car, which is good. But what's bad is that we're told I'm not allowed to go get it or even talk to the person about it without an active duty soldier who's stationed on that base to go with me. And since it's a civilian that runs that department, their hours are a VERY strict Monday through Friday, 8-5. So we make the best of it. We see a movie since I was so sick and stuck inside for a week straight. The next day we go to a house party and I get to meet some more of his friends. It seems like a pretty good weekend. We go back to the room, thinking, nah, it's cool, bro. We'll get this sorted on Monday.

Bear with me. I know this is a long story. But the following is pretty important information.
Now, I want you to imagine what I was like both emotionally and physically at this point. I'd shown up expecting to hang out with my big burly manchild of a boyfriend and his sweetheart of a goofy roommate for a day or so and then jet on home. I'd come with one change of clothes, enough money for food for a day or two and gas to get back home. I ran out of money fast and got real sick of wearing that same damn outfit but had no other options. And Bees (yes, that was his nickname) wasn't too into doing laundry on post, so all he had he shared, but it was mostly work out clothes. Add onto this the fact that they weren't allowed to smoke in their room, but did anyway, so we could never open a window or the door, especially since I wasn't supposed to be there anyway. On top of all this, I'd found out my boyfriend was cheating on me through sexting (and yes, that IS cheating) with a girl he'd met on the internet in the lamest ass way possible.

The barracks he was in were done in the old style, which means it's one room, longer than it is wide. There's one bathroom with a dorm-style shower and a toilet. There is a tiny sink in the corner and that's it. If I had to guess, I'd say the room was 10 by 20. The layout was: against the west wall, his roommate's bed by the window and front door, then their couch then his bed and a foot or so of space. Against the east wall, it was his roommate's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the TV stand, and my boyfriend's standard issue cabinet/chest of drawers/desk, the constantly full trashcan, a couple feet and then the sink. And I've pretty much described every single time we left the room. They left every day to go to work, from around six AM til often after six PM, and  I was in the room, by myself. When they got off work, I still really couldn't leave. We didn't have a car to go anywhere and besides, what if the on duty person realised they hadn't seen me walk up? What if they asked questions? This puts me in this same confined and often smoke-filled space for twenty four hours a day. This entire time.
Ok? You got all that?

So back to the story. The first couple days of trying to get the car are pure fail. The station is only open during the times boyfriend is at work and neither he nor any of his fellow medics are able to get the time to come get me. He calls in a couple favors and is guaranteed to have some time to take me and we can get my car. It's Wednesday. It's been 17 days. Finally, I'll be able to go home! He's going to pay any fines that have accumulated and we'll be in the clear. Except, wait. If I'm not supposed to be here and it's an all male barracks, how in the world are we going to march my little ass downstairs in the middle of a work day to get to the office we need to go to?

This is where this shit gets a little I Love Lucy. Because we're desperate. We try, at first, to put one of his spare uniforms on me. Yeah.... not so much. I'm five feet tall and around this time probably weighed around 120 lbs. Boyfriend is about six foot two (had to look this up, I'd swear he was taller) and has been lifting with a kettlebell, well, for a while at this point. Even with the military's only two sizes available to us (too small and too large), this is not passable. Then we try his PT shorts and a plain ARMY shirt with a baseball cap. I'm still too obviously a girl and besides, my little ballet flats cannot pass for PT gear at any point, ever. Then I tried to fit into his rucksack, since I halfway curl up in there while I sleep under the bed anyway. We also tried to put me in his footlocker, thinking they could carry it down and put it in the car and then I could just pop out like a rabbit out of a hat once we were no longer within view of the building. All of these seemed like the logical courses of action. I cannot overemphasize that. We really, seriously were planning to put me into what was basically a giant laundry bag backpack and hide me from people who weren't supposed to know I was there so we could go to get my car out of impound because I was an idiot who didn't move it/was too sick to think about anything but the pain and left it at a gas station for over ten days.

Long story short, this didn't end up happening. We had to give up. What happened finally was that it was a four day weekend and although both my then-boyfriend and his roommate drew duty on Friday and Saturday, we were finally driven home on Sunday night by a friend of his. I remember sitting in the cramped backseat of that car, curled up in a tiny ball so that everyone and their bags could fit and feeling like I was on my way to rehab. I arrived home about 15 lbs lighter, shaky, emotionally overwrought and the smell of Marlboro Light smoke did not come out of my hair for about two weeks. The first place I went (besides home) was to my best friend's apartment, where I burst into tears because it smelled like girls and was clean and bright. And I wish I could say that I never went back to that barracks room. But I did. And while that was not the last time I went through his phone, nor was it the last time I found exactly what I was looking for, the rest of that particular relationship circus is just gonna have to be another story

Oh and for the record, I did get my car back. My mother and I went the next week, spoke to some guy for fifteen minutes and when he found out there was a female General coming to inspect the property, he let us skip the majority of the process and cut right to the part where I get my car back. Also? Since it was on post and had a current registration and insurance, the total fines we had to pay added up to absolutely nothing. Uh huh. My car was in the impound lot for like more than two weeks and I didn't have to pay a dime. Plus, I had my mom with me to pony up the dough for new tires when I had a blowout on the highway on the way back.
Cause yeah... that definitely happened. But I got my car back, nobody had to pay for it and I evenutally left that relationship. So all's well that ends... well, all's well that ends, anyway.

Somebody yelled out, Hey Stop Drop and Roll! I said, That might save my skin, but it won't save my soul.

I was sitting on a couch somewhere, watching VH1, when I found out that Bruce Springsteen is his mother's only son. I'm my mother's only daughter, and we were both born to run....
I've been feeling stuck for a while. Stuck in my life, in my heart and my mind. I will be quitting smoking, soon. I will be writing more, soon. I will be having more money, soon. Everything is in in the future perfect and it just makes me fucking tense.

I WANT something, man. I want it now, all Veruca Salt and unspecific angsty yearnings and whatnot. I've spent all these sleepless nights trying to put my finger on it, exactly but it wasn't till yesterday when my voice and my will both ran away from me, definitively, for about twelve hours, that I could start to get a feel for what I wanted.

My entire life, my whole life, I've been living like I was on fire. I've gotta run, I've gotta keep it burning. And I've been still. And when you live on fire, you feel yourself crumbling to ash if you don't find your ways to keep it alive. It's this precious force in your soul and I think most people have it. They know they have this thing they have to do. But somehow they drown it. They make it shut up, and although I can completely get that, although I can understand wanting it to stop, wanting to have a life where you can sit and be nothing or everything, or anything to anyone, without it being a big deal; where you can be safe and not have to wonder about what's coming next. Without having to worry about who's burning who. But I can't, I just can't. It's exactly like Kimya sings, like I've written in dozens of other formats, like I feel when I close my eyes and feel the momentum when I'm standing in one spot for too long:
My heart will stop if I put out the fire.

