Grow Up

Hef/confused old man    Source: Google Images

It astounds me as of late how the physical and mental ages of people (read: guys) around me don’t add up. Trying to crunch the numbers is futile. Toilet humor + bad table manners + phrase T-shirts + no money = 22 years old? More like 14. Or how about noncommittal + partier + the Fade Out = 33?! I could go on. Please don’t make me.

In ancient times (and modern day places—really anywhere but Southern California), the tribes would be furious. How will the race continue if the men don’t recognize their role as the provider and choose a mate? This is troubling for those of us who would like to marry before the ripe ol’ age of 50 (which is when, it seems, the men folk have decided to settle down). We won’t look good then, guys! Even with Botox. (I should say even without Botox. Who’re you fooling, Steven Tyler? And yes, I’m grouping him with the women.)

So how did we go from hunter-gatherer single-family units to open relationships, life-long bachelors and sister-wives? 

Personally, I would like to blame Adult Swim. Not only does every show SUCK except for Family Guy (clearly that show promotes old school family values like communicating with your children, even your baby, and maintains that marriage is important in a culture that says otherwise), but it has officially sanctioned adult men to watch cartoons. Just because they’re edgy and late night doesn’t mean they’re cool, guys! You don’t see people watching that Ferguson guy. What’s his name? Craig? I’ve lost interest.

Let’s take a look at the CDC's stats on the matter. In the most recent data (2009), 2,077,000 people married. Approximately 10 years ago (1991) 2,371,000 married. 10 years before that (1981), 2,438,000 married. For the most part, marriages generally increased year over year until the 90s. Yes, people. OUR generation. I mean, is it really surprising? The clothing of the 90s was so androgynous nobody could tell who was a man or a woman. Hey, you in the flannel shirt and baggy jeans! OH. Hey, Jessica. (In case anyone was wondering, Jessica was the number one baby name of the 80s.)

Yes, these stats don’t specify men or women, but there is only one gender that looks at wedding magazines, picks out dresses early on and likes interior decorating. Christopher Lowell aside, it’s the girls who appear to be more marriage-oriented. The men are coming up in here with their cartoons and their bachelorhood and stomping all over our biological clocks. Ouch, men. Ouch.

Whoa…okay, this blog got away from me for a minute. Let me state a few facts for the record. I, blogger extraordinaire, do not think all men act like children. I am also not ready for marriage at age 23. However, I do believe that we are letting the appropriate settling-down age slip further and further through our hands, and an unwillingness to grow up is spurring this on.

So let’s say we all just say whatevs and live for today, settling down be damned. Aside from the cease of procreation and the end of the human race (barely worth acknowledging), or a human race comprised of single-parent, only-child children (NO thanks—social awkwardness would run rampant), we’d all have one thing to look forward to. HEF. Yes, Hugh Hefner. (What’s that you say? He did marry? OH yes, I’m sure his secretary wife enjoyed her tax breaks while Hef was out with other women.) I’m sure in today’s world some people think his life is pretty great, but I think I’ll pass on the limp, overcooked gray slab of mystery meat. I mean, please. No amount of money. If he was a grandpa like he should be, he could be cute and drooly, but as it stands he is gross. Gross, gross, grosss. 

And there you have it, the future of promiscuity as it is today. Crumpled Kleenexes and baby oil. (Sorry, Gawker forced me to read this quote from Holly Madison and I couldn’t be the only one. Just be glad I didn’t link it.) SAVE YOURSELF WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

Quirkland

Source: Google Images

 

Everyone has their cute little quirks. You know, like needing to sleep on your stomach or pronouncing a word wrong or reading the last chapter of a book first. Maybe you feel the need to wear socks at all times, or shoes, or you correct others’ grammar. (Okay, okay, the grammar thing isn’t cute. I’ll stop lying to myself.) Totally normal, harmless behavior, right? This lasts until about date three or four. That’s when you start to catch a glimpse of the freak flag.

Trouble is, how do you decide which of these traits are harmless and which are, well, freaky?

I think we’ve all experienced that moment when you realize there’s something a little off. It’s inevitable. Unless you’re the most boring, ordinary person on the face of the earth, you have something unique about you. (Unique, of course, being the nicest possible way to state it. Weird would be more accurate.)

This isn’t necessarily bad, though. I mean, Alec Baldwin’s character on 30 Rock is arguably one of the coolest guys, like, ever, and even he had an unusually large collection of cookie jars. Plus, one day someone will think these quirks are cute and you will feel more secure about yourself and the two of you can fly away to magic happy Quirkland^tm together. But until this totally likely event happens, let’s establish a few guidelines for weeding through the freaks and finding somebody acceptable to date in the meantime.

