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.

The Desperate

There are no words. Source: Google Images

Pleeeaase read this blog about desperation. It’s going to be so great, if you only give it a chance. You may think you don’t want to read it, but you’d be wrong. This blog might not be the prettiest blog, but it has a full-time job and a 401k. One day you might even want to marry this blog and have its babies. Just give it a chance! Please!

BET you don’t want to read this blog. Bet you want to tell it to shove it and find a cool blog, one that effortlessly caught your attention. A blasé blog. A blog wearing Ray-Bans and a plaid shirt that perfectly complements its toned biceps.

With that in mind, here’s the question of the week. It’s quite simple. Does desperation ever work?

Well, you’re still reading.

Ha. Okay, the real issues. On first glance, most would be inclined to say no. Very few have fallen prey to the subtle charms of “Hey, it’s me again. It’s 4:33 on Saturday. (p.m. Did I say p.m.?) Anyway, just wanted to say hi and see if you got my last message. That offer still stands tonight if you’re free. Soo yeah, call me back or text me when you get this.” Yes, that just screams casual.

First, let’s clear up a big misunderstanding. Phones now are very advanced. They actually record the time a phone call and voicemail was received. And, when you listen to a voicemail, that lovely robotic voice tells you the exact time it came in. So everyone, stop saying the time of day you call. You just look like a doofus. Yes, a doofus. And it’s just as embarrassing as that word.

ANYway, though desperation will fail 90% of the time, it seems there are two types of people who may give in. (Disclaimer: this only applies to people in their twenties. Desperation and its success increase exponentially with age.)

1. Codependent female looking for love
2. Male of average to poor looks looking for loooove (subtle, yes?)

The KEY to this equation is that both parties are desperate. They may not know it, but they are.

Examples, examples: Cody (short for codependent) is feeling pretty sorry for herself. She was just faded out (one point for readers who recognize the term!) by another guy. Stalker (short for stalker), whom Cody met at a bar two weeks ago after getting a little too friendly with Jack Daniels, just texted her again. She can no longer ignore his siren song. Stalker offers attention, cuddling, and maybe even a meal at Taco Bell.

Now, a look at Stalker. He is of category 2. He is not good-looking, because this type of guy doesn’t resort to desperation to get girls. Girls are desperate for him (sigh). It’s been awhile for Stalker (ahem) and he really enjoyed his debaucherous night with Cody. So much so that when she doesn’t get back to him immediately, he feels it is in his best interest to call and text back repeatedly.

Hint: it’s not. Despite the inevitability of a category 1 or 2 responding to a desperate call like the Bat-Signal, it won’t last. (Batman must have been desperate if Maggie Gyllenhaal was the love interest in The Dark Knight. Really? Jake would have been a better choice.)

As Disney princess/fairy tale as it sounds, there will be someone who can actually reciprocate the feelings of these desperados. (And then they’ll come to their senses, because they’ve been out ridin’ fences for so long now. Ha! Sorry, had to be done.)  Something better is bound to come along. The grass-is-greener generation has been told to reach for the stars, as in Angelina! Zac! Kim! Justin!

So stop. Stop with the excessive calling and texting. Even if someone answers you, you don’t really want them. It won’t end well. And you! Stop answering. Stop perpetuating this cycle. Dig up those old standards out of the attic and dust off the mothballs. Now that Osama has been sent to a watery grave, the next step to world peace is dating people we actually like. (By the way, Ron Paul, there’s your slogan for the next campaign.)

The Fade Out: An Exposé

My sincere feelings on the Fade Out. Source: Google Images

The Bermuda Triangle. Dead zones. The space-time continuum (maybe?). Death. To someone who has not been called/texted back, these begin to seem like very plausible options. They provide some peace of mind that maybe, JUST maybe, it’s not their fault. It’s the Universe.

The Fade Out. Most have done it or had it done to them at some point. Both sides are extremely awkward and uncomfortable, but the people of Generation Y have decided that this bit of discomfort pales in comparison to the awful “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, or even worse, the “it’s you” speech. (Yeah, right. Like people would tell the truth! Sheesh.) Unfortunately, in today’s media-soaked society, where there are boundless ways to contact someone, it’s difficult to convince oneself that they lost the number or are just realllly busy right now, so busy that they can’t even look at their phone for 3.5 seconds to send a text.

So. Should the Fade Out be the preferred option, or does full disclosure soften the blow?

Fair warning, this may get uncomfortable. Already some are hearkening back to that magical night of sushi and ice skating, wine and conversation. Deep meaningful looks and shared wonder that a good first date was finally, finally to be had. But of course it wasn’t, because a second was never attained. Yes, love was eternally lost, blah, blah, BLAH. Now stop eating that chocolate bar and pay attention.

