Half and Half

A couple of nights ago, I was out having drinks with someone who I haven't seen since I was a painfully shy, awkward fourteen year old who had the confidence of the Cowardly Lion and the body of a pre-pubescent boy. In the eleven years that have passed, I've grown exponentially. While still shy, I have reached a level of comfort with myself that is light years above what it used to be, and I'm now proud to say that I have settled into the body of at least a seventeen year old boy. I know, it's almost too hot to handle. Try to calm down, take a couple deep breaths...Good? Ok, moving on.

So this person I was out with, we started talking about relationships. Which, if ya'll haven't figured out by now, is right up my alley when it comes to conversation topics. I was saying how I like being part of a couple and how I sometimes feel like something's missing when I'm not. He then started to respond with what has become one of my biggest pet peeves:

"Well, you have to be happy with yourself before you can-"

"Stop." I cut him off. "I hate that answer."

I then proceeded to explain that for me personally, being half of a whole is what makes me feel whole. Having a partner in crime, someone to share you accomplishments and defeats with, a person who knows when you need a hug and when you just need to be left the fuck alone. You can be as happy as you want with yourself, but it is human nature to want a companion to share that happiness with.

My drinking buddy nodded and said ok, but I could tell he wasn't completely buying it. The subject was soon changed.

Later on that night, we were saying our goodbyes when he looked at me and said what I have come to realize is one of the most comforting things anyone has ever told me. He said,

"Don't be half of a whole. Because you're already whole."

It was such a simple two sentences but it really struck me. All of a sudden the whole idea of being in a relationship started to make more sense. It's not two halves making a whole- it's two already complete people teaming up to make two wholes. Because why give something 100% when everyone has the chance to bump it up to 200%?

It's funny how a few words strung together can provide just the right amount of calming clarity. And to the person who told me those words, Thanks.

Here's A Shirt, There's The Door

Ok, I'm sorry, but when the hell did clothing become a parting gift? I remember when a guy would give you something from him drawer as an unspoken sign that he wanted you around. You know, maybe you've only been seeing each other for a month and you've slept at his place just a few times. Then one night he asks you to stay over and as he does so, he reaches into his dresser, pulls out a t-shirt, and says "Here, you can wear this. You can just keep it if you want".

This meant you were in.

Same goes for sweatpants while the two of you are lounging around on a Sunday, or a hoodie when it's freezing outside but you still are trying to impress him so you wear tiny cute little shirts that are completely inappropriate for the weather. You would take these items and bring them home and wear them to bed every night. You would breath in his scent that was left on them; cologne, fabric softener. You would go as long as possible without washing them because that would rid the clothes of any traces of him. And, if the relationship ended, you would either keep them as a reminder of him, stashing the shirt and sweatpants in the very back of your closet, or you would throw them at his face in rage, telling him never to call you again.

But now. NOW it's a whole different story. T-shirts have become a consolation prize. A hey-you're-cool-and-all-but-I'm-going-to-give-you-this-shirt-and-then-never-call-you-again.

What.

The.

Hell .

The following story may wind up being embarrassing for me, especially if everyone reading this ends up thinking, "Uh, Lex? This doesn't happen to everyone. It's just you. Better luck next time slugger".

Here it goes anyway: The last two guys I have dated (and I use to term 'dated' loosely because they were really just casual, semi-exclusive type deals) have followed the same exact pattern. We meet, things go great, yadda yadda yadda, then one day they give me a shirt. Example A literally gave me the shirt off his back while we were out on his deck one night. He was in the military (shocker, right?) and he was wearing his PT shirt which I happen to think is one of the sexiest things a guy can have on his body. And he knew this. He noticed I was shivering because even though it was the middle of summer, my body temperature betrays me on a regular basis. He asks if I want his shirt, I ask if he'll be cold, he says no and takes it off, handing it to me. But not before doing a douchy little flex and checking out his so-so muscles. Then he asks me if I want to see a movie that weekend, to which I agree. The shirt smells like him and I wear it to bed that night and I never hear from him again. Movie shmovie.

Now, Example B is a bit of a different story. I was over his apartment, sitting on his bed while he emptied out his drawers, looking for clothes to give away. I was surrounded by piles of clothing that could best be described as 'bro-wear'. This should have been my first clue to never date this guy to begin with, but there were a couple things that kept me around regardless. Anyway, he threw one shirt over his shoulder and it landed in front of me. I picked it up, it was just a regular grey t-shirt with the words Venice Beach printed on the front, and it looked just about my size. I mentioned that I liked it and he said, "Consider it yours". No muss, no fuss, he was getting rid of it anyway. I talked to him one more time after that before he disappeared into the abyss of ex-boyfriends/hookups/best friends.

So my question is, why the hell do you think I want your shirt if you're just going to turn around and dart in the opposite direction? Keep your shirt, keep your hoodie, keep your unimpressive attempt at a six-pack.

And if ya'll could just pretend that I'm not the only person this has happened to, that would be swell :)

If You Don't Know What "I'm The Baby, Gotta Love Me!" Means, Then I Can't Know You.

There's a cute guy in my neighborhood, right up the street from me. We always see each other when we're outside walking our dogs. We sneak quick glances and try to act like we're not providing our pets exercise simply so we can bump into each other. We've never spoken a word to one another and, in fact, have never even walked on the same side of the street. But that's part of the fun.

At least, it was part of the fun. One fateful afternoon not so long ago, I was walking Kirby up the street and saw my oh-so-attractive neighbor walking into his house. With a backpack on.

Because he was

coming

home

from

school.

I tried desperately to think of alternate reasoning for this situation. Maybe he's one of those guys who brings a backpack to work. Maybe his high-level executive job with a corner office allows him to wear hoodies and basketball shorts to work. Maybe I should accept the fact that it is 2:50 pm, the exact time the high school bus has been pulling into our neighborhood for as long as I can remember.

Insert a split second of sympathy for Mary Kay Letourneau here.

Insert two split seconds of astonishment at the insane spelling of "Letourneau".

Insert feelings of nausea and premature cougardom as memories come flooding back of this past summer when I blatantly stopped and checked him out as he was doing yard work for a neighbor.

And THIS is why I always like to go for guys who are blatantly 10 years older than me. Wrinkles, grey hair, indications of male pattern baldness- these are all just beautiful little reminders that I won't go to jail for dating them.

A little while back I was talking to a guy in a bar and for whatever reason mentioned Fraggle Rock. His response?

'What's Fraggle Rock?'

I shook his hand, told him it was very nice meeting him, and moved to the other side of the bar.

It is quickly becoming apparent that my friends and I are at the age where people just a couple of years younger than us may as well have been born in an entirely different century. You know how there's Generation X, Generation Y, etc? Well I feel like one of them was capped off after 1986. Maybe 1987 for a select few advanced individuals. And I'm not trying to be a snotty bitch here. I wouldn't even be making this argument if it weren't for the fact that I keep noticing solid evidence on multiple occasions.

Now here's the kicker:

It seems weird for a 25 year old woman (that's right, I just referred to us as women, not girls. How bout that?) to date a 21 year old guy. But it's no big deal for a 35 year old woman to be dating a 31 year old man. I know these are our 20's and we're all less than a decade out of college and we're just discovering who we really are and yadda yadda yadda, but it is a weird little hypocrisy we've got going on here.

Maybe it all comes down to a theory that my friends and I have been mulling around for awhile:

At this point in our lives, guys aren't worth dating unless they're at least 26.

At 26, they (hopefully) have the whole college mentality out of their system, they (hopefully) have a steady job, they (hopefully) have moved out of their parents' basement. And since it's a scientific fact - and who are we to mess with science - that women mature more quickly than men, at age 26 a man is almost as awesome as we ladies were at 23.

Just to be clear, my intentions in this entry are not to bash guys. I'm just, let's say, giving a field report of some social data that I, as well as many other women I know, have collected over the years.

And besides,

I'm the blogger, gotta love me :)

(Not the mama!)

...god I hope you all got that...

How About YOU Cook Dinner And I'LL Cheer You On From The Sidelines

I will never be the kind of girl who cooks, cleans, and loves being around kids.

And I'm not saying this because I believe in all that feminism crap, where suddenly everyone is making a big hoopla about how the women should work and the men should stay home and be Mr. Mom. No, I'm saying this because I suck at the three aforementioned tasks. Like, really suck. To the point where if I ever do have kids, they will most likely not only be living in squalor, but will also be living off a diet of toast and mediocre instant oatmeal. And if they cry or poop or vomit, chances are I'll run in the other direction screaming.

'This can't be true,' you may be saying. 'Give yourself a little more credit, Alexis.'

Well, luckily for you, I have examples. Because who doesn't love an entry packed full of solid evidence that I'm destined to be the worst adult ever.

Let's start with the cleaning. Now, if you knew me from college, you saw first hand that I actually kept my room quite tidy. Immaculate even, on some days at least. Everything on my desk and shelves was carefully arranged and there was never a rogue shirt on the floor. In fact, if you opened up my closet, you would see that my clothes were arranged in size order; from tank tops to sweaters. What you didn't see was what was under my bed, hidden in the drawers, stashed in plastic bins. And that, my friends, was clutter. Piles of papers that I put to the side with the intentions of sorting through one day and then forgot about. Tangles of wires from various electrical equipment collecting clumps of dust because I had no idea what wire went to what plug. And so on and so forth, you get the idea.

