The Mean Reds

Audrey with her cure.     Source: Google Images

 

Some of you might see the subject of this blog and think it refers to that cute little ailment (or severe depression?) Audrey Hepburn coined in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Some may think it refers to that time of the month—which, come to think of it, makes a lot of sense. Okay, I’ll give you that one. But this blog is about that relationship-killing, general-discomfort-giving feeling one gets at uncertain times. Or, as Audrey describes it, “suddenly you’re afraid, but you’re not sure what you’re afraid of.” It’s not medical enough to be serious, and it’s not casual enough to be dismissed. It’s just in-between, and it’s there.

Phew! That was a dark, stormy rain cloud of an opener. Trust me, though, it will pour forth a torrent of glorious blog. This is about that beginning phase of relationships, a time when your status is unclear, you constantly debate if the other person is into you and it seems any one piece of straw will break the camel’s back. (Or at least the beginning phase of relationships for OCD-prone people. Ahem.)

So the question of the week, courtesy of BJ (whose name I will perpetually allude to in abbreviated form just for the giggles), is how do you cure the Mean Reds?

Careless, extravagant Holly Golightly (seriously, if you’re not getting the references by now I can’t help you) went to Tiffany’s. Seriously though, those of us (all of us) not fortunate enough to attend Tiffany’s on a regular basis will require an alternative antidote.

Soapbox aside to my target audience: Yes, there are those of us who shop at Tiffany’s. Those who request minor little baubles from our BFs, who buy ourselves the tiniest of tiny diamond earrings or thinnest of silver chains just to say they are from Tiffany’s. (For the record, I am not alluding to myself; those who know me can vouch that I prefer gaudy, brummagem jewelry. BOOM! Word of the day.) Let me tell you something—nobody your age can tell if those diamonds are real, and nobody cares that they are from Tiffany’s. Word out.

On the real (I think I’ve been watching too much Sh*t White Girls Say to Black Girls), I have given this a lot of thought and the answer, I believe, is communication. This is not easy for blossoming relationships, when you want to seem cool and detached, like you always have a 3 p.m. meeting to run off to or a call you HAVE to take. Nobody wants to be the one who dives in the pool first and splashes the person just testing the water with their toe (ugh, so annoying), but everyone wants to know what the other person is thinking.

How about, instead of playing it cool and letting anxiety consume you, you tell the other person how you feel? Trust me, this is an ego-driven society; nobody will be upset to hear that someone likes them. If they don’t like you back it may be uncomfortable, but it would never have worked anyway. Plus, it’s a lot more comfortable than the Mean Reds, which is what that unhindered anxiety will lead to.

As further proof of this theory, take a closer look at the Mean Reds: they truly are the antithesis of communication. You can’t communicate to yourself how you feel, you’re unsure of what others around you are thinking but you can’t ask, and you don’t know what you want. (I mean, these are the basic tenets of being a girl, but that’s a subject for another blog.) Quod erat demonstrandum—the cure for anti-communication is communication.

I referred to the ‘Reds as relationship killers because they are. To conclude, a little flow chart action, if you will. (I’d prefer a little Venn diagram action as I’ve been really into them lately, but I certainly do not know how to html that ish.) 

Flirting → call → date → call back → date → a couple days → call back → a couple more days → call back → a week → anxiety → ‘should I call?’ → more anxiety → ‘I’ll just call’ → date → ‘does he/she really like me?’ → even more anxiety → THE MEAN REDS. 

(Feel free to use my flow chart or Venn diagram ideas to diagram your feelings for your significant other—doesn’t get much clearer than this. It’s all science! You can’t stop it.)

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!