And so I've gotta do it. It's the time of rain and my dogs snoring gently while they snuggle right up against me to keep warm, the time where I'm just in goddamn LOVE with my friends, with their individual faults and personalities. But at the same time, I know there's something inside me that's anxious and wanting and I've gotta start taking care of it, I gotta figure out how to deal with it. So I'm gonna run. Because I've gotta run, and it's gotta be now.

 'Cause you see, I'm  not only my mother's only daughter. In about a week, it'll be sixteen years since the last time I spoke to my father. And my father never ran, you see; he was always forcing himself to stand still, trying to find something inside himself. And that's it, you see. My father left me, forever, when I was a ten year old still too young and unaware to appreciate the gifts he gave me. He gave me half my sense of humor, my love of Ray Bradbury and dozens of illicit episodes of The Simpsons and Married, With Children.... things that happened long after I was supposed to be tucked quiet and safe, asleep in my bed. And in a way that I could never thank him for, when he left me, my dad ensured that I will never be tucked safe and quiet anywhere.

Because safe and quiet are ways of being still. And of all the things my father gave me, his heart is the one I'm most glad, most proud, most overjoyed to have been given. His life and this mind I've got, always searching and wanting have ensured I'll never, ever, ever be still. Because he may have left me, and I can never bring him back; but he'll never be dead, he'll never be gone til I let that fire go out.

And so I swear to God, dad, mom, dogs, friends, everyone who loves me.
I will never be quiet. I will never be still. And I will never put out this fire.

Ladies: An Important Lesson.

Schladies, broads & dames:  lend me your ears. I've got something so VITAL to share with you.  There is one thing that I wish we could have ingrained into our education from an early age, something that cannot be overemphasized. Something we all need to know, but still have to learn over and over again. It's absurdly simple and can be boiled down to one phrase, that I'm fairly certain was a darling friend's status update awhile back:

homeboy don't think you're rad. homeboy just wants to fuck.

That's it. That's the lesson. And if we could just get this through our soft, romantic, smooshy brains, we'd save ourselves a lot of problems. We'd also probably have a lot fewer problems, because if we just could get to the point where we demanded respect rather than hooking up and hoping that the power of our vaginas will cause an emotional transformation in guys who just aren't lookin' for more from us, we'd have more energy to focus on making things that are possible and good for us happen.

I'm writing about this because it's something I have experience with-- I had a near perfect FWB relationship on and off for like six or seven years. And it's something a friend of mine has recently been going through. Her FWB fell for her and it quickly went ugly. He swears that she made promises to him that she never did. That by getting him undressed, they entered into some sort of social contract about the state of their relationship. And she wants none of it. In fact, she discovered this fact because she met someone else and wanted to end things. Although he's being pretty vicious and unreasonable (calling her at four am, stalking her facebook), he's reacting from a place of pain. And as undignified as it is to have such strong feelings for someone who doesn't have them back, it's a million times worse when those feelings are coupled with pain. So even though I'm writing from a place of female bias, be aware, this could happen to either party. I've definitely had more guys become way too attached in this sort of scenario. So females do not have the lock on the Affectionately Challenged role. You yourself could end up as the homeboy of the above cautionary tale.
Because that's all it is. A tale about getting tail, playing at something that is only ever half real.

I mean, I've heard it put better. Julie Klausner, who authored an amazing book called I Don't Care About Your Band (a part of which is the inspiration for the title of this blog), said that friends with benefits are like unicorns who shit cupcakes. They're fun to imagine, but no matter how hard you try to pretend, it's not real. You want to believe that's what's really going on.... yeah, it's probably not. You've either got two emotionally damaged people who are using each other (sometimes), two people who are into each other but refuse to admit it/are scared/ think the other doesn't feel that way and so use the FWB excuse to get close (rarely, unless you're the star of a romantic comedy aimed at twentysomethings) or  one person who's REALLY into the other and is willing to be left holding the emotional doggy bag of being a regular, commitment-free lay while the object of their affections pursues whatever and whoever else on the side (most likely).

I know for me, personally, I've ruined a potential thing with at least a couple guys by pursuing this sort of agreement. And even when it HAS worked out to where nobody got really hurt, it still often leads to tension and the occasional long discussion in which you need to talk out some minor miscommunication that just wouldn't happen if either 1. everyone kept their pants on or b. people just took responsiblity for their emotions.

It's a weird tightrope to walk, trying to balance the emotions that inevitably will crop up when you're getting naked and up close with someone pretty frequently with no promises and the knowledge that this is something that you chose. That it seemed like a great idea at the time, even if for no other reason than it kept you from pursuing whatever else happened to be thrown in your path at a time when you did NOT need to be doing that. Because that is the truth of it, at least part of the time. It's nice to not be lonely. To know that you have someone you can call who will be there when you ask for them but won't stop you from chatting up that boy with the clever grin you keep seeing around.

Jealousy, desire for something more, even irritation with how empty things in these arrangements feel are pretty much normal. You want to either drop it completely or lay it all out on the line and hope the object of your (in)attentions is just waiting for you to grab them by the hand while the score swells to a glorious crescendo and speak the words, "Say. Say. Don't you see that you love me? That I love you?" And then you dance, oh, how you dance. But if it were really that simple and if your emotions were really that clear, you probably wouldn't be in a FWB situation in the first place.

So. In reality, how that probably goes is that you grab their hand drunkenly at last call while the jukebox blares Bombs Over Bagdad and slur, "Sup... we gettin' out of here later?" while something rather less enchanting than the music swells and as for the score, well... I hope you're not actually keeping count. I'll leave the dancing out of this out of pure decency.

You end up this half-kept secret. Sure, certain people can't help but know. But it's not something either of you is likely to advertise. You're not a couple. You are not the person they're going to be laughing with in their new facebook picture. And no matter how many cute little texts ya'll send to each other every single damn day, you do not have the assurance of knowing that you are the only one they sent that message to, the only person who receives witty updates on the state of their lunch, or the movie they're watching or how their busy work day is going.

