With all fabulous due respect to Miss HJ, couldn’t resist adding a few of these here.

Want to see more? HJ is much more eloquent than I…check ’em all out.

My friend says it’s our turn. That, at age (mid-to-late) twenty (something), we’ve seen enough, we’ve done enough, we’ve dated enough that we DESERVE to get a good one now and again. We have, she asserts, kissed our share of frogs that really, it’s due time for us to find our prince.

I don’t know if I agree.

Granted, I’d LIKE to agree, would LIKE to go by this theory that we’ve paid our dues in the dating world and are next in line for a humdinger of a hunk. Hallelujah, wouldn’t THAT be easy? After years of winding up (or choosing, as it may be) the assholes, it’s time for us to get that gorgeous guy with the sparkling wit, charming manners and unboastful intelligence who finds us to be just as fabulous as we know we really are. Yet I’m cynical…I don’t think it’s a timing thing, at least in the case when ‘timing’ is liken to deservedness. Because, yes, both she and I (and probably most of you reading this) have had your share of crappy relationships. The ones that left you high and dry after months of adoration, the ones that shellshocked you into horrific rebound people, the ones that made you swear of relationships for the foreseeable future. But in the midst of all this strife and heartache I think I’ve found out something about what I want or, at the very least, what I DON’T want. And while I’d trade the anger and the disillusionment and the tears and the general malaise that inevitably comes after love goes awry, I don’t think I’d trade the experience.

These days, I’m jaded. I’m a huge cynic. I really do think that the reality of infidelity marrs the facade of ‘true love’ (whatever that is) and that it’s better to accept all the unsavory aspects of relationships as the norm instead of the exception. (See? Jaded, big time.) I hate that I sound bitter and angry because I promise, I’m not. If anything, I’m just avoiding disillusionment, and – as contrary to everything I’ve just written above – I’m hopeful. I think that going into it all with eyes open is the only way to do it, and that you should keep going forward with all the gusto in the world. I can’t imagine NOT going through it, can’t imagine myself closing myself off to the possibility; I just choose to do it seeing the reality of the situation and (attempting) to accept it. I also know that my views will likely change in, say, 10 minutes or the next time I find myself on an unexpected date with a charming young man who makes my heart skip a beat; then, we all know it, all this theory will be out the window.

I wish there was a statute of limitations on crappy relationships; I just think I’m too jaded these days to believe that there is.

I have a hard time being still. I’m one of those people who is always in motion, be it mentally or physically, to the extent that my doctor suggested I get tested for ADHD since I kept tapping my foot during my last check-up. (At age 28, I’m just going to go with it.) While I complain about always having to go somewhere or do something, the absence of activity – the INACTIVITY, I suppose – makes me even more uneasy. I function best when I’m going; it’s when I’m being still do I find myself the most antsy.

Coming off of nearly 2 months of travel, I’m relishing this relative downtime. Last weekend, with its sunny gloriousness, was just delightful. Saturday involved long walks with Lila, a (much-needed) late-afternoon nap after a long night prior; and despite Sunday’s horrific Baskbetball tragedy of which I will not speak, good company, good weather, and good food made up for it. It reminded me that I LIVE HERE, that this is my town now, that there are good people here and things to do and it’s HOME. I want more weekends like that, more spontaneous outings and lazy afternoons. I want to stay put.

And yet with my calendar in front of me, not exactly empty but not horribly booked with overseas (or even intercontinental) travel, I find myself staring at the dates and somehow, easily, quickly, they’re getting filled up. Guests this weekend and next, then a wedding, and maybe even Coachella later in April. Trade shows are around the corner, and then Memorial Day and all its glory. (Hi, Bagelhead!) It makes me wonder when I’ll ever feel settled in one place, content in doing nothing and all that it entails. I wonder if I ever will, but in the meantime, I suppose I’m living life to its fullest (or at least rackin’ up the frequent flier miles.)

I’m usually a pretty level-headed person. I get annoyed with the best of ’em, mind you, but tend to maintain an even keel. You’ll rarely hear me raise my voice at anyone, much less a poor customer service rep on the phone since, after all, we know they must hate their job. I take pity on them, wish them mental good thoughts for future career advancements, and try to maintain a modicum of dignity as I explain the situation that precipitated the call.

Today is the exception. Rope, I have met the end of it.

I think it’s just living in a state of being perpetually behind. And I’m not talking "bills a few days late" behind, I’m referring to "getting mail from December" behind. After moving in April, then October, then March, the US Postal Service is perplexed with me. Not that I blame them; hell, I’m a hard lady to track down! But despite me manually calling all of my utility companies, credit card companies, wine clubs, gas cards, insurance agencies (and I could go on, but you get the point), bills are somehow falling through the cracks and landing on my doorstep (literally) MONTHS late. Keeping track of what I’ve paid, what I’ve closed, what is still outstanding has been an exercise in exacerbation.