1. The quirk is not actually harmful to you. For example, wearing shoes in the house = not a big deal. (As long as they’re not tracking mud all over your clean floors!) Wearing shoes in the house because they have a contagious fungus = big deal.
2. The level of annoyance is proportionate to the level of happiness you experience around this person. Does the fact that they sing along to literally every song on the radio make you want to punch them in the throat? Or is it only mildly irritating, and greatly outweighed by their angelic voice? 
3. The level of annoyance is proportionate to the level of attractiveness of this person. I mean, let’s just be real. I could put up with a LOT if I were dating Bryan Greenberg. “What, Bryan? You want me to cut your meat for you like your mother used to?” Fine by me. 
4. On a scale of 1 to crazy, the quirk doesn’t go above a solid six. Sure, this will vary from person to person, so decide on your own rules. I mean, for me, toe-sucking or any kind of foot fetish is at least a 15 and unacceptable. But I guess some of you weirdoes ARE those people. (Believe it or not, that is the correct spelling of weirdoes. Oh gosh, now I’m correcting myself.)

I think that’s enough. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good quirk. This is by no means a cease and desist letter. They really make things fun. And I’m definitely not telling you to terminate a relationship the minute one surfaces. I’m just saying, be prepared. Don’t be surprised when you offer him a Listerine strip on the fourth date and he declines because it will ‘burn his cankers.’ (Okay, that one MIGHT be a deal-breaker. Not the cankers, the fact that he brought them up.)

BTW, I bet you’re reading this blog thinking, “I have noticed that about other people.” Well, guess what. You’re a weirdo, too. Remember that time you found yourself standing on your head in that person’s bedroom (in a NON-sexual way, dirty minds), and then you realized that was slightly abnormal behavior? And then you realized it wasn’t the first time that had happened? Yeah…

Initial Contact

First contact. Source: Google Images

 

There is nothing more precarious than the premier étage of dating. The solid connection forged in person can collapse as quickly as a poorly made soufflé if the ingredients aren’t integrated perfectly. And we ALL know what a bummer it is when your soufflé collapses. (OKAY fine I don’t, but one of these days I will fulfill that dream.) Actually, a fallen soufflé would probably be more disappointing then a missed connection with the lackadaisical way dating is approached nowadays.

Pardon my stream-of-consciousness blogging style, but can we pause and discuss the missed connections section of Craig’s List? Depressing and unlikely. 24-year-old MFW, do you really think the blond girl in jeans you shook hands with at a bar last Tuesday will remember that? How does that description even identify anyone? That could be me, for all I know. OMG how many connections have I missed?! I think that page is supposed to inspire hope, but really it just reminds me how little confidence people have. Man up and talk to her at the bar, MFW! This ‘speechless’, butterflies-in-one’s-stomach excuse is not believable and NOT hot.

That said, the key to initial contact is, crazily enough, establishing contact! (And not in a way that involves throwing a first move out into the ‘cosmos’ in hopes that said person will respond.) But just what is the best way to contact your new flame?

Scenario. Late one Sunday night, a connection is made between two consenting parties. Beer → conversation → karaoke → phone number. (That’s the typical progression, correct?) So now Journey is sitting there with Bonnie Raitt’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket. He has several options.
 

a)      Rip up the number and throw it away. Sure, she was great, but her vocal skills were akin to Cameron Diaz’ in My Best Friend’s Wedding, and he’s not trying to get with that. Also, the dramatic ripping-up gesture was very satisfying.

b)      Abide the three-day rule and text her at a time when it appears nonchalant, e.g., 4:57 p.m. Obviously NOT 5:00 p.m., because it will then seem too carefully orchestrated. Plus, this will deepen Bonnie’s interest as she nervously awaits his call. (Or, more likely, it will give her time to forget him or move on. Obviously I’m not a fan of this rule.) 

c)       Text her back immediately and/or the next day with a witty comment/inside joke. Caution: with this approach, the guy should not expect the girl to follow up since she now has his number, and that had better be one hilarious comment. Otherwise this option can come across as needy. 

d)      Call her (gasp) within the next few days with a pleasantry about the other night and an invitation to dinner, or coffee if the situation seems sketchy. I get it guys; nobody wants to spend that much money on someone who could just up and start planning your wedding on the first date. Or worse, is a vegetarian. 

All of these options are a plausible means of getting the girl (or guy..woo feminism). Well, except the first. I guess the first could work if you immediately regret ripping up the number (because she is a girl, there’s that) (or boy) and post your MFW/WFM on missed connections. Then the cosmos can bring you together just in time for the holidays, a festivus miracle!