But you also share things with each other that most people will never know about either of you. You get naked in any way, emotionally or physically, with someone and they know you in ways your very best friend may not. Hopefully, there's some sort of agreement on exactly what is strictly between you guys. You aren't going around blowing half the town just 'cause they couldn't free themselves up for an hour or so of rogering, one should hope. Hopefully you're being safe and responsible in the ways of getting tested and using some form of birth control, which, frankly, we should all be doing anyway. You have your little code, more than likely. Your little inside jokes and probably at least a few genuinely great memories of things you experienced with each other. Yet by the very nature of your arrangement, you also aren't to the point where you want to share any more of your life with this person. You're either emotionally unavailable due to fallout from past relationships (and in some cases, current) or just plain not that into them. And it can be a tough fuckin' call, even from inside your own head, as to which it really is. Because guess what? You could fall in love with that person. It's not unheard of and I myself know one blissfully married couple who started out that way (though you can bet they will totally sugarcoat that for the grandkids when the day comes).  But more than likely, what is going to happen is that one of you is going to meet someone else. And the other is going to be a little blindsided, no matter how often they told themselves they knew it would happen eventually. And that hurts. Every single damn time, that hurts.

Because you have this person you opened yourself up to (ziiiiiiiiiiiiiing) and then they went and found someone else who had something you didn't. Who did something better, and you can't help but wonder if it was something that involved clothes being on or off. Biology is going to kick in, every time, and you're going to develop some sort of feelings for the person who sees without your cute going out shoes and your hair done up perfect. They see you with your make up half sweated off and your drunk self saying things you didn't mean to say and still they come back for more. That HAS to mean something, right?! Right???!!! Wrong. If you're desperately waiting for the person you're boning to read between the lines of what you say to him, you aren't being honest. You aren't being fair. And if they're sitting around allowing you to hurt them because it's within the parameters of what you more than likely arranged while intoxicated, they're stupid. Yes. I really do mean that.

I guess all I can say is, the lesson here is the same as it always is. Just be honest with yourselves, ya'll. Admit it if you want more from someone than you're currently getting. Or if you think they're wanting more from you. And maybe it'll work out. Maybe you're on the same page and you can make one, quick agreement and nobody has to sit around listening to Thanks, That Was Fun by Barenaked Ladies. Because you're both adults and know how to keep your hearts out of your pants. And if you're lucky, if you're so so lucky, you can trust them with that and you can trust yourself with it, too. And who knows? Maybe you'll be the one who can catch that unicorn. But I'll be curious to hear how those cupcakes taste after all.

The Time of Miracles.

I’m driving down the road in my roommate’s car and I look down to make sure I’m not going more than five miles over the limit when I see the needle on his speedometer firmly set at zero. After reassuring myself that I was in fact sober (and with the way life’s been lately,  that was indeed my first response), I thought, man, what a freakin’ perfect moment.

I was driving along this highway in my roommate’s car in the first place because right now, my car is out of commission. A few months back, I drove off the curb whilst in the middle of an argument with the ex who inspired this blog and damaged the brake assemblage on my car. Having damaged this part of my car before, I thought to myself, Huh. That’ll be pretty bad in like three months. Future me’s got a lot of problems. And speaking as Future Me, yeah, I really do. I ignored the little rattle and then the little grind until one day I tried to drive myself to work, a day like any other, until my car started sounding like what I imagine giant, drunken robot sex sounds like.

Everything’s been so frantic lately and it’s been that way for a while. It’s not just me, but all my friends are feeling it. I’ve seen us hit the bar, fights with our significant others and even our work just a little harder than we did before. I guess it must be the season change. It still feels like summer every other day, but the leaves are changing and some days it’s actually cold. It’s hard to get a grip on Fall here, since most of the time it’s still flip flop weather , but you know the heady days of Sunday Funday summer and road trips and grilling are over. It’s almost the holidays and we’re getting old enough that they’re hectic and not just something we use as an excuse to drink. With this looming, and between the three of us living in my house right now, we’re dealing with  three jobs, three  busy social lives, two break-ups, two acquired handles of liquor, one car and zero money. We poured our last bits of cash into the gas tank of the beast we’re sharing and the last few cents down our throats. 'Tis the season!

And see, ya'll, even in this, even in this time where nobody's paycheck is cashed and we're texting everyone to find rides to work, where we cuss and walk into a house where people are listening to The Used in the dark, the internet is out and we're sharing a meal cobbled together by what's left in the fridge, I love my life. We’re so damn lucky. We’ve got each other to help us roll with the punches, to get through this time with punk rock singalongs, long conversations over drinks that we’re managing to make last an astonishingly long amount of time and so many memorable moments. And it’s been uncomfortable. But I know we’ll look back on this and it’ll be such a great memory, about that time we had to MacGuyver our lives together because everything chose to break down at once. We’re creating our own holiday miracle, with the bottles that somehow manage to get us through our broken hearts and no money days, pulling each other along with love and laughing and even when we cry, we know we’re growing and that we’ll get through this, this moment where I‘m hoping I‘m not speeding too much ‘cause I‘ve gotta get to work after getting someone else to work on time;  the best part though, is that we‘re going through it together. And I know looking back it’ll be such a tiny portion of time, over in a heartbeat, even if  right now we have no idea how fast we’re going.

Patrick Schwastey.

As a resident of my favorite local historic district, I felt that it was my civic duty to have the mother of all Halloween parties this year. I wanted the kind of party that people remember (or don't) for years.... the kind that may put future high-paying jobs at risk. The kind where friendships are made and promptly forgotten after you add someone on facebook and swear you'll get together sometime soon.

Dare I say it, I succeeded.

My co-conspirators and I chose to have a house party crawl, culminating in last call at our favorite local watering hole and an after party back at mine, and we started out with a house party at the first locale but naturally, it was on the same night as the final game of the world series, so most of people didn't show up til late, but after the ball got rolling, it was on.

Ok, guys. I'm about to betray my conceit here. This is my single girl blog. It is a place where complicated strings of emotions and joie de vivre come to get down. But, man, I fucked up. I'm in love. I fell the night of my party. HARD.

And like any person in love, I can't stop talking about this shit. I am in that babbly, nauseating phase where I have discovered the UNIVERSE and I feel so bad for you poor guys who haven't that I'm gonna try to show you the light, son. TESTIFY!

But no, seriously, guys. I need to share this with you. I need to shout it from the rooftops and scrawl it on bathroom walls and make it resonate in the chambers of your heart like poetry or the first time you heard that song that now gets you through your day.

Love is out there and its name is Pink Panty Pulldown Punch.

Jolie Kerr has shown me the way.

The description is long and beautiful but I believe it can be summed up in one small excerpt. After consuming this punch, Jolie says, "You will stick your fist in the lasagna." And damn if she ain't right. So many fists were stuck in so many lasagnas and we're still trying to figure out exactly what happened.