Add to that frustration the fact that Georgia (heretofore known as "the state with the most back-assward stupid assholes in the government") is now claiming my vehicle doesn’t have a valid registration is pushing me right near the edge of the mountain, to the end of my proverbial rope. I HAVE MOVED. I HAVE REGISTERED MY VEHICLE IN CALIFORNIA. I HAVE INSURANCE. WHY, then, they are now requiring me to get a notarized letter detailing this or else charge me with a $200 fine is beyond me. I have calmly called to explain the situation. I have called again. And again. I have mailed copies of the new registratin, the new insurance. I haven’t, however, gotten this notarized because FOR GOD’S SAKE, who has the time for this? I DON’T LIVE IN GEORGIA. I LIVE IN CALIFORNIA. I AM NOT PAYING $15 TO PROVE THIS TO YOU.

I think I need a nap.
Or a break.
Or a vacation.
Or a drink.
Or a long, lazy Sunday in bed.

(Or all five.)

I find myself traveling a ton lately (as I’ve mentioned/lamented again and again on this site) and, as is the case for many other writers, inspiration comes at unexpected times,  unprompted by situations and people that make sense. Instead, it’s the "second-glass-of-wine" epiphany that usually produces the insights; other times I can be on the shuttle en route to another day at work with only my Blackberry as a way to jot down my contemplations. And so I leave posts that include misspellings, posts that have been deciphered through tears and wine spillage and sometimes, like this one, as written on a United airlines napkin coming back from Chicago on Valentine’s Day.

We are all fighting to be the exception. The reality that monogamy is a farce is a truth we instead choose to rebuke & to shun. Instead, we enter into relationships with eyes open or clapsed shut – in the end, it doesn’t matter. Because the hypothesis of ‘happily ever after’ (in stark contrast to the reality of infidelity) has us crossing our fingers, wishing on every star. And even in the most seemingly ‘perfect’ romances we still have to try and convince ourselves that we are – that our relationships are – different, I’d venture to say that it’s a struggle, an uphill battle, one we each, every day, have to fight to win. Being the exception is to have won.

What this says to me is that a) I should never be allowed to travel alone on a Valentine’s Day again and b) I should never be allowed anywhere near a pen, paper or, hell, even a napkin, after more than a glass of wine.

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Do you like dirty men?, originally uploaded by Willo

Couldn’t resist posting this pic…thanks be to Willo for her masterful artistry (and letting me have my soon-to-be most porn-related caption ever?)

But sure. Define ‘dirty’.

PS: Also added some new pics courtesy of my pals who shared the whole craziness with me. Check ’em out here.

I’m constantly compared to Carrie Bradshaw.

No, it’s not because I look like her, since I can’t think of a single physical similarity save for we’re both women; nor is it because I have a lot of sex in this (or any, for that matter) city. My shoe collection hails from Target, and before a new pair is purchased one must be discarded (or, more often the case, eaten by my Lila Belle) to make room.

To boot:
– I’ve never dated a furniture designer.
– I’ve never fallen for anyone who I’d be apt to call "Big".
– While I’ve got my gals, I’m not lucky enough to get to have breakfast and lunch and dinner and coffee and drinks and all night parties with them; they’re in DC and North Carolina and Florida and Georgia and New York, damnit.

But I *DO* have a website, I *DO* talk about like and lust and love and relationships and the interplay between all that befuddling stuff, and – listen up, I think this is the clincher – I’ve been dumped in the most creative ways. No, I didn’t get a Post-it Note on my laptop screen, but I have gotten:

• Email: 8 months into the throes of it all, I get an email discussing the "recognition that our romantic relationship has run its course." It has? It HAD? Who knew? (Certainly not me, though I did wise up damn skippy.)
• Instant Messenger: Not as much as a breakup, but a "disenfranchisement" per se. (And by "Disenfranchisement" I mean "I no longer want to see you naked nor ‘know’ you in the Biblical sense. Ever.")
• Phone: I initially interpreted the "I just don’t feel a spark" after experiencing the sparkiest relationship I’d had in quite some time (not to mention the ridiculous early-mention of marriage) to mean "He just wasn’t that into me." (Thanks, Greg Behrendt.) Shortly afterwards, I realized it meant "I don’t feel a spark with girls." Hmm. That’s a new one.

Now, I could go on, but figure the above sampling accurately represents the atrocities of relationships’ demise (and I didn’t even mention the incident at the mall where yet another suitor told me he asked another girl to move in with him. I’m shitting you not.) A result of all of this fun (read: Shitty dumping techniques) is that those near and dear (or hell, those who I share any of these anectdotes with after a beer or two) always says ‘Ohmigod, you’re TOTALLY Carrie Bradshaw!’ While flattered (I mean, really – she’s hot, skinny, and got to make out with fabulously hunky guys on tv), I don’t necessarily think it’s accurate. Still, I’ll take it; I suppose the alternative could be much worse.

And yet, years (ok, months…ok, who am I kidding, weeks) after experiencing something along the lines of one of the aforementioned ‘disengagements’ (you like how I’m choosing my words carefully here?), I think it’s only fitting to make good of some messy matters. So I’m givin’ the universe some lovin’, some advice from one who, like Miss Bradshaw, feels entitled to give it. And so, without further ado, guys: Listen Up. (Or, more accurately, Read Below.)

