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?