The first house had a live show, which was delayed by the Texas Rangers playing someone.... I think maybe the New York Knicks. Those are all hockey teams, right? Weren't they in the Superbowl this year? Yeah, but anyway, all of our friends who love The Sports were latecomers and had already been drowning their sorrows because somebody lost or somebody else won, not sure which. So by the time people got to my house, the second (also the last, for the after party), everyone was toasty.

I actually had to work, so I too was late to the first house. I showed up and wandered around, still slightly panicking, because damnit, my house wasn't decorated yet and IT'S NOT A PARTY WITHOUT STREAMERS, GUYS, IT JUST ISN'T!! So after supporting my buddy's band, I went to mine to bribe a couple friends to decorate my porch and make the punch. I was so scared and skeptical because the punch has fucking beer in it. So I thought it was best if I tried a glass. And oh honey.

If all the references to my favorite watering hole haven't made it clear, I am not an amateur when it comes to the strength of things I imbibe. And let me tell you, within five minutes of chugging this glass, I was mass texting the words: "Darlings. The Punch has landed."

All the sangria and weird sherbet-lime punch having been consumed at the first house, people began to trickle over. I handed out glasses of punch with abandon, assuring everyone that it tasted like magic but they needed to "check yo'self before you wreck yo'self." Yes. It was that good. A couple glasses in, everyone had long since let their hair down and had morphed into the wonders of wit. My roommate's girlfriend judged everyone from our couch, a guy walked around in a costume shaped like a giant bottle of ketchup with the Z crossed off, pointing out that it now spelled out Hein, which is his name, my big brother rang a little bell as he wheeled around in a wheel chair.

 At some point, we had to get to the next house and we literally took the entire five gallon bucket of punch with us in the backseat of the car. And at the last house, that's when it just got ridic. I had to stop people from simply drinking out of the bucket. We danced like madmen & madwomen. Our bar was the next stop and frankly, I didn't even make it that far. I heard from one of my favorite bartenders that at one point, a reveler from our event had fallen down six times and last he saw,  he and all his would-be escorts were laying in a pile on the sidewalk in front of the parking lot laughing.

 I asked this friend about this later and he did not believe he'd been to the bar that night. His last coherent memory took place a couple hours before: I have a very similar set up in my home to the third house, with a dining/entertaining room with a wide doorway into the main living room and he remained convinced that he walked from the third house's front room into my living room at one point.

The hostess at the third house eventually got sick of it all and so I herded everyone back to my house. The group that had chosen to walk instead of ride with the couple sober people that were present showed up just in time to turn around and meander back. All the add-ons from the bar came as well as my across the street neighbors. Two of my female friends decided to play their Stripping Songs, just like always happens at a certain point in the evening. We were dancing and singing and grooving to the music. I'm pretty sure my porch will never recover. The cute bench that I got dumpster diving a few years ago was decimated and I'm still surprised that we didn't get a citation for the amount of beer cans, bottles, red solo cups and cigarette butts that were rolling around on there. My favorite plant was knocked over, but thankfully, Jay-Tree survived. My other plant, Ke$ha was not so lucky and was watered with at least one beer. It's unsure as to whether or not she'll make it.

My dogs and my other plant were squirrelled away in my bedroom, so they were completely unscathed. The dogs were originally supposed to stay the night at a friend's house but due to a lack of communication and the friend's roommate's belief that the scabs from the Ted Meowsby Affair were actually ticks, my bubbas ended up sleeping in my bedroom, where around five thirty, they were joined by two of my friends. Haha. That was fun to come home to...

Because yeah, incidentally... I left my own party. That's how great this punch was, that's how insane the house crawl turned out to be. And while that's an adventure I'll have to share at a later date, just know I definitely stuck my fist in all the lasagna and god bless it, Jolie Kerr, thank you. Just thank you.

MVP of the Ho Superbowl.

I have this really amazing friend who, among other things, is the only person I allow to cut my hair. And for me, someone I trust with my hair is someone I will trust with anything (incidentally, she's also the person who'd lost her phone at Target during the Infamous Instead Cup Incident).

A lot of my friends these days are party favors--they're fucking rad when there's a good time and there's drinkin's afoot, but when it comes to real, day to day, sober sort of scenarios, they are not the kind of people who necessarily have your back. This girl is different and I'm grateful she's in my life, blah blah blah, wind beneath my wings, blah blah 90s girl power feminist affirmation of love, etc. But she's also goddamn amazing because she can turn a phrase like you would not believe. And of all the things that she's ever said, my absolute favorite is describing a point in her life that she affectionately dubbed "Ho Superbowl."

It's pretty much exactly what it says on the tin, darlin'. And it's what I'm in the middle of as we speak. As you read. Whatever. It's a morality tale in a lot of ways, in which I play the delightful and dimpled role of the Gerber Baby of Don't Do This examples. I'm sure my face is going to be a damn poster with some sort of cautionary slogan stamped across my forehead in the future.

I've always been a rather, well, hedonistic person. But these days it seems that I have a lot of free time on my hands and so I go out a lot. And I'm a charming, charming person, even more so when I'm a little tipsy and have a roving eye. Let's start out clearly, however; I am a safe, responsible adult. I've had exactly one instance of single serving sex because I think they're gross (AND it was a with a friend who I trust and am still close with to this day). I don't randomly troll for strangers at my favorite watering hole or any other one, for that matter. Within the confines of my reality and morality, I cling steadfastly to the standards and rules I laid out for myself a long, long time ago, before I drank, before I smoked, before I had ever slept with even one guy.

That being said, I am absolutely certain that my behaviour lately qualifies me for spot in some sort of hall of fame (shame?) that the majority of the population would consider rather disingenuous, to say the least.

Take this for example. Not so long ago, I was hanging out with a guy. During said hang out, one of my bigger questions was "is this a date?" And to this day, I have no idea. My full rant about the difference between "dating" and "hanging out" will come with a fury but once I stop babbling and get on with the story, you'll understand why for once, the sort of modern ambiguity embodied by this sort of non-dating worked in my favor.

Anyway, the not-date. We're at my bar and things are going fine. We had a gay ol' time and he very upstandingly paid for dinner. We had a couple drinks, I'm already pretty good. Then I start to notice he's not really paying much attention to me. Or talking to me at all. Or standing by me. For almost the entire time we've been here. I'm asking my friends, hey do you think this is a date? And the reports are varied but I made an executive decision. This is not a date, it's barely even a hang out. I'm not much feeling it and I'm irritated and don't really feel like being an adult and hunting him down. So, I chose to press my luck and my karma. Homeboy is off talking to someone else, hasn't even checked up with me for about an hour, so I begin texting my then friend with benefits. I leave the bar, we meet up at my house, we take care of business and I go back to my hang out with nobody the wiser--except for the people I gigglingly confide this information to--and honestly, dude didn't even notice I was gone. Literally. Needless to say, not much of a future there. Add another check mark to my tally in the Forever Alone column. Nah. Go ahead and add two.