These little hidden gems of crap were nothing compared to my bedroom back at home that I had slept in since I was 2. Walking through those doors was like walking into an episode of Hoarders. Well, borderline Hoarders. I didn't have bugs and mice crawling around, I just had a very, very, very messy room. It essentially was a dumping ground, especially in recent years when I was spending 99% of my nights sleeping at other people's houses.

You know how when some people are stressed or upset, they clean? I'm the opposite. I equate the mess in my head to the mess on my floor.

All I can hope for is that when I finally get my own big-girl place without roommates, or parents, or whatever, I can use it as a fresh start in my cleaning life. But probably not. Have you ever tried to successfully vacuum with a dog that practically jumps on the hose and goes 'Wheeeeeee!' all around the house until you're done? It takes awhile.

Ok, now on to cooking. The best example for this would probably be the time I tried and failed to make pasta. And by "time", I mean "times". Because it took me three tries.

D and I were at the apartment and I decided to be a doll and cook him dinner in a weak attempt to get his attention off of Xbox and onto me. So I opened the cabinet, got a giant bag of egg noodles, and placed it on the counter next to the stove. Then I took a little saucepan and filled it 3/4 of the way with water. Now, let me explain a little something in my defense. The stove in that apartment was crap. All the coils were lopsided so you had to constantly move the pan around if you hoped to even get close to heating the contents evenly. That is, if you didn't first spill everything in the pan because it slipped to one side or the other. But I guess none of that really affects what I did next.

So like I said, I put the water in the pan and then, in my mind, did the next logical step. I poured in all the pasta and cranked the light up to high. Throwing in a pinch of salt (because growing up I always saw my mom doing it), I capped the pan off with a lid and walked away in satisfaction.

After about 5 minutes of half-reading, half-restraining myself from throwing D's Call of Duty out the window and telling him that he was about to experience his own Modern Warfare if he didn't start paying more attention to his girlfriend (and family and friends and pets and life in general), I went to check on what was sure to be a fabulous meal. I lifted the lid off the pasta and was disappointed to see that nothing had happened. There was just a pile of semi-crunchy pasta sitting in the bottom of some lukewarm water.

Miracles of miracles, I hear D put his game on pause and come up behind me.

"This isn't working." I said, frowning at the pot of fail sitting in front of me.

D looked over my shoulder and then looked at me.

"Tell me you put the water and noodles in at the same time." he said, half grinning half judging.

"Yeah, why?"

D shook his head and tried not to laugh. "Sweetie, you need to wait for the water to boil first."

"It can't all just happen at once?"

Needless to say, a minute later I was pouring semi-unraw noodles into a bowl off to the side, and putting new water in the pan to boil. First. Cause that's how you do it.

This still didn't stop me from completely and utterly losing at the making-pasta-game two more times. Apparently, a boil and a rolling boil are two different things. And just because some of the pasta seems to be cooked all the way doesn't mean it all is. Especially on a crooked stove. You should really check all the noodles before you serve them. But, you know, they're also scalding hot when you pull them out of boiling water. But really, who needs full feeling on their tongue anyway?

Last, let us explore that roller coaster of a relationship between Alexis and children.

I know they say even if you don't love kids in general, you'll love your own. And I really hope that's true because up to this point, I don't care for younger people much. I just feel like I have nothing to say to them. Every time I have to talk to a kid, I feel like I'm on a terrible first date and have lost all communication skills. I'm essentially the opposite of my brother who within 2 minutes can have kids looking up at him with glazed eyes of awe and worship.

When it comes to babies, they're cute and soft and look adorable in tiny little sneakers. But they also cry. Loudly. And they have stuff shooting out of every hole all the time. When my nephew Josh was a baby, my sister was over and we were in my backyard. I was holding Josh in front of me, so his back was to my stomach. He then proceeded to vomit all over my arms and hands. Granted, it was just milk and formula but at the time that was besides the point. I remember closing my eyes and yelling "Oh my god, oh my god!", all the while reminding myself that this was an actual human I was holding, and it wouldn't be politically correct to just drop him and run.

My mom took Josh and walked away while my sister came up to me, laughing and holding out the bottom of her shirt.

"Here," she said, "wipe your hands on here."

I then vaguely remember dramatically spraying down half my body with a hose.

There was also the time I babysat my other nephew TJ when he was a baby. The older boys were downstairs watching TV and playing video games, so it was just me and Teej. I assumed that since he was only 8 or so months old at the time, he would be perfectly content to just sit. No. He crawled around faster than seemed humanly possible. I was only there for the afternoon but I was exhausted after about 20 minutes.

There's also the whole fact that babies and toddlers seem to burst into tears the second I try to talk to them or hold them. I think they can sense the fear.

So that's that. Hope any future husband and baby daddy is prepared.

"Without Music, Life Would Be A Mistake" -Nietzsche

SARA BAREILLES

BASKET CASE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PmS6gJ8hGp0

The first time I heard this song, I was in a serious relationship and very much in love. I also knew that very relationship was falling apart at the seams and no matter how much I was killing myself trying to save it, it was slipping through my fingers even though they were clutched as tightly as humanly possible.

I'm a big fan of buying CDs as opposed to just downloading music, so as I was on my way back from Best Buy, I slipped the disc into my car and pressed play. When this particular song started, it grabbed me immediately and as Sara Bareilles began to sing, I found myself instantly tuned into the lyrics. And the very first thing that came to my mind was, "God I hope this song never applies to me."

I was surprised at how insistent this feeling was, and listening to the song became almost painfully addictive. I loved the song so much but every time I heard it, I had this looming feeling of things to come.

Two months later, the relationship was over and I haven't been able to listen to the song since. Which sucks. It's a great song.

I know music affects people in different ways, but if you're anything like me, almost every significant event in your life has a soundtrack. I mean, I could write an entire list of songs that you could listen to if you're happy, broken-hearted, hopeful, devastated, terrified. But who am I to tell you how certain songs should make you feel?

The point I'm trying to get to is that I really do think it's amazing that musicians in any capacity (vocalist, guitarist, lyricist, etc) are able to evoke legitimate, powerful, sometimes life-altering emotions in people. When I was 15, I was battling some pretty bad depression because of reasons that don't really matter at this point. But there was one song, John Mayer's 3x5, that literally saved my life. I don't know what it was, but something about how he sang and what he sang and how the instruments blended in with it all struck me. And that's when I realized the power of music.

I've made friendships over a mutual love for a certain artist. At weddings, couples have their first dance to a 3 minute jumble of beats and melodies that encompass their entire relationship. Songs have made people cry, made them angry, made them unable to stop smiling. And, if we're riding the honesty train, that's pretty fuckin incredible.

I think that's part of what is so appealing to me about this whole music thing I'm doing. It means there's a possibility that I can touch someone's gut the way that other songs have touched mine.

I dunno, just something to think about.

My Most Pointless, Self-Indulgent Blog Yet

The other day at work, a few of us were talking about what kind of guys we like. Two of the older women half-jokingly said they would find a group of guys to screen so they could find the best one to set my friend and me up with. I also half-jokingly said I would make a list of my ideal man and bring it in the next day for them to use as a template. But then I got to thinking, hey, what's the harm in making a disgustingly detailed list and throwing it out into the blogosphere for someone to stumble upon? Maybe one of you fantastically faithful readers knows someone that fits my fancy.

So, without further ado, here it is; Alexis' idea of a perfect man:

Let's start with physical features because, let's face it, that's what you notice first and what usually supplies the initial attraction:

* I like my men tall. 6' and up. I myself am 5'7", so I want to have to stand on my tippy toes to kiss him, or be able to bury my head in his chest if he's hugging me while I cry for absolutely no reason. Also, on the rare occasion that I wear heels, that boosts me up to 5'10"-5'11", so I need my man to still be taller than me. Because yes, I have thought about my wedding, and no, I don't want to have to bend down to kiss my groom.

* As for age, I like them old. Not geriatric, but at least 30. I'm not and never have been into the whole 'Let's go out and party every night and then go home and play video games' mindset. I suppose I could go as low as 27 if the guy was really spectacular.

* While we're on the topic of video games, if you own an Xbox, you absolutely, positively, will never get in MY box.

* Ok, let's see... body shape. I like lean guys, the kind that have just the right amount of natural muscles. I don't care if you have a six-pack because you go to the gym 6 days a week. I'm not interested in your protein powder or how much you can bench. I would actually take a guy with some meat on his bones over a jacked up body builder any day.

* I love glasses. They're sexy as hell. And if you do have glasses, I will steal them and walk around the house in them because I've always wanted a pair of my own.

* Eye color doesn't matter too much, but if I had to choose, I would prefer blue or green.