Similar to the ebb and flow of emotion of one who has been faded (ha), this investigation begins vaguely and painfully. From Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy: “Do I make it that easy to walk right in and out of my life?”

Ouuuuuch. Yes, the initial realization of a Fade Out often makes its victim question their self-worth. Aren’t they fun? Are they so forgettable that someone can disregard them without so much as a look back? These are the things they ponder while gently weeping into their Baskin Robbins Peanut Butter ‘n’ Chocolate (or something).

Next phase: indignation (for those who have ANY sense of self-respect). How dare they not call me, I should have done it first, etc., etc., etc…Usually most folks eventually get round to the biggest problem with the Fade Out: curiosity. Because we are American, and it is our right to know.

One unidentified male proclaimed that the most frequent reason for the Fade Out is the return to an ex. Just a guess, but speaking from the perspective of those who have FO’d this is BS. Field research (definitely NOT personal experience) indicates much more basic reasoning. In fact, a reason isn’t even required. Sometimes people just don’t want to see each other again.

People don’t get this. There is absolutely no way anyone can like everyone they date. It’s mathematically impossible (probably). The mere fact that Trekkies exist means there is an undateable portion of humanity. If only the world could grasp this concept, full disclosure would reign once again. “Hey, this isn’t really working.” “I know!”

Unfortunately there are exceptions and people are difficult (ugh), but we should all really take a cue from The Invention of Lying. Next first date that doesn’t pick up the tab, tell him (or her? That would be weird) what a loser he is. Puts out too quickly? Puttanesca (Italian for whore’s-style spaghetti, it’s quite good).   Doesn’t ‘dance’? AS if.

Yes, next time that person won’t accept the fact that they’ve been faded out after two skipped texts, one ignored call and voicemail, AND a denied Facebook request (can’t make this stuff up), give full disclosure a try. Curiosity may kill the cat, but criticism will finish the job.

Oh, and check in for the next segment on DESPERATION.

Reachers and Settlers

Yep, this is happening. Source: Google Images

With the royal wedding fast approaching, many have hierarchy on the brain. Princes and princesses, queens and kings, reachers and settlers.

Reachers and settlers, you say? What does this mean? Well, take Kate and William. Sure, everyone is so interested in their upcoming nuptials, but let’s get to the good stuff. Who has the upper hand in the relationship—i.e., who is the settler? Katie is a good-looking broad (go ahead, chastise me for calling the future princess a broad, but I saw some racy photos on Google Images, just saying), though some (me) would argue she can be plain. Willie is also attractive for a royal, but that bald patch is very real. This might have been a toss-up, but really it’s easy. Perhaps the easiest. William is a PRINCE. He wins. Kate is the reacher.

Now that the words have been defined via British royalty (this blog is international, wow), they must be translated to the likes of the commoners. The question(s) of the hour: Is there a reacher and settler in every dating relationship, and how are they determined?

Take a look at the dating stats, those unspoken rules by which every couple—nay, every pair that dares show their faces together in public—is judged. Looks. Personality. Wealth. Career. Power. The first four categories typically determine the fourth, but external factors can tip the power scale. Hate to beat a dead horse, but JENNIFER. ANISTON. Somehow (multiple breakups, no upper hand, can’t keep a man, this) a beautiful, talented, wealthy, easygoing sun goddess has automatically become the reacher in every dating relationship. Nobody wants to be the Maniston.

So, yes, despite the exceptions (if He’s Just Not That Into You had anything to teach, it’s that there are exceptions. Right? Or was it that there are no exceptions? It was a very mixed message) there are some basic guidelines for establishing the reacher and settler positions.

Real life relationships are on much more level ground, so looks and personality tend to be most important here. Power is established by confidence and beauty, where confidence > beauty. For example, a friend dated a guy she admitted herself was not attractive. However, he established firm casual guidelines for the relationship and pushed her away on several occasions, and when she stayed (sigh, girls always do) she became the reacher.

A married friend, let’s call her “Hubby” (for an apparent lack of anything else to call someone who has become married), is on a fairly equal basis with her husband looks-wise. However, she without a doubt wears the pants in the relationship. Hubs calls the shots and he submits to her. Yes. And so another eagerly accepts the reacher position.

These particular examples suggest that there must be a reacher and settler for a relationship to have any kind of success. Even if the couples are of the same degree of hotness (or notness?), one party typically gives up power in order for the relationship to be effective, thereby establishing their positions. Two settler types would butt heads, and two reachers…well, that’s just sad.

So the next time a couple passes by and the judgment flows as everyone knows it will, play a little reacher/settler bingo. Or (hate to bring this up), next time that special someone takes extra long to text back or writes off that lingering floral scent as their mother’s, don’t take it lying down (really, don’t, that sucks all remaining power from a reacher). With a little disinterest and a lot of self-control, a new settler can arise!