It's ok, guys. Karma came roaring into my life soon after. Let me tell you now about a not-date that resulted in catastrophic bodily harm and included an after party at my house.This is the beautiful story of how Ted Meowsby totally fucked up my Christmas. (Not literally. It is an expression. This story takes place around Halloween).

So yeah, I'm on a hang out. With a guy. And we're at the bar after some Chinese food. It's the usual situation of wondering how appropriate your behaviour and dress are while trying to still be charming and social... oh, not-sure-if-date nights--they're ridiculous and lead to stress and possibly one drink past the prudent! Anyway. After a night at the bar that was lovely and social and good where I was dressed smashingly appropriately, nobody wanted the evening to end. I'd had to take care of a minor emergency in the middle of my evening, so I was definitely game to make up for lost time. So I invited several friends and the gentleman with whom I was (goddamnit) "hanging out" back to my place, as I had adult beverages aplenty.

Whilst attempting to be a good hostess and nipping in for a cup of something for someone, I accidentally left my front door open and Ted Meowsby, the beautiful feral/abandoned cat I take care of, got in the house. Suddenly my karmic bill was due and while I was attempting to rescue him from being assaulted by my two dogs, I sustained enough scratches that I honestly have to wear long sleeves to work because it looks like I have fucking track marks on my arms. Oh, and he bit through my finger and broke my nail below the quick. There was so much blood it ruined the very cute sweater I picked out  in a flurry of "is this casual enough for maybe not a date?" Everyone inside my house was panicking and attempting to convince me that I needed to go to the ER (which was probably true, as a stray animal had just bit my fucking finger). They literally just scooted the cat out the back door with their feet, swept up the glass I'd broken and fussed over me a good long while.

But this is where I really prove my mettle and go for the g(ho)ld. Because in the Ho Superbowl, I do not believe it's enough to just make questionable judgment calls on not-dates that aren't really going anywhere. You have to hang with the big boys as far as your game plan for parties and really know how to keep calm under pressure to have a good time in the foreseeable future. So while I'm actively bleeding, literally in tears because I hurt and I'm worried about the stupid cat, I made choices that were, well, choices. I chose to not sleep at my house that night because I didn't want to be anywhere near that damn cat but it's important to note that actual sleep is all that happened. I also chose not to go get checked out at the hospital or a clinic. And the reason for this choice? I didn't want to go to the doctor partially for the reasons in the previous story of a medical emergency, but I also really didn't want to be on any antibiotics that would preclude me from having all the fun I was hoping for at my Halloween party, the appropriately named and legendary Drunk or Treat Halloween House Party Crawl. Battered and bruised and bloody, I inspected my dogs to find their ears torn to shreds and various scratches on their torsos, but nothing that warranted an animal ER trip (because I take better care of their health than my own, believe me). So we continued with our evening and I learned a valuable lesson about giant black cats becoming the tools of karma.

The next day inspite of the fact that I had a hangover to beat the band, I spent two hours looking for that damn cat. And I found him with not a scratch on him. I broke down in tears because I was thrilled that my dogs hadn't hurt him and I wasn't gonna find him dead on my porch three days later. I also wanted to punt him into next week for all the shit he put me through. But looking down on him, with his enormous eyes and bottle brush tail, I couldn't bring myself to hate the cat. He was simply used as the paw of justice for one night in my life. It really wasn't his fault... and it's not like I didn't deserve it. Because when you fuck with karma, you gotta accept what you have coming to you. Them's the rules.

Because that is one thing I am scrupulous about. I follow the rules because in the big leagues, who you don't sleep with is almost as important as who you do. So when you follow your personal rules about what constitutes proper behaviour for a hook up or a date, or even (shudder) a hang out, you'll always come out a winner. Because I didn't sleep with the guy who was interested enough to try to barter the cost of a dinner for me getting undressed but not enough to keep track of where I disappeared to for an hour. I did not rush to sleep with the guy who didn't bother to be clear about whether we were hooking up or really getting to know each other and left me wondering all night. I slept with the guy who's honest, rad and above all, my friend. I kept my priorities straight, my personal morals in order and goddamnit, my fingernail may still be falling off, but I had fun and I got a great story. And after all, what they told us in elementary school is true. For all sports, but especially for the Ho Superbowl, isn't fun what the game is really all about?

I'll always be waiting for you...

When I think about love, I think about four things.

1. A mix CD I recieved when I was 18.
2. Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind
3. The moment my mom's bus left and I was alone in a new city my first day before college.
4. Ballet.

Especially when you're recently single and evaluating what exactly it is that you want out of your next potential relationship, you spend a lot of time thinking in the negative. You remember, possibly with shame and that deep feeling of embarrassment in your guts, some incident where you or your former paramour did not live up to your ideal and you tell yourself, you swear, you VOW, never again. I never want that again.

But that's the thing. That's a protest, and it's ill-organized and weak. It is not taking a stand. And although it's been attributed a million times, that old saying, If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything is nothing short of teeth-grindingly true.

People are so vague when you ask them, what are you really looking for in someone else? If they give you the whole truth, it's probably a clip from a movie or a snippet of a song or a feeling they had once, that connected some neural pathway to some other neural pathway and created this chemical reaction they decided was what love should be and feel like.

Like that mix CD. It was a perfect blend of songs of devotion and heartbreak. When you're 18, that's so ideal. Because you've got all these emotions and not enough places to put them. You're young, you're HUNGRY and you're terrified that life is going to pass you by and leave you with weaker memories than you'd like. And this CD, combined with the fact that I listened to it on a student tour of Europe, made the perfect recipe for that easy sort of young love. Granted, it ended like most relationships at that age do... I went away to college and started dating someone else. He was back home, still in high school and no matter how much I would listen to that CD and hear those lyrics and remember our stories, I wasn't anywhere near the level of emotional freedom and development that it would've taken to stay strong and make it work with someone in that kinda situation. But this was almost ten years ago, and I've got tons of stories where I was the bad guy... so why does it still matter?

 Because that CD was one of the few gifts I've gotten that was completely for me. It wasn't a lecture or something he made for me so that I could improve my taste in music under his tutelage. It was our story, his feelings and everything he wanted to tell me but had yet to (and in a few eerie ways, it was also a pretty damn good prediction of who I'd grow up to be). It was a love letter, the only one I've ever received. And that's where it becomes an ideal, that's where it's something I want in a relationship. I want someone to know that what I like matters. To give me something that means something to them, yes, but is meant for me. Not a t-shirt you buy from a store you know I hate that I'll wear out of obligation.