* I don't trust blonde guys. There's just something about them. The very few times that I have gone against my instincts and dated one, they have just proven my point that they kinda suck. I like super dark hair, either practically black or dark brown. Or light brown. I guess anything but blonde. I also, for whatever reason, think it's weird to see two blondes dating each other. It's kinda like when Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie got together (I know they're not blonde, but just go with me), everyone was like, "Holy shit, they're kids will be gorgeous." Have you seen their kids? I'm not impressed.

...ok, that example worked a lot better in my head than it came across here...

* Facial hair facial hair facial hair. If you're a dude, never ask my opinion on whether or not you should shave your beard. The answer is no. Never, ever shave your beard. Ever.

*I've got a thing for left-handed fellas.

* I know this is going to make me sound like a teenager, but I think tattoos are hot. No face tattoos though. And I'm not a fan of leg tattoos. But if you're covered from your neck to your waist, call me.

* Earrings are fine as long as you have at least two. Not a fan of the single earring.

* No me gusta jacked up teeth.

Ok, now that the shallow part is out of the way, I'm just gonna throw a bunch of random things out there:

* I would prefer you went to college. It doesn't make you a bad person if you didn't, it's just that if two very similar guys were standing in front of me and one went to college and the other didn't, I would pick the one with the degree.

* Please have a job and subsequently know how to handle your money. Not because I want you to spend any of it on me, that's not my style. I make my own money, I'm good. But because I'll be damned if I have to spend another weekend in the dark because someone chose to spend their money on beer instead of bills.

* Parents love me. So it'd be cool if you have a good relationship with them so I can then swoop in and charm their pants off.

* When you find out I was an English major, do not ever ask me if I want to be a teacher and who my favorite author is. The answer is, I would sooner die and I don't have one.

* I'm sarcastic and have a filthy mind and I think burps and farts are hilarious. So if you can't take a joke, don't want to hear "That's what she said" after everything, and want a girl who drinks martinis instead of beer and eats salads with low-fat dressing instead of massive amounts of chocolate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I'm not your gal. I also don't exercise so don't waste your time asking me to go to the gym with you. I've got important tv to watch instead.

* If you don't love my dog, I don't love you.

* Super nice, polite guys make me nervous. Find a happy medium and we'll be good. If I look pretty, tell me. If I'm being a giant twat, tell me.

* You have to be willing to hang out with my friends just as much as I hang out with your friends.

* I'm 100% done with being the one that drives to the guy. You can come pick me up.

* I hope you don't still live with your parents. Especially since I like guys in their 30's.

* I'm not at all religious and I don't know if I could date someone who was.

* Wouldn't it be swell if we could carry on a conversation? Like, every time we talked, not just the first few dates?

* I snort when I laugh and I sometimes break into song and dance for no reason. Hope that's ok.

* Please, please, please use proper English. Seriously. Please.

*Don't think that just because I write about sex means I'm down for the rodeo. I'm actually super modest and traditional when it comes to all that stuff. So yeah, sorry to disappoint.

So, of course I'll never find someone that fits that whole list. The whole idea of a list is pretty silly, actually. I'm feeling kind of shallow right about now... But the whole point was to write down all of my unrealistic expectations and then hope that I can find someone who possesses at least a few of them. Because if you're awesome, I'm not going to run the other way just because you have brown eyes or didn't go to school. The only thing that's a deal breaker is the Xbox. Homegirl wasn't fucking around about that.

Moist. That's Right, I Said It.

"You know what word I hate? 'Moist'. And 'Panties'! And if you put them together? Moist panties? Oh my god! I could throw up!"

I DESPISE listening to this conversation. And I hear it ALL THE TIME. Look, people are entitled to have a slight adverse reaction to a word, but is the term "moist panties" really going to ruin your life that much? If you don't like the word moist, use damp. If you can't stand panties, then put on underwear every morning. They're just words that happen to make different sounds. There are much worse things in life to worry about, like "murder" or "bankruptcy", or "a sudden trip to planned parenthood".

Despite my sour feelings towards the whole idea of hating aspects of the English language (which if you think about it, is an amazing thing and should be greatly appreciated. We have been provided with letters which make up words which allow us to have actual conversations. We have the ability to say things like "I love you", "Thank you", and "If you don't leave right now I'm going to slash your tires", instead of simply making sounds like "Uuuuhhh", "Errrrr", and "Nrrrmph"), there is one word that turns my stomach a little bit:

Naughty.

This word makes me cringe in any situation, but obviously it disturbs me the most in an intimate setting. The following phrases should never, ever, EVER be said out loud to another person:

- "Mmm, aren't you a naughty boy/girl..."

- "You're naughty, huh? You like that?"

- "Wha-"

...wait. I can't even finish the examples. It grosses me out too much. Does anyone have any moist panties they can throw my way to ease my stomach?

Here's the thing that gets me. The word naughty was originally reserved for children who were misbehaving. Therefore, it's strange to talk to the naked chick next to you the same way you talk to your 2 year old kid. But now, the word has almost developed a bigger association with sex, which makes it even more awkward to hear a mother calling her kid in a stroller a naughty boy. I just- I just don't get it.

I know that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, and me hating the word naughty is really no different than someone hating the word panties, but it's my opinion and I'm sticking to it. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go close my window. The humidity outside is making the room feel a little moist.

Remember That Time The Most Self-Deprecating Human Being Alive Crushed My Last Remaining Shred Of Confidence?

The other night I had a dream that Louis C.K. told me I was bad in bed.

For those of you who don't know who this particular comedian is, please Google him before you read any further so you can grasp the exact severity of this situation.

Fortunately, I know where the basis of this dream came from. Actually, the whole thing is kinda my fault. Before going to sleep, I had been catching up on the latest couple episodes of Louie. While doing so, I had the same thought that crossed my mind every time I watched his show: "You know what? I would totally sleep with him."

Now before you judge me, let's get a few things straight. First, my sporadically occurring crush on Louie C.K. is not so much based on looks as it is on our mutual outlook on life, which is roughly somewhere along the lines of, "I'm sorry, what?!"

The second factor of my attraction has to do with the fact that anyone who knows me knows that if a guy was born in the 70's and has a face overgrown with facial hair, I automatically dig him. In fact, I nearly gave a friend of mine a heart attack when I told him that I had been hanging out with a guy who was under the age of 30.

But all of this still doesn't give Louie the right to gallop into my dream and tell me I'm bad in bed. Let me just lay the whole scene out for you:

I was sitting on a chair in, no bullshit, a dark room with the exception of a single hanging light bulb, and to my left was this guy that I had apparently just slept with. I recognized the kid as someone I knew, but I couldn't for the life of me tell you who it was. He's sitting there and, I assumed, talking to me, but as he said "Yeah, you're not that great.", I noticed he was looking somewhere past me. So I turn to my right and there he is, in all his red-headed glory and that damn brown suede jacket that he wears in every episode of his show, sitting on a chair to my right, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, she's pretty bad, huh?" Louie the Traitor said while nodding emphatically.

"What??" I interjected, shocked at the blasphemy that was being force fed to me via my own subconscious.

Louie then turned to me and spoke, half towards me, half towards the other kid that had apparently just had the awful, terrible misfortune of adding me to their list.

"Yeah," he said, "I've been meaning to tell you actually. Like, I knew you were going to be bad before anything even happened, I just didn't know how bad."

As I sat there, glancing back and forth between the two men with a look of total shock and 'what the fuck' on my face, I woke up. And I then had to go through an entire day with Louie C.K.'s matter-of-fact face pounding in my head all day.

So here's my question that arose after this whole debacle: How do we honestly know if we're good or bad in bed if no one tells us?

I mean, I've been in some situations where I would have loved to just stand up and scream, "What is wrong with you?? Please don't ever put another human being through what you just made me endure! For the love of god, what you see in porn is not what girls want in real life!!!"

But of course, it's simple sex-etiquette (sexiquette?) to keep your mouth shut and try and rectify the situation by taking control and making sure your moves overpower the culprit's moves. On the other hand, I wonder just how satisfying or soul-crushing it would be if after two people slept with each other, they sat there and gave a verbal report card. I mean, you know you're lying if you don't lay there sometimes and wish you knew what other people thought of your talents (or lack thereof). Are you exciting? Boring? Sensual? A dead fish? Is it better if we never know and just wait until we find our soulmate who has been waiting their whole life for a partner to act like a deceased underwater sea creature in bed?

Perhaps this is just one of those situations where no news is good news. Or not. Actually, probably not. Let's all just assume that if they come back for seconds, you're in good shape.

And just to save any hope for me getting a date in the future, Louie C.K. doesn't know what he's talking about.

Taking Control

I'm starting to forget the way things smelled.

The way we would walk into the house with the dogs running ahead of us, straight up the stairs to fight over toys as you and I were hit with a wall of sauerkraut and kielbasa, wafting from the crock pot that was always waiting for us. The way the shampoo smelled in the outdoor shower, mixed with saltwater and the aroma of the garden. The way my room smelled of suntan lotion and laundry detergent rising off of the bed sheets. The smell of the car mixed with ocean and sand and wet dog.

I hate that these memories are becoming less tangible to my senses.

The other day, I found something I had written, about you. I remember sitting in the glow of a single lamp, feeling numb with happiness. I wrote:

He has this poster hanging on the wall of his dining room in a glass frame that reflects the light coming from the kitchen. I like to sit in the far corner of his couch and watch his tall, thin silhouette moving from the fridge to the sink. There's something comforting about it.

