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?