Maybe things would be easier if we all really tried to look at what we WANT, rather than what we don't. At what would work instead of what just feels good in the moment. I'm a sloppy dater, like anyone else is. I meet someone (usually at the bar or a party) and instinct takes over. Adrenaline kicks in and once the flurries of texts are flying, it's hard to remember how much you like this person based on their known qualities. You just remember that this person remembers what drink you like and sent you that really witty reference to a show of which you are a huge fan. I think it's how many of us end up either ignoring huge glaring compatibility issues that plague relationships for years. I think it's how we often end up so heartbroken, saying, but how could this not work out?

I'm trying really hard, just like I have the past couple years, to really face things head on and with my eyes open. Even if this isn't the path that leads me to true love or even my next relationship, I want to know exactly what it is that I'm seeing. And I can put on that mix and hear that punk version of Every Breath You Take, Falling For You, Only In Dreams, Shiver, The Scientist, Why Do You Want Him, I Am A Rock I Am An Island, Ocean, Why Do You Want Him, Call and Answer, Only In Dreams and most of all, Alison and remember that once, someone looked at me with their eyes open and how goddamn amazing it felt. And that it's exactly how I think part of it, maybe a much smaller part than now, should've been.

After all, inspite of my fuck ups and silly ways, my aim IS true.

Isn't There A Kitten, Stuck Up A Tree Somewhere?

Well, slowly but surely my heart is healing, kiddos. I've gotten more of myself back in the past couple weeks than I would've expected, enough to get my serious flirt on a couple times.
But the other night, in a heart to heart conversation with a very dear friend, it occured to me that the same issues I've always had in the past when pursuing The Mens are still very present. This entry is about one of them that confuses me the most. It begins, as most thing should, with me listening to an Ani DiFranco song at the tender age of sixteen.

I am not a pretty girl.
That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress,
And I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk.
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair?
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?


And that's when I realised, hepcats, the little lesson that would beat me in the face again and again. I am not any of those things. I have never been the kind of girl who can simply be rescued by anyone. And over and over again, I've realised that what I want, more than anything else, is a guy whose will is stronger than my own. Even back then, when I was young and full of horomones and totally confused, I knew that's what I wanted.

I remember that time of innocence, before losing my virginity, before smoking my first cigarette, before I even considered drinking or really cussing or much of anything about what love was like. Sure, I'd had a couple of boyfriends. I'd had crushes that didn't reciprocate. But I'd never had a heartbreak. I'd never really been hurt. My first real heartache was looming five years in my future and I was still young, confused and blissfully unaware. But I was not, even at that tender somewhat undamaged age, a fragile flower. And hearing this wasn't about a boy who'd hurt me. This was important because it was the first real glimpse of who I would become and, also, an all too subtle reference to how many boys and men I'd later meet would react to me.

Because most of the time, loves, most of the time... that's what boys do want. A maiden fair, someone delicate and doe-eyed that they can impress with their wit and wiles and sweep cleanly off their feet. Someone who looks up at them, clinging to their arm and you just know they see it: that guy's Inner Rock Star, A Knight In Shining Armor, A Big Brave Man to Save Them.

And I am just not that kinda girl. And while that fact has honestly hurt more men that've gotten involved with me, it's hurt me plenty. And it's what's been said to me so many times I can't count. And it's not just me. Any of my strong-willed, independent female friends could tell you the same story. And the critique comes in so many forms.

• Getting Bro'd off by prospective beaux who know good and damn well that you're interested in them, who for some reason or another just can't accept a girl who expresses herself "like a man." So they only way they can reasonably interact with her is to nullify her gender, to act is if she appreciates the world solely from a manly perspective and treat her like one of the guys, regardless of how many mixed signals that results in.  I am hugely feminine. I wear heels, know how to properly apply make up and own a nice, frilly and varied selection of lingere. But I also cuss, love punk rock, and don't suffer fools in silence. Many guys, especially the timid, so-called sensitive ones have attempted to flirt with me and use this technique at the same time, which mostly results in me being pissed off because the guy who tried to make out with me last night is the same guy stage whispering, "Damn! Did you see that girl who just walked in?! No WAY a girl like that is here alone."

• Being told by former siginificant others what a turn off your independence had always been. That's always such a backhanded blow, too. The refuge of a coward. Because they never mention it in a way that relates to anything else. Because it's usually something they don't say to your face until a screaming fight or ages after it would've been relevant in your relationship. It takes so many delightful forms, too! Being called a ballbuster, a cunt, a bitch, an ice princess, or even more politely, just plain difficult? In my opinion, it all boils down to that we scared them and make them feel like less of a man. And I gotta say. Being called emasculating hurts just as much as being told how hard it is to impress you by someone who then says they can't wait to "be fascinated by someone." As if being well-informed and in control of your life immediately removes you from that list of people. As if the goal of trying to be an actual, strong human being instead of some shrinking, soft-spoken violet nullifies any sense of mystery you could've cultivated. Guess what, guys? If a strong or difficult woman is talking to you, flirting with you, she's damn impressed. She's in control enough to approach you head on with both eyes open and still come back for more. I find that a thousand times more appealing, personally, when someone who actually knows what they want is still willing to chase me.
  
  
• Having to be the one to end an interlude or flirtation and then getting called any number of pejoratives for doing so. When you see something's not working but you're the only one willing to take some measure to rectify it, you end up being the bad guy, even if you're just trying to save the friendship and some heartache. This one goes for both genders. But I've definitely been told things as lovely and varied as that I am a heartless bitch who's scared of being hurt so I hide behind this cold facade and that I was just using someone for money, when in reality, they were unemployed, so I paid for my half and theirs most times. This one is especially hard when you were clear from the beginning that you weren't interested in anything beyond friendship.
  
  
• The guys who claim to respect your logic and rather rational sensibilities to attempt to play you, as if your sterling qualities of strength make it okay to simply want to use you or dawdle with other competitors, but still manage to find their way to you with startling regularity. Because you understand. Because you should be satisfied with these crumbs, since you get it. Since being logical means you aren't emotional, right? Yeah... These guys absolutely are the worst because they never quite make it clear what they're after, they never flat out say what they do or don't want.

For someone who is genuinely interested in love, these are rather trying things. Because in spite of some of my more unsavory misadventures, I am a romantic. I really would like to fall in love, with all the trimmings. But not in a storybook way... how boring must happily ever after be, if they can't even be bothered to tell you what happens? Even as a kid, I figured that must be why the story stops. And while I'm damn good at being someone's Number One Fan, I'm fully capable of doing so without having to be a mealy mouthed little wallflower. And I don't know if you've noticed, gentlemen, but there aren't a lot of kitten skeletons dangling from limbs. They can figure it out on their own. And so can I.