I find it interesting the different ways that people thumb their cigarettes. He taps his so that just the right amount of small red sparks float delicately to the bottom of the ashtray. I flick. I flick and ashes go flying everywhere, no matter how hard I try to hit the tray. I flick and black specks hit his perfect white sheets while we're lying in his bed.

"Shit, I'm sorry." I say as I anxiously try to clean around me without rubbing black into the fibers of the bedding.

"It's ok, I have to wash these anyway." he says, even though I know he has just cleaned them the day before.

My favorite thing is when we're next to each other in his bed, a pillow each propped messily behind our backs, in the dark. You can't see anything until one of us takes a drag and a small tip of fire illuminates the room and, if we're lucky, a split second of our eyes.

That was one of the last times I remember feeling truly happy about us. Those first 6 months when I couldn't even believe that you had chosen me.

Jil says never to let anyone compromise the way I deal with things. While I know people understand why these past nine months have been hard for me, I don't expect anyone to fully grasp the reasoning behind the fact that it's still as agonizing today as it was on that night in November. If not more so. So I'm just going to keep feeling what I'm feeling and let this run its course, even if it takes nine more months or nine more years.

I've dated people since our ending, but their best and worst flaw are always one in the same: They're not you.

I will never be happy for you, because what you did resulted in everything I have lost. But I will be happy for me. Happy that I left that horrifying situation in order to take the time to find something real.

"What'd You Do Last Night?" "Uhhh, I, Um, Crocheted. All Night."

"I have an idea for a bar. It will be brightly lit and it will be called 'Doggy Bag', so everyone knows what they're going home with."

This is the little burst of genius that spilled out of my friend's mouth the other night. Like most things in life, it took me a second to catch on, but once I did I was totally on board. I mean, think about it: the rate of beer-goggle-induced one night stands would plummet dramatically. There would be a shockingly wonderful drop in the feeling of "Oh my god, I hate myself right now" after you wake up in the morning and roll over and see the monster you're lying next to. We would no longer have to lie about what we did last night.

Here's my question though- are beer goggles a legitimate free pass, or are they just the last shred of an excuse that we're desperately clinging to, in hopes that this can be the time that doesn't count?

If you think about it, the whole idea of being ashamed after sleeping with someone that isn't exactly attractive by social standards kind of makes us all dicks. I mean, who are we to think that we're that fuckin hot and spectacular that we're actually too good for someone that might have a little extra chub on them, or jacked up teeth, or wasn't exactly popular in high school? Here's a little secret: Everyone who was considered a "loser" in high school is now approximately 10 times hotter and more accomplished than the "cool" kids. It's called karma and it's the greatest thing in the whole wide world.

I guess this is another one of those entries that I'm torn about. On one hand, I don't want to judge someone just by their looks, but on the other hand, that's unfortunately the nature of the beast. We all want to end up in bed with a person we're attracted to. If it's just a one night thing, who cares if they're a total asshole. Although 9 times out of 10, the more attractive a guy is, the worse he is in bed because he's never had to work for it. The same goes for the size of their pogo stick. The smaller they are, the more they aim to please. Ask any girl who has experienced all sizes of the scale, I guarantee you she'll agree.

Well I've gotten so off track that I don't even know how to get back to the original concept of this entry. So let's just sum this all up: If you get wasted, you might end up going home with someone that you wouldn't have if you were totally sober. But next time this happens, when you wake up and roll over to the big, hairy man snoring in your ear and drooling on your pillow, replace your initial thought of, "Wha- oh. Ohhhh no....no no no. Shit shit shit" with, "Hmm. Maybe he rescues puppies in his spare time. That's sweet".

Cause what's cuter than a puppy?

Why Are You Freaking Out? All I Did Was Call You Pretty.

Don't call me cute. Don't call me cute, don't call me pretty, don't call me hot.

Cute is what you call a baby, a puppy. Basically anything that is under 15 pounds and can't wipe its own ass. Hot is what high school girls with self-proclaimed social superiority and closeted self-esteem problems strive to be called every time they squeeze their underaged beer gut into an eighty dollar tube top bought with daddy's credit card. And pretty can best be described in the following conversation:

Girl: "Hi! My friend Suzy thinks you're so hot! What do you think about her???"

Boy: "Uhhh...yeah. She's, um, pretty I guess."

Translation: Suzy's a fuckin wildebeest.

So what should you call a gal? Call us beautiful, call us gorgeous, call us breath-taking, stunning, perfect. And when the mood is right, call us sexy.

But fellas, please mean it when you say it. That's the difference between calling a girl "cute" and calling her "beautiful". Calling us cute means you don't really mean it. It's just something you're throwing out there the same way people tack "lol" onto the end of every text. It's basically an insult as this point. Now, if you call us beautiful, chances are you mean it. Cause even guys are smart enough to know that calling a girl beautiful is going to reel her in for the real deal. When we're called gorgeous or stunning or any of the other words I mentioned as desirable adjective for a lady, we're assuming you see us as something more than just the average girl on the street. And we like that. A lot.

I guess there's not a whole lot more to say on the subject...oh, except that we girls can also tell when you're calling us beautiful just cause you think it's what we want to hear and you can get in our pants that way. In fact, just assume we know everything :)

"I Feel Like Making Love.." "Oh. Ew. I Have To Go."

Much like my last entry where I attempted to decode the 3 different types of relationships, this week I'll once again pretend to know what I'm talking about and discuss the 3 different kinds of getting it on. Cause everyone loves a good analytical look into P's in V's.

Ok, so we have- from softest to roughest (is roughest a word? most rough?)- making love, having sex, and fucking. In other words, your appetizer, dinner, and dessert.

Making love is a term that a lot of people feel uncomfortable with. I mean, you really have to be in l-o-v-e with someone to be able to look into their eyes and whisper, "Darling, let's make love tonight". Try doing that without laughing. Seriously, I dare you. Making love is the thing you see in movies where the music comes on in the background (depending on the decade you were born, you have your pick of Barry White, Maxwell, or Robin Thicke) and everything is slow motion and kisses and quick little gasps of breaths when the dude slides in for the first time like it's the most euphoric fuckin feeling the chick has ever felt in her life. Just wait till the end sweetheart, it gets better.

There's a thin line between making love and just having slow, gentle sex. The key word? Love. You really can't "make love" unless you're in love (yikes, I've never typed the word love so much in my life. This is depressing). All of us have had sweet sex with someone, but it doesn't mean that we're expecting a diamond ring afterwards. It's usually just happens when A) the girl is tired of getting rammed against a wall, B) someone has a cramp, or C) the guy is trying to hold in his man juices cause if he gets off one more time without letting the girl get off she's going to punch him in the fuckin nuts.

On that note, there's sex, the most generic type of, well, sex. There's really not a whole lot to be said about it. It's the middle of the road, can do it with anybody regardless of relationship status, putting together of the two puzzle pieces. It feels good, no one gets extraordinarily sore afterwards, and you don't run the risk of feeling either too emotionally mushy or like you have just been used like a human chunk of meat (Mmm, tasty).

Now the grand finale, the don't-try-this-at-home-kids, the 'send in the lube and the handcuffs'. Fucking. One of my favorite words when used as an adjective.

Fucking is something you can do with a one night stand or a long term partner every once in awhile when your Robin Thicke CD starts skipping. It's rough and dirty and sweaty and fast and you feel like you've run a marathon afterwards. Unlike making love which is usually confined to a bed, or having sex which can be on a bed, sofa, shower- all the usual places- fucking can be anywhere. A wall, a floor, a counter, a bed, inside, outside, upside down, right side up, diagonally, top, bottom, side to side, dry, wet, rain, sun, snow, leaves, etc etc etc. It's what you do when you're drunk and it's what you do after you've just had a huge fight and you cannot stand the other person. It's what you see in porns and on Sex & the City whenever Samantha has a scene. It's also a bit of an acquired taste. For the most part, you either like it or you don't.

So that's my take on things. I know my personal favorite of the 3 choices, but a good sex columnist doesn't screw and tell :)

...Was anyone convinced by that? No? Didn't think so.

Sound It Out Now- D-Da-Daaaaaaate.

Remember dating? Yeah, me neither.

Now, as a girl who doesn't really like going to restaurants and can't sit still for the life of me in a movie theater, I'm not crushed that the whole "dinner and a movie" thing isn't standard protocol anymore. However, I do miss the whole concept of being taken out somewhere by someone you just met, resulting in a few hours of nervous conversation and flirtatious looks and shaky, clammy hand holding. It's nice to realize you like someone and not kiss and rub all up on each other right away. It's nice to feel that the object of your affection is actually working towards impressing you and proving that they're a nice guy/girl. I don't want to say this proves that a person is respectful, because I know plenty of great guys who turned into great boyfriends even though they didn't do the whole date thing right away. Maybe what I miss most about literally going out to a physical date-like location with someone is the fact that it helps put a label of sorts on "what you are".