OR you can choose one of the latter three, more sane options. Unfortunately there is not really any good standard, because typically if someone likes you they will like your approach. Feel it out, though; if she (…/he?) seems shy, maybe a sooner call-back to inspire confidence is in order. A younger girl will probably expect a text as opposed to a call, as she only uses that aspect of her Smartphone for her parents, and vice versa for an older girl. Although that extra initiative is always appreciated. A confident, independent girl may be turned off by a quick reply, as the chase is a necessary evil.

Most importantly, if you text, DON’T start a boring conversation. And don’t make the person you’re texting start it (i.e., “what’s up girl” is unacceptable). Do yourself a favor and think of something interesting. Because if we resort to talking about Wheel of Fortune immediately, so help me, that’s it. I’m not trying to fast-forward to our conversations 40 years from now. (You know Pat and Vanna will still be alive and running the millionth season.)

Hopefully with some basic steps to follow we can make this process feel easier and slightly less foreign than alien contact. (I’ve never seen E.T., but I think “E.T. phone home” was probably established because he wanted to call up a chick.) Next time you find yourself wearing a foil helmet, surrounded by glasses of water and a baseball bat, staring at the phone…Who am I kidding, if it gets that far, you’re way beyond me. Joaquin Phoenix, I’m looking at you.

Holiday (tequila)

Source: Google Images

As of late a gentleman named Jose has had a significant impact on my life. At least, Jose spurred a chain of events that led up to this moment in time. Things were getting pretty serious between us back in college…but then I met his worldly uncle Patron. Jose had the tall, lean build, but Patron really introduced me to the finer things in life. And of course by the finer things I mean things that are not fine at all, but somehow seem so when a rich, worldly uncle describes them. (You know, sort of how I’m trying to make tequila shots sound elegant in this paragraph.)

Actually, Patron and I had a nasty breakup and I typically avoid him like the plague. But this story begins and ends in Mexico. A place where the waiters frown when you order water and admonish, “No tequila, no vacation.”

Really, the question of the week stems from utter bafflement on my part. Why is this Mexican nectar so toxic for those who are north of the border?

Sidebar: [Meddlesome reader: But wait, isn’t this a dating blog? Knowing blogger (aka radiant sunbeam of light): Not only did I introduce this blog in a datey (yep, invented that) way, but if anyone here would like to say that no relationship has ever begun or ended under the influence of tequila you may throw the first stone. Pertinent. Topic. Lawyered!]

Anyway, according to an article from 1977 whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell, tequila can only be produced in the state of Jalisco and limited regions in a few other Mexican states. Mexico also holds exclusive international rights to the word ‘tequila’. 

Naturally, what I take from this is that tequila appears to be an elitist, segregated alcohol. This makes me think of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry eats the black and white cookie, and the two sides don’t get along and break his near 15-year vomit-free streak. (What? Only three of you understand that reference? The rest can stop reading my blog.) First off, all of this pondering made me hungry—stopping mid-thought for a sweet, and yet refreshing Junior Mints break—and second, ARE our bodies being taken over by some sort of fascist dictator every time we drink tequila? Probably.

I mean, if we weren’t being puppeteered by some eccentric middle-aged man by the name of Patron, how could one possibly go from avoiding a certain person by hiding behind a friend or locked door to chatting and carrying on enthusiastically with said party in just a few short minutes? Of course, those minutes were really hours and that carrying on is a euphemism, and your friend did abandon you for her own selfish reasons (ugh, sleep is so bourgeois).

And how could one go from Cuervo (perhaps a tall, lean, good-looking Israeli from Denver) to Patron (a rich, worldly…let’s just not talk about it). The anecdotes could LIT-erally (oh, how I love Rob Lowe on Parks & Rec) carry on for days, but the answer is simple: One. Drank. Too. Much. Tequila. 

According to the mythology behind this ‘nectar of the gods’ (here), reader’s digest version, a goddess stole the light of the earth, and another god got angry and went to kill her. Instead, he fell in love with her daughter and forgot his original intent (sounds like tequila), and when the mother goddess found out and sent people to kill him, he and his lover of course decided to become a tree (?). Unfortunately, the mother still killed her daughter. Harsh. The man god buried her remains and they grew into the agave plant. The rest of the gods took pity on him and struck the plant with lightning, producing tequila to ease the man’s pain of lost love. Soounds like a pretty accurate story of tequila’s influence on the world today.

So what we’re dealing with here are angry gods and elitist puppeteer dictators. NO WONDER Saturday night was so crazy.