I know exactly what I want for the most part and I'm not afraid to pursue it. But it makes it really hard sometimes and you can get a little heartsore. After dude after dude who thinks you're scary or wants to just "hang out" without even telling you what the fuck that means, after getting told over and over again that you just don't make someone feel needed enough and even flat out that who you are and what you're like makes you less attractive... well. It's one hit after another and you start to feel a little bit like a booth at a carnival, where everyone gets a shot.

It makes it a little hard to remember what you're doing this for, that there is a point to the adventure and fucking up to find out who you are that goes a little deeper than just being able to tell hilarious stories on your blog. Because maybe it's about watching how you change and wanting to look back and see all the stupid crap you put yourself through and remember the good and not so good times. It's important to remember that if you're trying to work through all the issues that cause you to make stupid decisions,  you've gotta be doing it for yourself. You gotta know who you want to be, especially if that's different than who you are currently.

 And maybe that's why I have this blog. So I have something I look at and say, yes, I made these decisions. And I'm willing to hold my head up and approach people with that in mind. If that loses me points with a guy, because I'm willing to be the first one to initiate contact or that I live this completely absurd life, so be it. But right now, honestly, it's a little lonely. 'Cause the other side of that is that although I have no problem finding someone out there who's interested in a recurring role in my bedroom, I also haven't been asked on a date in about four years. And I'm not sure if it's my personality, my independence, modern romance or the guys I interact with that're to blame. Or none of the above. Because while I don't need to be rescued, I do believe love saves us all. And I'm the perfect person to be swept off her feet... because when I get swept, I stay swept and you'll always know exactly how much weight you're catching.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to start something serious with anyone. But today, for the first time in a long time, I can see that I will be sometime not too far ahead. And I have to believe that can happen again. Like one of my heroes says, I could never give up on the possibility of falling for someone who'd make all those pies I took in the face worthwhile. And while what I write it makes it obvious that on the regular, I'm adding tallies to the Forever Alone score, I also think that this is sort of why, for a very certain type of guy, a guy who will not make me suffer the indignities of just hanging out, who will love me and laugh his ass off at all my stories, a guy who will be a stand up sort of adult, the same 'sort of' adult that I am; for this guy, who I'm praying is out there having his own adventures to share with me, this is exactly why I am Marriage Material. 'Cause if there's one thing all these stories prove, it's that I'm not afraid of being exactly who I am and I know how to adventure. It will be a partnership and that's something I want, more than I'd ever want to get saved by some asshole in a tin suit, because in my fairytale, we won't ever have to stop being rock stars to worry about who rescues who, we'll sweep each other off our feet and be able to hold tight all the way down, 'cause we'll be falling together.

A Heartwarming Story About The Real Meaning of Friendship.

Just as a little caveat to this story... I have no shame. I'm really, really blunt and do not often censor myself, especially when it's on a blog I'm keeping that was inspired by a break up. So do not read this post if you have delicate sensibilities and do not want to hear about my vagina, my period and a very stupid situation I managed to get myself involved in. I assure you, the details could be much gorier, so don't say I didn't warn you.

Having never been comfortable with any of the typical women's products available, I finally took the plunge last year and tried the Instead soft cup. And oh my god. . I adore using them and I think they're the bee's knees, the cat's meow, an all around noun's noun. If I were asked to choose between them and deodorant, I'd honestly hesitate... but I'd pick deodorant because I'm terrified of smelling bad. But, that being said, if you're me and you're sticking something inside yourself, hilarity will in fact ensue. Everything that happened in this story was ENTIRELY MY FAULT. Do not take this story as a story of typical use, I have never had a problem with the design, feel or comfort of the cup nor with it malfunctioning within the parameters of proper use. That being said, on with the story.

So the other day, due to a series of incidents, I managed to have my cup .... well, to put it delicately, wedged in my bajingo. I went to remove it and... no dice. Ordinarily removal involves hooking your finger around the rim of the cup and gently pulling. My fingers could barely graze the edge of the cup and I thought, ok, maybe I'm irritating it and making the situation worse. I thought no big deal, I was trying to take it out early anyway and there's not a risk of TSS like there is with tampons.

So I waited a while and failed to remove it again. And I think to myself, huh, that's weird. And it really bothers me this time. I realise that it's shifted back inside me so that it's set too far back. Nothing a little angling won't solve! So I shift positions a little and put one foot on the toilet seat as I'm standing in my bathroom. And still nothing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong beyond my fingers simply being too short and I decide to experiment a little. So I lie down on the bathroom floor. I sort of squat in the bathtub. I sit on the toilet. And absolutely nothing I'm doing is helping. Instead, I'm pretty confident that I'm pushing it just a little further in with each attempt. Around the time I find myself on all fours on my bed attempting to pull it out from behind, I start to think, ok... I might actually have a problem here.

At this point, in between frantically fingering myself, I text my best friend, explain the situation to her and she calmly says, oh, yeah, I've had that happen. You just need to break the seal. It's easy. Maybe try a spoon. But very very carefully.

Now, gentle reader, I don't know how much experience you've had with sticking inanimate objects in your nethers, but let me tell you, anything metal that isn't being handled by a doctor shouldn't have any business in your ladyparts. I know this. My logical, every day brain knows this full and damn well. But three hours into a heavy panic, anything seems logical. You read that right. I'd been wracking my brain for THREE HOURS trying to get this stupid thing out. I will leave the ensuing attempts mercifully vague, but don't be surprised to know that I attempted to stick a spoon in my vagina and it did not fit.

If you're the kind of logical and well balanced person I hope you are, at this point, you're asking yourself, why didn't you go to the emergency room? And the answer to that is a two, no, a three-parter. First of all, although I am insured, I've yet to pay my co-pay and doctors is expensive, kids. Second. I was really, really convinced I could get it out. That I could circumvent physiology and outsmart not only my internal structure but the length of my fingers with cold logic. And it ended as well as one would imagine, which is pretty damn poorly. And third, well... I'm sure I'm not the first person who's been in this situation. You can have sex with these things in and I hear it's not noticable AT all, so I'd imagine removal is a pretty simple and routine process at the county ER located a few minutes from my house. But damnit, I was embarrassed, ya'll. It's one thing to tell this as a STORY to friends and strangers. But when you're contemplating being spreadeagled on a cold exam table in front of someone who's possibly pulled glass or maggots or god knows what out of an open wound in the last twenty four hours, you might feel a little squeamish. Plus, since it's a very non-life threatening condition, who knows how long I'd have to wait? I really, really didn't wanna go to the doctor.