I've had this talk with a friend of mine numerous times; the difference between hooking up, dating/seeing someone, and being boyfriend/girlfriend or boyfriend/boyfriend or girlfriend/girlfriend (I guess the easiest way to categorize that last one would just be to say "relationship". Ooooh, scary word).

Here's my personal description of each different phase of, let's say, togetherness:

Hooking up is pretty self explanatory. You meet someone and there's an attraction there so you guys make out and touch each others' naughty bits and have sex and all that kind of stuff. Sometimes that's the only thing you do when you see each other, and sometimes you can actually build a friendship too where the two of you hang out and have sleepovers and meet each others' friends and all that stuff. However, since the actual act of going on dates has disappeared into the dark abyss that I can only assume Pluto went on permanent vacation to when they kicked it out of the solar system, when you're just hooking up with someone it is hard to tell if it can actually result in an eventual relationship or not. Because what if the other person just wants to hook up and nothing else? When one of their friends asks you if you and his buddy are dating and you say "No, we're just hooking up", does that mean there is no chance of you two ever changing the dreaded relationship status on Facebook? (Which is a curse, by the way. The second you change it to "In A Relationship With.." and have your friends start friending your significant other, you might as well kiss the whole thing goodbye). Also, if you're just hooking up with someone, it most likely is no strings attached so you both can be hooking up with other people at the same time. Usually this isn't a big deal but we all know that girls are crazy and and hypocritical so even though we may be kissing someone on the side, if we find out you are too, well...we're gonna cry. Cause we're nuts.

I guess dating/seeing each other is kinda just a hop, skip, and a jump away from hooking up. Once you're dating it doesn't mean you're in an exclusive relationship. But it sure as hell means that the chance for one is that much stronger. Just like hooking up, you can date multiple people at one time, unless you make it an exclusive dating type deal. In that case, you're both just basically scared of putting the boyfriend/girlfriend title on it which is understandable. That shit is stressful. But if you're dating and someone's birthday rolls around or Christmas pops up on you like an obnoxiously cheery yuletide bandit, you better get each other a gift. Even if it's just taking the other person out for drinks and sliding a card across the table, it has to be recognized somehow.

This brings us to the big guns, the playoffs, the how-the-hell-did-I-get-myself-roped-into-this-one. The Relationship. Bah Bah Baaaaaaah. (I hope those bah's sounded to you guys the same way they did in my head. You know, less-sheeplike and more dooming). Sure, being in a relationship is great and realizing that the person you love is also your best friend is great and being able to walk around saying "I'm just so glad I'm out of the dating scene and found me a real man" is great as long as you're not saying it to a single gal cause we WILL hit you in the back of the knees with a 2x4. But it's also scary. You're in a committed relationship. You're locked in. You're either going to get married or suffer months of depression and self-deprecation after you guys break up because one of you fucked up. And as a girl, it's tough because we often feel that you're just being our boyfriend because we want you to be. It's that whole stereotype of guys being commitment-phobes and never really wanting to be serious. Or there are the guys that are so sickly sweet and in loooooove with you that you just want to punch them in the face and tell them to grow some balls and take their pants off cause momma's feeling frisky.

I suppose what I'm trying to say is this: In getting back to my initial point of "the date" being roadkill, I think that it should pry itself off the asphalt and make a comeback. Dates make people feel special. They're also fun, let's not forget that. And if they're not fun, they make great stories to tell your friends when you're all sitting around drunk and eternally single. Plus, dates force you to actually talk to each other which is the only way you're going to be able to tell if you're better off just as friends or if you should go back to being complete strangers. But speaking from a technical view, dates also help you realize if you're just a booty call, or a potential for something more. You know, like a future baby momma. Cause I don't know about you guys, but I have Maury on speed dial. It's a little something I like to call planning for the future.

And Which Head Will You Be Thinking With Today, Sir?

I recently read something that shook me to my very core, something that made every hair on my body stand up in protest; something that made me want to believe in god just so I could then question those very beliefs. I read something that created a terrible trifecta of a mental hurricane, an emotional tsunami, and a physical earthquake within my poor little body. Something that made me, as a sex writer, want to stand atop a soap box and yell "WHAT HAS THIS ALL BEEN FOR?!"

It started innocently enough. One morning I came downstairs and saw one of my mom's magazines on the couch. You know, the kind where women write article after article in hopes that they can join forces to convince themselves that turning 50 is the best thing to ever happen to them. One of my favorite actresses was on the front so I poured my coffee and settled in for the stereotypical cover story where the author starts off by saying how normal the celebrity is, showing up for the interview in just yoga pants and a sweater. Yeah lady, ask your "normal celebrity" how much those yoga pants of hers cost and then try and make me relate to her.

Anyway, I was flipping through the pages when I caught a headline about sex, so of course I stopped. You know, research purposes and such. So I'm reading through this article about how to get yourself in the mood and blah blah blah, and then all of a sudden, I had to stop. There it was, this blasphemous paragraph, leaping out from the page, flushing everything anyone has ever thought about sex down the drain. According to this article (and this particular paragraph was not strictly about sex in your 50's, it was presented as a general fact), there is a much bigger disconnect between mind and body in women than there is in men. In other words, women can get physically aroused without any mental or emotional stimulation, while men apparently need us to HOLD THEIR FRICKEN HAND FOR THEM TO GET A HARD ON. What kind of hysterical post-menopausal bullshit artist wrote this??? Has a hot flash completely wiped all common sense from her supposedly wise and experienced brain? IS EVERYTHING I EVER THOUGHT WRONG???

I set down my coffee and frantically began skimming the rest of the article for some further explanation, some rebuttal or footnote that stated "Haha, just kidding." There was none to be found. Afraid that I would have a complete nervous breakdown if I invested any more time in this debacle, I threw the magazine down and began racking my mental rolodex of sex facts, myths, and assumptions. While everything can be left up to circumstance, I pretty sure everyone- EVER- can agree that 99.99999% of the time, women need to feel some sort of emotional connection with someone in order to have really great, mind-blowing sex or other sexual activity, resulting in an equally eye-popping orgasm. Meanwhile, men are the first to admit that mushy feelings make their sail go down and all a girl really needs to be eligible for sex is a vagina and the ability to never, ever give a rake job.

I'm not crazy for thinking this article is bullhonky, right? I've talked about it with a few people since reading it, and they all seem to agree with me. I mean, this is like saying that the graham cracker is the best part of a s'more, or that the second Becky on Roseanne was far superior to the original. Lies and fabrications!

All I know is this: the day that I turn 50- in 25 years, 1 month, and 8 days- I am submitting my own article to this very magazine. An article about how since the moment I kissed my very first boy, my brain, heart, and cooch have been linking arms and crossing that finish line together.

Do You Kiss Your Mama With That Mouth??

Ok, so I know that when it comes to sex, everything has to do with preference. What one person loves is what another person despises. I also realize that you can like something occasionally, but not all the time. Example?

Dirty Talk.

Now, I understand that if you're having low-down, rough, sweaty sex with someone, dirty talk makes total sense. Call us a stupid bitch, a filthy slut, a nasty whore. Ask us what we want yet do what you like anyway. Tell us you're going to [insert preferred demeaning word for sex here] us until we [again, fill in your favorite ejaculation slang]. Pull our hair, smack our ass, blah blah blah. You know how Halloween is the one night a year that a girl can walk around dressed like a prostitute/doctor hybrid and it's totally ok? Well that certain kind of slam-me-against-a-wall-and-rip-off-my-clothes sex is the Halloween of dirty talk.

9 times out of 10 (and again, I'm just going off the majority of girls I know), if we're just having regular old sex, talking dirty to us is uncomfortable. We tend to just smile and nod, let out a little "yeah", "uh-huh", or "uhhh, sure". Secretly, we're trying not to laugh. Seriously, what are we supposed to do when out of nowhere we hear, "Yeah, you like that baby? You like that? Right there? Do you? Huh? Do you?!" What are we supposed to say? "Actually, I suppose I can tolerate what you're doing for the time being, but if we're being honest, I would prefer it if you would kindly move slightly to the left and shut the hell up."

Let me allow all you men in on a little secret. When girls have sex, they have to concentrate in order to get off. We don't have the luxury of having a magical skin wand that feels amazing as soon as it simply touches a lady bit. There's a lot going on down there for us and if you want us to actually have an orgasm and not fake it then maybe you should pay attention and realize that right before we're about to have fireworks go off in our heads, we get very, very quiet. That's us trying not to lose it ("It" being the orgasm). So please don't ruin perfectly good sex by asking us if it "feels so good" and if we like your P in our V. We're busy imagining our favorite celebrity girl crush so we can reach our happy place.

Now, I feel like I end up giving the same disclaimer in all my blog entries about how this is just my opinion and it's not always the case and even I disagree with myself sometimes. In this case, this still applies. All I'm saying is, for the most part, talking dirty to a girl is not the everyday, run-of-the-mill way to get her off. However- and this is where me disagreeing with myself kicks in- it can be pretty fuckin hot and actually help in the process. So I guess I just kinda bashed my whole theory... Crap, now I've gone and lost my literary boner. Bummer.

Give Me An S! Give Me An L! Give Me A U! Give Me A T! What Does That Spell???