Thirty

Typical thirty-somethings. Source: Google Images

Thirty-somethings love to be around other thirty-somethings. They love to remind twenty-somethings that they are younger and better off in a condescending way that does not make them feel better off. Most of all, they love to commiserate (because, of course, they are old and gray and have no good years left).

From the perspective of a naïve twenty-two-year-old whippersnapper, this is understandable (and yet ridiculous). One gray does not an elderly person make. Also, I suspect if they really thought, really thought back to their twenties, they would remember the turmoil and uncertainty of these years. They are great in their own way, but sometimes a girl would kill for a little stability. Fresh off yet another failed dating venture (no complaints, no complaints, no complaints…), I’m posing the question: who really has it better?

First of all, let me point out that my thirty-something friends go out more than I do. (And no, I’m not a cat lady who sits at home and knits, so stop picturing me that way. STOP.) They stay out later drinking, they drink more intently and they are always throwing and attending parties. Granted, this may be a fervent effort to make up for lost time, but it is so. 

Let me add to this that Sex and the City kicked off with the women in their 30s. The 20s didn’t even exist for these women, who were supposed to represent the savviest and most successful of their day. Of course, this is a double-edged sword. I love that show as much as the next girl, but there is NO WAY I want to be like those women in my 30s. They really had no idea what was going on. And let’s be real, they were whores. (The definition of ‘whore’ says usually for money, so yes, it applies.)

Okay, okay. The benefits of being in one’s 20s are numerous and oft-quoted. The world is at your feet, you’re not tied down, you have no real responsibilities, you don’t have to ask your hubby (ugh, that word) if you can stay out later at happy hour (this, I’ve learned, is something the thirty-somethings dread).

First of all, I don’t agree that these are all positive. Who decided that it’s better to go through the monotony of meeting and greeting new people every night, talking once again about yourselves and your work and your dreams (I’m getting bored already), instead of going home to someone you actually like and can spend more than a drunken hour with? 

And in the current economic recession, double dip looming over our heads, is the world really at our feet? No. No, it’s not. Better to have a steady job and stable money for which to use on nights out. Downside: twenty-somethings can’t afford bottle service. As Ke$ha put it, “we don’t buy bottles, we bring ‘em, we take the drinks from the table when you get up and leave ‘em”. Ah, just another twenty-something living the good life.

Lastly, call me a freak, call me old-fashioned, call me a radiant sunbeam of light that touched down on this earth just for you (just an idea), but I like responsibility. Drifting aimlessly with no money, no job and no prospects sounds like a hernia and a half. I prefer not to stress about where my next meal/roof is coming from. And I really don’t want to end up like those homeless guys on the side of the road with a dog slung over their shoulders for warmth.

So sue me, thirty-somethings, I do think you have it better. You won’t get anything because I’m broke. Ha.

Google +

Source: Google Images

Well, Google + is out. Boring as it seems at the moment, if this catches on, it is going to be very difficult to stalk people on the Internet. (Don’t act like this isn’t your main concern.) Good luck getting into the circle where your object of interest puts all their juicy photos. No, the potential crush you’re stalking will most likely add you to the ‘acquaintances’ circle because they PROBABLY don’t know who you are. 

Having spent a lot of quiet reflection on this issue (so many of my close friends are stalkers, this will devastate them), it crossed my mind that maybe social media like Facebook and Google + (and MySpace? Or, I’m sorry My_____ now, right? Cause a name change is what they need) are hindering rather than helping our relationships.

So, Talk or Stalk?

Perhaps the world ran better the old-fashioned way, when people met in person, agonized over the first phone call, asked each other questions about their histories and were delighted to find they had things in common. As opposed to the mode of the day, when people meet in bars or online, send out first texts like candy, scour the Internet for information about the other person and are not surprised to learn they both like Zac Brown Band, because they both liked that page on Facebook. (I mean, this isn’t surprising anyway, they’re genius! And it’s okay if you know that about me, as long as you read my blog.)

Don’t anyone act like you haven’t had that conversation. You know the one. Them: “Oh yeah, my ex and I went to his concert right before we broke up in November.” You: “Oh, so it was pretty recent huh?” Even though you can pinpoint the exact time it happened via their mobile uploads, you know what they were wearing and you know what seats they had. Probably you witnessed the breakup on newsfeed and have been waiting a decent amount of time for them to be ready to date. Seems just a tad inhumane, n’est-ce pas?

Yes, it is creepy to be so aware of all the inner goings-on of an acquaintance’s life. In this respect, it would seem Google + has it right with the circles. 