How to dump a girl: An instruction manual from one who knows

Let’s face it: It’s not going to be pretty. She’s not going to be elated, and you’re certainly  not going to get an enthusiastic “thank you!” But if it’s time to part ways with your lovely lass, there’s a few strategies that can help (or at least save you the public embarrassment that can result from an angrily scorned woman who finds sharing your peculiar preponderance for creative bedroom antics an appropriate retribution.)

Tip #1: Keep private matters private
You’ve heard it – your best mate suggests taking her to a nice dinner whereat you kindly break the news that you’d rather spend your Saturday nights going forward (indefinitely, at that) watching hockey with the lads instead of having fabulous sex with her.  The theory is that the public nature of the occurrence will prevent the one thing you’re most dreading: the tears. Face it, buddy, she’s going to cry (and while it evokes a bit of guilt on your part, equate that level with her similar embarrassment – she’s not enjoying this either.) But step up to the plate, respect the time you’ve spent together and keep it behind closed doors.

Tip #2: Technological advances don’t make it easier
While we’re talking about doors, make sure that you’re actually in a physical place. Email is never appropriate for the parting ways discussion; don’t even THINK about IM. While you can make sure you’re phrasing your words appropriately (a justification from one of my ex’s when he thought that email was something other than a massive cop-out), just accept that it’s going to be uncomfortable for all involved and do it in person. Using the convenience of Instant Messenger to attempt to avoid feeling like a heathen is nothing less than pathetic.

Tip #3: Don’t delay the inevitable
People ask me how long I was dating a certain ex; I accurately say “about 6 months longer than I should have.” In this case, we were both guilty parties who didn’t have the courage to end something that was clearly heading towards festering. While I’ll never advise jumping the gun (it is, after all, quite a significant decision), you, she, and your respective relationship at least deserves an accurate assessment of the situation from which you can decide if it should continue. Staying together when things are dismal is just wasting time.

In the end, use your head. (The one on top of your shoulders, that is.) You entered into the relationship for a reason, be it physical attraction, emotional attachment, or even just a drunk Friday night that led to weeks of ‘hanging out’. Whatever it is, remember one thing: girls talk, and cities are much smaller than you’d think. So step up to the proverbial plate, digest an hour of horrific uncomfortable conversation, and walk away with your manhood – literally and figuratively – intact.

Ok, I’ve got a swift kick in the proverbial ass of late…perhaps it was just SXSW but it made me realize how long it had been since I’d posted regulary. Granted, I’ve been in various continents, cavorted in any town except my own, so it’s not like I’ve been festering in a crumpled heap on the floor begging the gods of prose to grant me some inspiration. That said, it’s time to get back up on that wagon, stop being so hard on my crappity posts (like this one) and just do it.

(Never thought I’d see the day when I would quote a Nike slogan, but apparently hell has frozen over. I’m grabbing my coat.)

There’s something about having a crush that makes it all better, all worth it, all – well – all encompassing. I go back and forth between loving the fact that I’m single (I get to kiss cute boys! Whenever I want to! And don’t have to feel guilty – wahoo!) and lamenting it (though that’s just usually when I need a dog-sitter or on stupid holidays.) And yet there’s nothing worse than WANTING to have a crush when you just don’t have anyone you’re crushing on.

And then, voila! Out of the blue pops someone who surprises you, and – yes, repeat it with me girls – it’s when you weren’t looking. I know, it’s as trite as can be, and yet that initial discovery period just makes everything else vanish.

Learning their favorite song. Their favorite food. Anticipating a date, a phone call, an email.

Imagine what it’s like when you have THREE. (And it’s any wonder I’ve gotten no work done today.)

I survived. (And by "survive", note that I mean "just barely by the skin of my teeth.") What I really did was not perish.

‘Twas amazing, ’twas worth two days of hangovers that have allowed my total caloric consumption to equal 120 calories.

That equates to 2 packs of peanuts on the last plane, 60 cals. each, for any who were calculating.

And yet, as said before, ’twas worth it.


I attended a movie premiere.

I FINALLY met the lovely Willo in person.

I hung with two of my all-time-faves, Mr. Newman and Mrs. Hearn (who, yes, really are that respectively hunky and foxy in person. Yes, I’m a lucky lass.)

I met the lovely Dooce (and amazingly enough, didn’t accost her and gush just as much as you think I would, though not for her lack of deservedness…the keynote with MFKottke was outstanding.)

I hung at the Red Bull House more than I think I even remember, though the last evening involved more drinks and a guitar room and, hmm, I really really don’t know what else. Debauchery, I’m sure.

I met the lovely Tony Pierce (who may just rival me for best drunk blogger ever)

and Marc of Buzznet (thanks guys!)

and Erik & Daniel of 43 Things who, in just being *THAT COOL* is enough incentive for me to finally update my (long-outdated) 43T list (if not to add them to my permanent internet crush-o-meter that continues to grow. Sigh – brilliant hunks. Adoration galore.)

Yep, it was a lovefest all around, complete with MJ’s signature red kisses everywhere.

More to come as I continue to review evidence of a long few, fabulous, fantastic days.