Here's a question for you: Just how many people does a girl have to sleep with for her to be considered a slut? And is it the number, or is it the way she carries herself?

Let's say a girl has only slept with 2 dudes in her life, but she has blown the entire tri-state area. I would consider her more of a trampy tramp than some chick who has slept with 10 people over the course of many years, but all of those 10 people have been steady boyfriends and the aforementioned girl doesn't just hand out bj's like it's National Suck Off A Stranger Day.

I'm not going to go into the whole double standard issue where feminists that don't shave their armpits and probably never get laid anyway bitch about how when guys have a lot of sex they're praised and when girls do it they're looked down on. Frankly, I don't give a shit. In my opinion, people can do whatever they want as long as they're not spreading around STD's and making more whiny, sticky, little kids.

I was once dating a guy for awhile, and we made a point to never tell each other our "numbers". Then, one night, over a year into our relationship, we revealed our numbers for some stupid, terrible, awful reason. Once he found out that I was more, let's say, "worldly" than him, he didn't look at me the same and our sex life changed. We broke up shortly thereafter. Now, I've been with guys who have known their exact number, and guys who have tried counting and then given up and said "I don't know. A lot." Neither of these situations bother me. Because here's the thing. I think that once you reach the age my friends and I are at now, sex becomes pretty straightforward. We'll let you know if we're exclusively sleeping with you or if we're just using you for sex, just like you're using us. Either way, it doesn't fucking matter what your number is. I straight out ask guys if they have anything they could give me and my nether regions, and (this is assuming they're not lying cause that would just be messed up and terrible) the way I feel about the whole thing is that as long as we're all cleared in that area, I don't care how many other people you've slept with, cause guess what? I'm not exactly a nun.

Here's my bottom line. Guys and girls can sleep with as many people they want. It doesn't make you a bad person if you have slept with a hundred people, and it doesn't make you an angel if you've only slept with one. It's how you carry yourself and, as much as I hate to sound like a health class, it's about being smart and not being shocked if you get knocked up after letting some guy shoot his load in you the week before your period when you're not on the pill.

Sex feels good and chicks like it just as much as the fellas. Actually, you know what? I shouldn't be trying to defend girls towards guys. I should be defending girls towards other girls. Ladies, if I want to get laid, I'm gonna get laid. So don't judge sweetheart, you know you're doing the same exact thing as soon as no one's looking :)

The Four Seasons Of Doing The Dirty

Fucking In The Fall:

Weather-wise, this is probably the best season to get it on. It's not freezing yet, so you can keep the windows open and get an awesome breeze while you and your partner make your own body heat. Plus, there's something undeniably romantic about fall colors. As soon as those leaves start fading to brilliant reds and golds, you have to admit that all you want to do is throw on a sweater and cuddle up with someone under a blanket. There's no rain to make you miserable and no snow to make you angry, it's the perfect temperature outside to get close inside.

Wanking In The Winter:

Once you graduate high school and snow days are a thing of the past, there is absolutely nothing good about those inconvenient little white flakes intruding all over the place. They dump down on our cars and walkways and make traveling a nightmare. Therefore there is nothing else to do but stay in and try and keep you and your special buddy both busy and warm. So you put down your hot chocolate and turn down the fire. You grab your luva by the hand and lead them into the bedroom. You start kissing and fall into bed and start taking off each other's clothes. This is where things go downhill. The second your shirt comes off, you realize that it's 30 freakin degrees outside. Then your pants come off and, for girls, you get the unsexy experience of feeling every single one of your freshly shaved leg hairs poke back out through your skin, creating a type of jagged weapon against your guy's unsuspecting legs. You search for warmth under the blanket, but then the guy starts complaining because he can't breath when he's going down on you with a comforter over his head. Then whoever is on top is either freezing cause the blanket slipped off, or sweating their ass off because they're doing all the work and they need some air god dammit! So yeah, everything about the winter is a big old cock block.

Spanking In The Spring:

Spring is similar to Fall, in where it's between the two extreme seasons. After suffering through the long, cold winter, everyone is ecstatic that it is finally getting warm again and suddenly, everyone becomes attractive. So you and whoever is closest start to kiss and make the necessary steps towards putting some P in some V. Everything is going great until someone sneezes. Then the other person realizes that their eyes are watering. Then you both start wheezing and itching every inch of your body. Allergies have officially ruined your hard-on.

Sexing In The Summer:

It's hot. It's sticky. It's muggy and buggy. It's perfect. Well, this is just my personal opinion. I happen to be someone who enjoys summer sex, but for the sake of argument I will look at both the pros and the cons. One pro is that this is the season that people are wearing the least amount of clothes. Girls are wearing tiny little dresses and guys are sweating through their t-shirts. Everyone is in string bikinis and board shorts, soaking wet from the pool and ocean. Another pro is that if we're already sweaty, why not get more sweaty? Of course, this could be a con for some people. There are definitely times when you're in the middle of having sex and you realize it's just too damn hot and if your boyfriend even comes close to touching you, you swear to god you will ball tap him so hard his head will spin. But I still maintain that summer is the best season to have sex. It's just, well, sexy.

Oh, You're Married? Well Didn't YOU Just Get More Attractive!

This past Saturday night I was down in the city having dinner with an old college friend (I like/hate that I'm old enough to say "old college friend") who married her long-term boyfriend back in October. She was telling me a story about how ever since their wedding, whenever they are out at a bar, girls won't stop hitting on her husband.

"Why is that, do you think?" She asked me.

I thought for a moment and then presented a question.

"Does he wear a wedding ring?"

My friend nodded and this led us into the hypocrisy of married men versus married women. Here is what we concluded:

Girls become more attracted to men who are obviously in a relationship. This is because what we ultimately want is a man who can commit. Therefore, if we see a guy with a wedding ring on or standing with a girl who is obviously his significant other, our hormones go wild and our biological clock starts spinning like mad. Here is someone who isn't out at a bar just to pick up chicks to go home and bang, it's someone who is out with his wife or girlfriend who he cares about and is (presumably) faithful to.

"But why don't guys approach me when they see me with my wedding ring on?" my friend then asked.

"Because," I said, "it shows that you're committed which, while this is what we want, is the exact opposite of what guys want."

Once again my friend nodded.

"Makes sense." she said.

So then we began dissecting the other side of the spectrum. If a guy sees a girl that he is attracted to, and as he approaches her he sees some sign of her obviously wanting a commitment, this will scare him off. The boner goes down and he turns to go search for some girl with her tits spilling out of her shirt and drunk eyes.

Think of it this way:

Girls- Do we not find celebrity men more attractive when we see them being affectionate and caring towards a woman?

And Guys- Do you not completely want to vomit when you see a female celebrity with a new baby in one arm and a breast pump in the other?

Boooobs Part 2: The Experiment

A month or two ago, my friend and I were at Target, once again spending way too much money. At one point we were in the bra section because I had recently realized that all of my undergarments were about as unsexy as they come. So as I was picking out a nice little lacy number, my friend points out a rack (pun totally intended) of bras next to us.

"Dude, have you seen these before? They increase you two cup sizes." she said, sifting through the different color options.

"So, wait, I would be a C?" I asked, unable to grasp that concept.

"Yeah, what size are you? I'll find it."

I told her my bra size and we picked one out with a borderline trampy purple and black leopard pattern. The padding in each cup was roughly as thick as a couch cushion.

We went back into the dressing rooms and crammed into one stall because we obviously needed each other's opinions on everything we had to try on, and could not be bothered with the concept of opening the door and stepping out in front of the communal mirror. When it was time to strap on my bra-on-steroids, I already had the idea in my mind that it was going to be a complete disaster and there was no way I would end up walking out of the store with that thing in a plastic bag.

Neverless, to amuse my friend, I slipped the bra on and scooped my boobs into the cups (you girls know exactly what I'm talking about with the boob-scooping...at least all you girls with slightly smaller chests). As I turned around to face the mirror, I started laughing at what was sure to be a completely ridiculous sight. However, once I faced my reflection, my laughter died down.

"Huh." I mumbled, turning to the side. My friend looked up and gave me a once over.

"Whoa."

What we saw in the mirror was plain old Alexis with a huge freakin' rack. Like, my cup runneth over. It was a spectacular sight.

"You have to get that." my friend said, nodding in approval.

"Yeah, but I would never wear it," I argued, continuing to turn from side to side, simultaneously creeped out and strangely attracted to myself. "Unless.."

"Unless.."

"Unless I wore it out one night, just to, you know, see if people's reactions were any different."

"DO IT."

So I did. I bought the bra with the idea in my head that I would wear it out to a bar one night and then write a blog about it the next day. You see how I'm always thinking of you guys, my lovely followers?

Despite this plan of mine, the bra remained in the Target bag, underneath my desk, for a full month. It was as if I was afraid to let it out of the bag, like it would come to life and attack me like some terrible 80's horror movie. What exactly was it about this bra that terrified me, you may ask? It was the possibility of the following scenario happening:

I wear the bra and go to the bar. Some guy sees my giant headlights from the other side of the room and approaches me, eyes on my retail store produced goods the entire time. We start talking and he asks me and my girls out on another date. I show up in my regular bra, and have to explain to him that I was doing a little experiment and in reality, he and I have the same size chest. He then tells me I'm crazy and peaces out.