Of course, there’s the other side of the coin. There will always be that scumbag who decides to try to date while he is in a relationship (a closed relationship—I can’t believe I have to clarify, thanks a lot Facebook for that extra ‘open relationship’ option), and in these instances a good stalking could save you worlds of hurt.

The fact that we’re even trying to date that scumbag in the first place, though, could be because of the Internet. Maybe our douche-o-meter has been silenced because we’ve had too much help and don’t have to do it on our own anymore—just like in the case of our short-term memory and intelligence. We figure, hey, we can meet guys in bars and then we’ll weed out the bad ones later on Facebook or according to what we glean from their texts. When you don’t actually have to put any time or effort into dating someone standards drop to record lows.

SIDEBAR: Does everyone use the word douche or is it just me? Recently I’ve only heard it used in certain contexts, and some people have been offended by it, but I thought it was pretty widespread. I mean, yeah, duh, the origin is gross, but that’s irrelevant. On a recent trip to Phoenix, the bellhop WHISPERED to me that there were douches at this bar in Scottsdale I asked him about, like I would be offended by the fact that he said douche. I would be surprised if someone DIDN’T say douche while I was in Arizona. Scottsdale is their capital! Well, now that I’ve officially used douche about 87 times I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.

What can we make of all these pros and cons? Since the world seems to be pulling away from human contact at a shockingly accelerated rate, I vote talking every time. Besides, remember that movie Catfish? You have absolutely no idea who is actually behind that person’s profile. And even if it is them, they’ve probably hand-selected the only two pictures that make them look attractive (i.e. sunglasses and a hat, or the subtle my-more-attractive-friend-is-in-the-center-of-the-picture-so-I-hope-you-think-they’re-me gag). Actually, go for the stalk. I personally can’t wait until you see that person sober!

Naughty or Nice

Source: Google Images

Well, Murphy’s Law was in full force this weekend. Actually, let’s throw timing into the mix; Finagle’s law is more appropriate. (For those who don’t realize that the most powerful search engine ever created by man—the dictionary, duh—is at their fingertips, Finagle’s law is ‘anything that can go wrong, will—at the worst possible moment’.)

Apparently there is no specific unwritten law of dating to describe this state of affairs, so I’m creating one: All of the losers who neglected you in the past will suddenly find you irresistible when, and only when, you start dating someone new (Douches’ Law?). That’s right, as soon as Rapunzel finds a prince willing to scale a tower via her hair, her past suitors will surely be waiting in the wings with heavy artillery for a chance to disrupt his pursuit (only to decide that the tower is REALLY high, they can’t climb hair, they made a mistake, etc., when they succeed).

There is no scientific explanation for how people from your past are able to sense your happiness and promptly interrupt it, unfortunately. So Rapunzel is left on her own to choose between passionate (be it unreliable), once-unrequited feelings and possible (likely) requitement from the ‘good guy’.

It’s the ever-present question on Santa’s mind: naughty or nice?

Funny, on paper this seems like a non-issue. Of course, if you’ve ever seen a romantic comedy or even spoken to a girl you should know it is THE issue. Everyone at this age secretly wants a love affair that is passionate, rife with drama, scandal, lust and mistrust. They want fireworks (ahh Fourth of July reference!) They will swear they are ‘sick of the losers’ and ‘ready to settle down’, but as soon as someone starts opening up car doors and calling when they say they will, generally forgoing any of that pesky mystery, they will yearn for their past ‘lovers’.

Allow me to quote Taylor Swift (please, just one I swear!) “I miss screaming and crying and kissing in the rain, it’s 2 a.m. and I’m cursing your name, so in love that I acted insane, and that’s the way I loved you.” 

Now, I realize Tay-Tay is no expert on love (she’s definitely headed toward Aniston-ville), but she is a girl of my demographic and this is the way we think. Girls are crazy. Let’s just admit it. We are. Given the choice between a sure bet and a toss-up, it’s sorry, Charlie. Sorry, Charlie, but Chris has a motorcycle and a hotter name, and I’m really just not ready for a boyfriend right now (ahem, BS).

Actually, I think only girls in movies care about motorcycles. They’re very dangerous.

Anyway, the only sort of closure I have gleaned from this issue are my friends’ proclamations that with the ‘right’ guy, all the passion will be there with a negligible amount of the sorrow. And, if you’re lucky, they’ll open a few doors for you too. Isn’t this the fairy tale ending everyone loves to be constantly reminded of?  Yep, it’s the old ‘someday’ cop-out. Someday, your prince will come. Someday, you’ll stop eating frozen meals on the couch by yourself. Someday, you’ll pour two glasses of wine (and only drink one!). Someday, you will actually be able to ignore the messages from your own past suitors instead of allowing them to consume your life. Ah, someday.