So what else is a girl to do? I can't get it out by myself and I am not going to the doctor. Oh yes. We come at last to the audience participation portion of my emergency. And let me tell you, it's a pretty illuminating looking at your life when you sit and evaluate which of your friends are most likely to not only understand how you got yourself into such a situation in the first place but would also be willing to stick their finger in your hooha and pull out a feminine hygiene product. It's eye-opening.

I mean, look at your list of friends. Hell, look at your text history for the past day. These are people you confide your secrets to, the people you try to impress with your wit and who you feel the need to update in a nearly instant fashion, probably on the daily. How many of them would you even be willing to ASK to help you with something this intimate? How many do you think would say yes? And more importantly: how many would you say yes to if presented with the same request? Your "Finger a Friend" lifeline is something you probably aren't even aware that you're earning daily, but apparently for each of us, there comes a time where you have to ask someone, "so listen... how close are we really?"

Most of my very close friends have moved away in the past few years, so I'm going through a list of people who've known me around a year or for less than three months.It takes me a few minutes to go through my phonebook and pick the most likely candidates that I'd be comfortable asking. One girl flat out says no. The next is literally elbows deep in her screen-printing workshop and will not be available for hours (though the image of her hands coated in red ink made it seem like she was rooting for me, at least). Another had left her phone at Target and didn't respond to my plea til a couple days after. My very last chance call goes to voicemail and I'm having to face facts, it's hospital o'clock.  Prospects are not looking good and finally I text one of my most recent friends to keep me company while I wait for god knows how long.

Now this is a person I barely know. We may be eskimo buddies, but we are not super close.

me: hey wanna keep me company while I go to the hospital?
amazing friend: well, yeah, do you want some company or some help?
me: depends on what kind of help you mean...
amazing friend: well, my fingers are longer than yours.
me: I'll be there in ten minutes.
me: make it fifteen. I'm gonna wash up.

So I'm nearly in tears from relief, I drive over to her house, giddy at the prospect of the nightmare being over. She's of course shared the story with her three roommates and while the two boys stay downstairs, heavily engrossed in the copy of X-Men Legends II that I'd loaned them, she, her female roommate and I all head upstairs to do a pre-shot. Pinnacle Cake Vodka is quickly imbibed and we step into the bathroom where I remove my pants and sit on the toilet, the towel I'd asked for to modestly drape myself with is quickly cast aside because, well, she's gotta see it to figure out where she's going. And at first, she crouches in front of me, just looking. She says, Ok, I have one of these, but I'm not sure where to start. The instant she touches me, we all jump up and look at each other very uncomfortably. My pants are put back on and we go to do another shot. The boys clap because they think, oh, it's loud and giggly, they've clearly accomplished something. Nope. Sorry, boys.
We head back into the bathroom trying to figure out where I'm going to sit for best positioning, because the toilet's not cutting it. Her roommate hits on the small ledge that's built into their tub behind the faucet. Various shampoos and soaps are cleared away and before you know it, I'm bare-assed on the ledge with my friend's finger inside me while her roommate looks awkwardly on, my legs braced against the sink and the shower wall. I'm not sure exactly what to do. I can't really give her directions because I can't really feel where it is. I don't know if I should say something encouraging, because what am I gonna say? This is way better than the first time a guy fingered me? So I start to babble some small talk to her roommate while she digs around because, as she put it, "boy that's really in there!"
The suddenly, a look of equally blended triumph and disgust that was oddly reminiscent of the look on someone's face when they pull the bag of giblets out of a frozen turkey crossed her face. She's done it! I'm free! And it's in the bathtub!

As my friend frantically washed her hands and I scrambled clean up the bathtub while being conscious that my  naked lower half was on full display still, I was struck by how normal I felt after what had just happened went down. I mean, on the one hand, yeah, it's bizarre and my friend has now been face to face in a brightly lit room with the entirety of my bidness, but she did it out of love. She helped me because she knew I needed her. That's huge. Once we're all cleaned up and put back together, my superhero friend, her roommate and I celebrated with a cigarette on the front porch and a heart to heart about some serious issues that had been plaguing people we know. I felt closer to them at that moment there, and after hugs ensued, along with much laughter and fuzzy heads induced by Pinnacle Cake Vodka, I realised, this is something I'd missed for a long time. Knowing that I could trust someone and knowing that just like I've got their back, they've got mine. Just knowing, just knowing that I have a friend that I can turn to and not only will they laugh at the mess I make of myself, but they'll also dive right in after me and help me fix it. That's kind of thing you can't take lightly. That's the kind of thing that real love is made of and I swear, I'll never forget.

Because at the end of the day, your heart might be broken and your hands might get bloody, and yeah, you might just end up half-naked with your legs spread apart in your friend's bathroom. But damnit. If you've got friends who will finger you when it's really necessary, what the hell else do you really need?

What this blog started out as a was a mostly self righteous attempt at getting over a break up. Like all recently scorned and single people do, I imagined my ex reading some hiiiiiiiiiilariously phrased and unsueably veiled reference to an interaction between us and suddenly realising how wrong he was. Suddenly melting in the face of my ineffable wit and Becoming A Better Person. Then I could nod to myself and preen and be so damn proud of how inspiring I am.

Thankfully, all the blogs I would begin to write that were of that ilk never really got off the ground. Even better, it didn't take me that long to realise how much I didn't give a damn about what kind of person he does or doesn't become, it doesn't affect me any longer. Who he was to me is very different than who he is to me now and I can cherish those memories... even if I still randomly get the urge to cry in the shower or duct tape cold cuts to his bicycle, including on the spokes and handlebars.

And the reason I couldn't write anything like that is that, well, that's not who I am, regardless of anything that may've been said to me that inspired this level of neurosis and that unique desire of a dumped person for the satisfaction of knowing you'd put someone in their place, that you'd hurt them the way they hurt you. It's natural to want that but it will never be healthy to seek it out in a way that damages another person. And no matter how much I'm hurting and trying desperately to heal right now, I will never be that person.

Instead, what you're getting is very different. It's still very much the trials and tribulations of a single girl. But it's also about me, the ridiculous dichotomies in my head, the stupid ass situations I manage to faceplant into and how I'm learning to live with these things with some sort of grace... not a lot, mind you, but it's better than it was. And while believe me oh, believe me, there will be stories about dating and boys and all those silly men who done me wrong.... this isn't about that and I don't hate those people and I'm not doing this to hurt anyone's reputation or feelings. But it will be true, all of it. And God bless, it's my life.

So, thanks, Most Recent Ex.
I guess I can let stuff go after all.
(Whoops... you see? Told you it was just a work in progress.)