Basically I was afraid of pretending to be someone that I'm physically not.

So I decided to scale it down a notch. During a day of errands with the same friend who I had gone to Target with the day of the big purchase, I wore the bra underneath a simple tank top. I looked down and for the first time ever, the first thing I saw were boobs. When I got into my friend's car, she looked at me and went "Good lord!". I felt extremely uncomfortable but I was going to ride this thing out. After all, it was just a bra. There are a bajillion girls out there with a giant rack, what made me any different on that particular day?

So I held my head high as we walked through the mall, not so secretly catching a glimpse of myself in each store window that we passed. I also made sure to be alert towards any potential attention that I received from the people we walked by. You know, see if guys noticed me more with a bigger chest.

Well, I can honestly say that not one guy looked at me. Now, the girls I passed on the other hand, they were very open to glance down at my boobs and sneer. And people wonder why I'm not a giant fan of chicks.

All was not lost on my bra though, fear not. Later that night, I went over to my special gentleman friend's house and he certainly noticed my enhanced ladies. As we sat watching a movie I would occasionally feel his hand reach over and poke one. As I was leaving that night, he walked me to my car, gave me a kiss, and as he was walking back towards his house, he turned and yelled out "Wear it again next week!"

So, I guess the bra had some degree of success.

All I know is, by the end of the day when I finally got home and into my own bed, my back was killing me.

A Literary Slow Dance

I know I said that I would write about dressing up like a ho-ho this week, but there's been a change of plans. Something about all of these recent break-ups of long-term celebrity marriages has got me thinking about the whole "happily ever after" concept, and the fact that I just watched one of the more dramatic episodes of Sex & the City (the one where Harry proposes to Charlotte and Carrie knocks the vase of carnations off her coffee table after Burger breaks up with her on a post-it) made me decide to write a somewhat serious entry.

Now, it's no secret that I would love nothing more than to be a redneck Carrie Bradshaw, basking in one of the Carolina's, writing my very own newspaper column on sex and relationships. I have also recently purchased a pair of shoes (from Target, of course), that I believe would make Carrie herself very proud. However, a big fear of mine is to find myself at 35 years old, with a long list of ex-relationships but no husband. And a bigger fear of mine is to settle into a comfortable, long-lasting marriage, only to realize after 25 years that I have committed to the wrong person.

I grew up surrounded by terrible marriages, so I have absolutely no clue what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like. I have an idea in my head of what I hope to someday achieve with a significant other, but in my own personal experiences of both my past relationships and the relationships around me, I just don't trust anyone anymore. Even if I meet someone who completely knocks my socks off, someone who is absolutely everything I ever wanted and more, how do I know that after a couple of years things won't completely fall apart? And do I have it in me to once again give myself completely to someone- mentally, emotionally, and physically- just for it to be thrown back in my face eventually?

I'm thinking no.

And this is a sad thought. It's really sad, actually. I know I'm still young and I have my whole life ahead of me and blah blah blah, but the fact of the matter is, I'm ready to find that person. And I think that a lot of my single friends would say they feel the same way. Especially with this sudden boom of college and high school friends getting married and having kids, it's really discouraging to show up at these celebrations either A) completely single, or B) fresh out of yet another relationship. I have come shockingly close to marriage twice in my life, and if this whole third-time's-a-charm thing isn't true, well, I'm screwed.

I was recently at the wedding of my old college roommate's, serving as a bridesmaid. Also in attendance was my first love and his new fiancee. Now, me and this former love, we broke up 4 years ago and while it was extremely, heart-breakingly traumatic for me at the time, I've obviously been over it for quite awhile now. In fact, it was great to see him and even more great to realize that I was genuinely happy for him and his fiancee (she's stuuuunning, he really hit the jackpot with this one). It wasn't until the very last song, when everyone was circled around the bride and groom as they danced, all of the guests linking arms and swaying in what was actually quite a beautiful moment, that I looked across the giant loop of people and saw that I was directly across from my ex, his fiancee nowhere to be seen. For a brief standstill in time, he and I locked eyes and the look we gave each other almost seemed to say, "This was supposed to be us."

Of course, it wasn't supposed to be us because if it was we would have already been married. A more honest depiction of reality was, "This COULD have been us." It's just strange to think about how there have been relationships in the past where you could have sworn with every fiber of your being that it would result in Forever.

In the span of time and experience between the end of my first love and the complete and utter destruction of my last love, I have built a thick, heavy, unbreakable walls of cynicism and distrust and just a general feeling of 'what's the point'. But then I would look at the few couples that I know that genuinely are happy, like all of my aunts and uncles or some of my friends' parents. I know that it's possible to have the happily ever after that every young girl dreams of, but there's still this impracticable desire of mine that I can someday find someone to be with that doesn't involve constant work and compromise and doubt. I would love to find someone who just fits. I know there's no such thing, but it's nice to think about.

One of my friends and I have been talking a lot recently about how all we want is a crush. Just to see someone and get those butterflies and the daydreams and good kind of what-ifs. It's extremely frustrating when you realize that you haven't felt that way in years and you are no closer to feeling it today.

Because the absolute worst feeling in existence is knowing that you have all the love in the world to give, and no one seems to want it.

So I guess we all just have to keep waiting. I don't want to believe the old adage of love comes when you least expect it, because I never want to give up on the idea of love. At any given moment, I want to be able to reach down into the most guarded and beautiful parts of my emotional insides and pull out my heart, hoping there is someone standing in front of me with their hands outreached, waiting to hold it forever.

Booo(.)(.)ooobs

The greatest news I ever heard was when guys started saying that they preferred a great booty over a great rack. "Thank god," I thought to myself, as I looked down and saw straight to my bellybutton.

Now, as a girl who is almost 25 years old and barely a 34A cup, I reached puberty in a time when everything was about the boob. I thought that the way to be cool was to have your tits pushed up so far they reached your ears, and I had convinced myself that when I was old enough I would get a boob job (of course, this would all be after I got my giant Russian nose cut down to a normal human size). However, I was only 12 years old at the time and after realizing that I was the only 7th grader who wasn't wearing a bra yet, I decided it would be a great and TOTALLY INCONSPICUOUS idea if I showed up one day wearing a padded bra that made me roughly a C-cup. So I did. All through junior high and high school I wore padded bras that made me look ridiculous because the rest of my body was built like an 8 year old boy, with the exception of, like my nose, my giant Russian ass and lovely size 10 feet that I had been forced to rock since I was 9 years old. Basically, if I stood sideways, I looked like a Picasso that Pablo himself looked at and was like, "What the hell?", before throwing it out.

When I got my first boyfriend the summer after 11th grade, my mom looked at me and said, "Alexis, if you keep wearing those padded bras, boys are going to be in for quite the shock if they ever try to stick their hand up there."

It was the only piece of advice that my mother has ever given me that has actually had a positive impact on my life.

The next day I stashed my padded bra in the back of my drawer and nervously clasped on one with nothing more than a cup thick enough to hide any slight nipplage. That night, a boy felt my boobs for the first time and there were no screams of shock or looks of confusion.

Success.

Now, it still took me awhile to fall in love with my little girls. A lot of my closest friends have large, fabulous, amazing boobs, and I always felt completely un-sexy when I was around them. But over the years I have realized that for me personally, my fun bags are freakin amazing. Seriously, I love my boobs. I love that I can lay on my stomach or cross my arms without them getting in the way. When I go bathing suit shopping, there is always a ton of bikini tops in my size because the majority of girls with my chest size are still shopping at Gap Kids. Don't get me wrong, on certain days I wish I could get some awesome cleavage or if I'm feeling bloated I sure could use bigger boobs to make my waist and stomach look smaller in comparison. But this is the body I was given and I'm cool with that. (I never did end up getting the boob and nose job).

Ok, so we've got the T down, let's move onto the A. Like I said before, when I heard that asses were catching up and possibly even surpassing boobs on the popularity scale, I was ecstatic. This is going to sound really weird, but I inherited my father's backside. My mother and I have absolutely nothing in common when it comes to physical traits; I am 100% built like the paternal side of my family. This has both its advantages and disadvantages because, like I said before, we basically go straight down with the exception of our nose, butts, and feet.

It used to be annoying when I realized that on the rare occasion that I wore a dress or a skirt, I always had to wear flat shoes or very short heels because my ass was so big that it would push out the back of the dress so much that it was about 4 inches shorter than the front. It wasn't a good look. But then, one magical night in June, a week after I graduated high school, I was spending some time with a guy that would soon become my second-ever boyfriend. We were going bowling and as I walked up to the lane, fully intending on accepting what was sure to be a gutter ball, I heard him say, "You have a great ass."

And that was the beginning of realizing that if I wasn't blessed with junk in the front, I could sure as hell work my junk in the trunk.