Until then, girls will be girls. Raving mad.

Summer Solstice (Asexuality)

?????? Source: Google Images

Today is loooong. Summer solstice long. What is America going to do with all this daylight? There’s too much time for thinking today. (Read: disclaimer for the thoughts that follow.) There is time to weep and time to laugh, time to mourn and time to dance, time to be born and time to die, and time for asexuality.

That’s right. A-sex-ual-ity.

Recent conversations with friends have inspired this revelation that there are times when it serves one well to forget about the boy/girl mumbo jumbo. Really, every movie does not need to stifle its viewers with the idea that life is incomplete until the guy gets the girl. Maybe my choice of movies is to blame. Nevertheless, it gets tiresome. Ah, to be free of decoding texts, to dispel that knot of worry that ties itself up in your stomach as you await a call.

Is asexuality worth a try?

We’re obviously talking short term (don’t inundate me with your complaints of ‘needs’, I’m well aware). But speaking with the expertise of someone who has recently been on a family vacation where the pretense of asexuality is a must (What, mom? What are ‘pecs’? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where? No. ‘Abs’? I’m not interested), it can be pretty relaxing.

Sure, vacations are obvi relaxing on their own, but think about how nice it is to just turn off your phone and not worry about social networking. Some of you may have just had cardiac arrest at this idea, and if you did I hope we’re not friends. Don’t invite me to the funeral. I swear I won’t go.

Think about all the time we’d gain without these distractions. According to the Nielsen Company, users spent about eight billion hours a month on Facebook in 2010, and now Twitter is huge and everyone has a smartphone. Probably half of these hours are spent talking to a significant other or trying desperately to find one. That is a LOT of time, people. And summer solstice day, when everyone is going crazy indoors with the idea that they should be doing some outdoor activity because there’s extra light, must be even higher.

That’s an extra four billion hours a month to solve problems, volunteer, take your grandmother to lunch (she deserves it!), invent a portable bread cutter for restaurants (I, for one, am sick of my friends squishing the bread down when they cut their slice), or finish (start) that novel.

Selfishness is likely the root problem. Time spent looking for love is almost always for oneself. And while humans were not cut out for asexuality like the jellyfish, the amount of time invested in searching at bars, on Facebook, on the phone, even in line for lunch, is something to think about. To supplement this, consider that the relationships that are the most tiresome, that you fret over the most, that take up all your time are often the ones that are unhealthy or never get off the ground.

The search for love is not to be discounted, as love itself is one of the best things left in the world. And sometimes, okay, love is time spent on others. (Promise this is not the cynic ranting of a loser going through a dry patch…okay fine! I live with my grandma and I’m knitting a sweater as I write this.) But, insert cliché here →, everything in moderation.

Asexuality is an extreme, yes. Plus, if you adhere to that there’s no point to the rest of this column (whoops). On an unrelated note, this will be the last post.

Okay, not really. Obviously asexuality is not actually biologically possible for most of us. But think of our friends the jellyfish! They just swim and float and glide, all footloose (footless, really) and fancy free. And you can bet they have some MAJOR ideas going on somewhere in all that gelatinous mass.

Perhaps a watered-down version where we focus more on our family, friends and those in need rather than our own needs is worth a try. Also, not to be that annoying aunt, but love always comes when you least expect it. Think about it.

Sext-astrophe!

Sorry you have to see old man chest again. Source: Google Images

If anyone ever wonders why time was spent on this subject, it is because of the idiocy of American congressmen. “Weinergate” cracked wide open today, and as it turns out yet another American representative was LYING…about SEXTING. Please hold your startled gasps. (You’re all much too dramatic.)

Honestly, this topic doesn’t deserve a column. All it really deserves is a swift slap on the wrist by a ruler-wielding Catholic nun. But since it has become pertinent not only to the average bourgeois but to those who are representing us to other countries, I will deign to address it. (If this blog feels like a metaphorical trip to the principal’s office, that’s because it is.)

After multiple scandals have broken loose, from celebs (cough, Blake Lively) to congressmen, it seems fair to ask, does sexting have ANY positive impact on our lives?

Resisting the urge to scream and mustering up as much journalistic objectivity as possible, let’s begin with the texting of pictures (i.e., the déclassé way to sext). Speaking purely from a woman’s perspective (yes, that girl at the beach, the Starbucks cashier, your friend, your sister, your mom, not your grandma…she doesn’t understand), EW. Nobody wants to see that.

This isn’t some weird cooties issue (everyone’s been vaccinated by now, I presume). This is a U-G-L-Y issue. To quote Elaine from the—brief lapse in objectivity—best show of all time, Seinfeld, “…the female body is a...work of art. The male body is utilitarian; it's for gettin' around, like a jeep."

Men, if you don’t believe it, let’s look at some facts. Members of your tribe are being humiliated in both the public (^^^^^^^) and private sectors. 

Remember all that time you spent achieving the perfect MySpace-esque mirror photo, posing seductively, working Axe into your hair to achieve the messy look, oiling yourself up and doing 10 quick push-ups right before because you heard that was a good way to get definition fast? Well, true story, there are girls that have collections of these photos of yours on their smart phone and they sit around with their friends like gaggles of geese ridiculing and critiquing every little detail.

Let’s clear a few things up.

1.       Pictures in the mirror where your cell phone is visible have NEVER EVER been cool. Pretty sure people would prefer to think someone they like is NOT sitting around alone in a darkened room staring at themselves in the mirror with an angry-looking “sexy” straight face.

2.       Middle-aged congressman chest is NOT hot. Dear Internet, no more. Please?

Cool? Cool. For the record ladies, guys are almost certainly showing their friends your pictures because they actually WANT to see them. Keep that in mind (cough, Blake Lively). 

Sure, some girls will reply to these Adonis photos, but only for attention. They are most likely not admiring your, ahem, stature. (All this coughing and clearing my throat, I must be coming down with a cold! Darn post-nasal drip.) And yes, it is obvious that you’re only sending pictures out to get some in return. And perhaps you will, because sexting has become yet another mainstay of this sex-obsessed, throw-morality-to-the-wind culture.

As far as the written word goes, sext (cringe) at your own risk, preferably with someone who is NOT A STRANGER ON CRAIGSLIST (ahem, Chris Lee). At least it’s less easily traced back to you. Of course, you never know, as it seems even some of our very own intelligent congressmen have not yet mastered the intricate art of a Twitter DM. (I mean really.)

In all seriousness, the most important thing to remember is who the publicly humiliating sexting is hurting (besides my eyes). The last couple congressmen had spouses. Serena Blake Lively has Lily a mom who probably isn’t under home arrest for forgery (okay, enough GG). Is the brief payoff worth the risk of hurting loved ones? Weiner-schnitzel’s probably saying no right about now. (Hmm…maybe a hot dog for lunch?)

So girls of America, even though macramé is in this season, let’s resist the urge to photograph ourselves in it with nothing underneath (for you, B J). Congressmen of America, we respect your physical fitness efforts, but finish buttoning up that shirt.

Can we just end this discussion already? It’s stupid and would be inexcusable even in junior high. You can all sit in detention with Dominique Strauss-Kahn and think about what you did.

In Limbo

Source: Google Images

Limbo used to be a fun party game. Remember how those people would lower the bar, and you would bend your back to the point of breaking trying to complete the ridiculous task of shimmying under it while Chubby Checker sang?

Well, limbo is not fun in life. We’re talking a state of limbo, as in waiting to find out who will be laid off as your company loses business, anticipating a phone call from the doctor about your lab results, that awkward moment when you and your roommate realize you each have your eye on the last Oreo, or when you’re talking (we all know talking doesn’t just mean shooting the breeze by now, right? If that’s even a phrase) to a guy/girl that you just cannot figure out.

This limbo means they seem interested, but not too much so; they make comments, but they are vague; they address a time in the future when you will be hanging out (for the first time, again, etc..) but don’t set a date and time; and they usually do not let the conversation die. (Text, phone, Facebook, or Twitter conversation obvi…in person, you say? Do people even still do that? Also, don’t get the feeling from these jokes that I’m some sort of technology-obsessed Drew Barrymore from He’s Just Not That Into You. Yeah, I’ve referenced it twice. I’m aware.) 

So is this limbo worth the vague promise of success?

Maybe if Chubby C provided the soundtrack. Kidding! Really, though, can you imagine if “Limbo Rock” played every time you waited for someone to text you back? The world would be a frightening place. Let’s take a look at two COMPLETELY MADE-UP scenarios. (A winky face may have been appropriate here, but I am opposed to any and all emoticons. E-no-ticons, amirite??).  

1. Friendly Neighborhood Bartender (no, he does not work at Applebee’s, gross) and Bar Hound began an intermittent series of bar-style meet and greets about one year ago. (Oh, the euphemisms for hooking up I’ve used in this blog!)  Finally Bartender questions why they’ve never dated. Hound dog agrees, and in typical girl fashion, has him on the brain all next week. She decides to contact Bartender, but her casual texts are fielded; he’s vague and indirect.
2. A young Christopher Walken (don’t ask) and Wilhelmina (short for Will Ferrell, of course) dated for about three months. After a time, Walken admitted he liked cowbell. In fact, he needed it. (Okay, and Wilhelmina, he added begrudgingly.) Shortly thereafter, they stopped talking, mainly on his end. Wilhelmina, being a strong modern woman, rallied and banished him to the furthest reaches of hell (in her mind). But what’s this? Fresh-faced C-Walk (has that nickname NEVER been used before?) comes crawling back with a lukewarm apology and begins to text her again, fairly consistently, with vague undelivered promises of a rendezvous.

Let’s take a quick look at the limbo rules. As you keep “winning” (NOT this), the bar goes lower and lower. Sounds a lot like what’s happening when we continue to lower the bar for those we choose to date. It’s oddly similar to the children’s game, except now your mom can’t cheat for you and secretly hold the bar higher.

These scenarios? Let me give you a hint. They won’t end well. Bar Hound and Wilhelmina clearly have feelings for their respective suitors, but if they were returned, they would be returned. Texts would be answered promptly, and hangouts would be suggested and EVEN followed up on. I remember this campaign from the fifth grade, “Just Say No”. I’m pretty sure it was about this.

So take a hint from Zac Brown Band. They probably want to see you again, but they’re stuck in colder weather. As in, there will always be an excuse. Ladies, he’s a ramblin’ man, and he ain’t ever gonna change.

What Happens In...

This is all that comes up on a Google search anymore. Just as well. Source: Google Images

Ahhh summer. Time for vacation. This, by definition, is a time to vacate your life. It’s time to leave the gloomy, miserable, day-to-day goings-on of home and go somewhere shiny and new. It’s time to forget the sad loser you’re stringing along at home and find someone to remind you for a short time that you’re worthy of love (or something). Right? Right??

Wrong. Nobody really knows what happened to the real men, cowboys who shot guns and chewed tobacco and told Miss Kitty, “No, no, I will not marry you. I need my freedom.”  (They were very formal.) You know, men who did all those disgusting things women pretended to hate but secretly really, really loved. No, today men get pedicures and buy carnations and use brand-name lotion and shampoo (no more 2-in-1 Pert for them, it’s just awful for your hair). Men can only vaguely recall the phrase about something staying where it happened…that can’t be it, can it? Love knows no geographical boundaries! All they need is love! They’ll make it work!

So does Vegas need a new catchphrase? In this androgynous culture, does what happens in _____ stay in ______? (Yes, my belief is this phrase should be adopted to include all vacation spots.)

Men were once the arbiters of this phrase. Starry-eyed women would go off on trips with their friends in the hopes of meeting the perfect guy, who would no doubt end up moving back with them to their hometown after a quick long distance relationship after which he deemed their separation ‘intolerable’. Instead, men would promise all sorts of magical wonder only to vanish the next day, dashing the girls’ hopes and restoring the world to order.

Some guys may grunt, “Only one night for me. Kevin want no relationship.” (This hearkens back to the caveman era. Just like when guys ask each other if they want to eat with a low, guttural “LUNCH!” That’s what happens, right?) Anyway, to them I pose this question. If the fabled one-night mentality still exists, why do girls run into someone every vacation trying to text, poke, friend, voicemail and message their way into their hearts? Yes, EVEN IN VEGAS.

For the record, don’t worry men, there is assuredly still a large group of you who act like Jon Hamm in Bridesmaids. For the rest of you, though…

Most, if not all, of the dissolution of the phrase can be attributed to Facebook. You know, the social website. The one where you can talk to all your supercool frenemies from high school, your mom’s friends, your crazy aunt, and now your would-be forgotten Lover. (This phrase is a catch-all, spanning all bases from a mere dance to, well, to quote Ke$ha, “…” No, I can’t bring myself to do that. You get it.) 

Just when you begin to store away the pictures, sunscreen and fond memories of frolic, you’ll get a friend request. Only, and this is important, you’re NOT friends. You’re Lovers. Temporal Lovers, at that. Remember how you only had alcohol in common?

This communication will slowly eat away at those happy vacation memories. The struggle to rendezvous betwixt the inhabitants of two far-off lands will drive you crazy. (If you care about them at all. If you don't, their struggle to rendezvous will still drive you crazy.) And one year later, you'll get a poke (UGH) (UGH) (UGH) from said Lover that will finally prompt you to fling yourself from your office window and take one final vacation.  BTW: Don't come crying to me when Moses wants to see you again back on the new earth. You've been warned.