When I first started writing this entry, my intention was to explain the pros and cons of dressing slutty while out trolling for boys. But, (Butt! Haha?) I somehow ended up going on a long tangent about my own personal body issues, so I apologize if this was one of my more boring posts. I promise next week I'll write about the whole dressing-like-a-tramp thing. In the meantime, I encourage everyone to go out and grab a boob or a handful of ass today, whether it's your own or someone else's :)

T9 Gets Dirty

Back in college when I wrote my sex column, one of my articles was about Flirt Cheating. Flirt Cheating was a term that I put to the act of flirting with someone while you have a significant other. (Some friends actually had me add it to UrbanDictionary.com, so if you look it up you can get the whole definition). However, in this fancy little technological world that we live in, most of us end up hitting on each other via text.

Enter Sexting.

I'm sure you all know what sexting is, but part of my duty as a blogger is to explain any crazy terms I throw out there. So, sexting is when you suggestively text with someone, often telling them what acts you would do if/when you see each other.

So my question is, is sexting cheating?

My answer, which may completely sell me out not only as a girl but also as someone who has both cheated (back in my younger, incredibly stupid, self-conscious days) and been cheated on, is: Only if you get caught.

Let's lay out some situations featuring my two favorite fake characters from my old columnist days- Jack and Jill.

Situation #1: Jack and Jill have just started dating. It's been about a month and a half, so they're still in their honeymoon stage but are also nowhere near being in love yet and are still nervous around each other. If we're being honest, when you start a relationship with someone (unless you have known each other for years prior), the two of you are still essentially strangers to each other. So Jack is still picking up Jill for all of their dates and they're still asking questions about each other over dinner and while curled up on the couch watching a movie. This is an exciting time, but it's also a time where your head and heart aren't 100% in it. You might still think about your ex, or notice a good-looking guy or gal while you're out and about.

Jack has an ex-girlfriend named Mary. (And yes, she had a little lamb). They dated for 3 years and broke up about a year ago. This has given them enough time to get over any bad feelings towards each other and about 3 months ago they bumped into each other at Wawa and began talking again, just catching up as old friends. They continued to occasionally text each other and even met up for coffee a couple times just to shoot the shit. And sometimes, if they were out with their respective group of friends drinking, they would text each other a suggestive message because they knew every part of each other so well and it just came naturally. Now, Jack told Mary when he started dating Jill, and Mary herself was on the dating scene. In no way did Jack and Mary ever intend on rekindling their relationship, but still, sometimes late at night while lying in bed, Jack's phone would beep and there would be a text from Mary, laying out a hypothetically enticing scenario for him. Jack responds, and this steamy banter continues for a bit until Mary says she is tired and is going to sleep.

Jack never tells Jill about these sporadic texts because he knows that he never, ever plans on actually carrying out the contexts of his sex-texts with Mary. No ones feelings are hurt and Jack and Jill's relationship flourishes.

Situation #2: Jill has been seeing Jack for 6 months and she believes she is falling in love with him. They have a stable relationship and everything is hunky dory. Recently, an old college crush facebook messaged her, saying he saw something that reminded him of her and he hoped she was doing well. His name was Hansel, and Jill had been friends with his sister Gretel. They begin a short and harmless correspondence and one night Hansel texts Jill confessing that he had always wanted to ask her out but he knew she had a boyfriend and it was a shame he had lost his chance. Jill can't help but be flattered and also feels the old twang of attraction towards her former crush. However, she was firmly in her relationship with Jack and had no intention of compromising it. Plus, Hansel had moved to Texas after college to become a professional bull rider.

One night Jack was out of town visiting his aunt, and Jill found herself home alone and bored. So she texts Hansel and before she knows it, they are deep in one of those "if only" conversations. But, you know, all sexy-like. Much like Jack's past texts with Mary, the sexting between Jill and Hansel is not a daily thing. Also like Jack and Mary, Jill never tells her boyfriend about Hansel and the final result is no harm no foul.

Situation #3: Jack and Jill are celebrating their two year anniversary. They recently moved into an apartment above a pizza shop and have talked about marriage in the future. They are deeply in love but also have found themselves in a bit of a slump. This usually happens after a year of dating because you have become so comfortable with each other and have fallen into such a routine that things can become, quite frankly, boring. You're not having as much sex as you used to and you're no longer dressing up for each other or even closing the door when you go to the bathroom.

On nights where Jack and Jill go out with separate social groups, they sometimes find themselves sexting Mary and Hansel, just to feel a little bit of the excitement that was currently lacking in their own relationship. They delete these texts on the car ride home and happily climb into bed together at the end of the night, giving each other a kiss goodnight and saying 'I love you'.

Situations # 4 & 5: Jack is taking a shower on a Friday night in when his phone beeps. Jill sits up on the couch and reads the text. It's Mary and she is drunk and tingly. Jill hears the shower turn off and quickly closes Jack's phone, replacing it on the coffee table and he walks into the living room in his boxers. Jill says that someone texted him and admits that she read it. Obviously upset (but also knowing that she has done the same exact thing), she storms past him and goes to bed, telling him to sleep on the couch that night. The next morning she makes him promise that he will cut off all ties with Mary. She makes Jack tell her if anything physical has happened between Mary and him, and when he honestly tells her no, she decides to forgive him, but obviously keeps her eyes and ears out for any other suspicious behavior. Jack and Jill move past this bump in their relationship and continue on happily.

Or, Jack finds a text from Hansel in Jill's phone. She had forgotten to delete if from the night before. He is furious and feels that he can no longer trust her. He doesn't want any guy sexting his girlfriend, hell, he doesn't like it when a guy just texts his girlfriend. He tell her that she disgusts him and they break up.

Jill moves back in with her parents but not before keying Jack's car.

So while sexting may not be considered 100% moral while you're in a relationship, the fact of the matter is that people have needs and sometimes you need a little harmless electronic contact to truly appreciate the person you're with. I should also add that if this sexting ever does get literally physical or you realize that you have formed an emotional attachment with this person, do your significant other a favor and end things with them. Nothing in the world hurts more than being cheated on and nothing makes you feel more guilty than cheating. Well, at least it should make you feel guilty. And if it doesn't, well, you suck.

Also, I must end this with saying that if you are single, sext it up homie. SEXT IT UP.

Hey Guess What? Guys DON'T Always Like It When A Girl Gives Them Their Number!

I'm writing this post a day later than my usual Tuesday update due to the fact that I was far too busy making a COMPLETE ASS of myself last night. Since I know my readers' future happiness hangs in the balance of whether or not they hear this sad, sad story, I will elaborate. (By the way, that was sarcasm. Just in case for some reason you didn't pick up on that...)

So as you all know, as of a few months ago, I have become single. But what you may not all know is that this is the first time I have been single in over 3 years. And this is certainly the longest amount of time I have been consecutively single. And I apologize for saying the word "single" in every sentence of this paragraph.

Since it's been awhile since I've been on "the scene", as the kids say, I have no fuckin clue how to flirt anymore. What I have realized is that since becoming unattached, I have turned into a significantly meaner person. Well, maybe not mean, but I no longer go out of my way to be polite if I don't like what a person is saying. Needless to say, of the very few people that have actually approached me since my breakup, I'm pretty sure I've scared them off by truly not giving a shit about what they were saying. I don't fall for lines anymore, I don't want to talk to you if you're wasted, and if I ask you what you do for a living and you say you're "still figuring that out", I'm not going to spend one more second wasting either of our time.

Let me also point out that when I do actually find a guy I like, I become paralyzingly shy, so that doesn't help much either. Fortunately, in the past few months I have not found a single guy who has peaked my interest in the romance department, so no shyness here! Whoo! (That was sarcasm as well...)

As a final bit of Alexis Trivia before I get to the actual story, I have never just walked up to a guy and given him my number.

Ok, that all being said, let's get down to business. My friends and I have our favorite little hole-in-the-wall dive bar that we frequent quite often throughout the week and weekend. I mean, we're not there every night by any means, but we definitely go through phases where we are ThisClose to being the creepy regulars that may as well come with the bar. Let's just say this place is our Cheers. We have our favorite table, we know all the bartenders, and if the jukebox isn't playing enough country and "Come On Eileen" for our liking, we make magic happen.

So anyway, for some reason we all decided that I was going to give one of the bartenders my phone number. He's known as "the hot bartender", but if we're riding the honesty train here, I've never really found him to be as mind-numbingly gorgeous as everyone else does. Regardless, I was somehow convinced by my friends that he was flirting with me so I jumped on board just for funsies.

Last night I decided it was time to make my move. I picked up one of my girls and we drove over, quickly realizing that the bar was packed because the Flyers game was on. So we found a table inside even though Hot Bartender was working at the outside bar on the deck. As the game ends, we inch our way over to his bar and sit down and he sees us and gives us a "Hey ladies." We make small talk throughout the next half hour or so (and by "we" I mean mostly him and my friend because I suck), and then I finally just ask him for a piece of paper and a pen. Which he gives me. I write down my name and number and because the universe has proven that it is constantly against me on both a large and small scale, the top of the bar wasn't completely smooth so the name and number ended up looking like Helen Keller had written it with her un-dominant hand during an earthquake.

I look up and hot bartender has walked away. Meanwhile, one of the other bartenders keeps coming up and blatantly flirting with him and shooting us looks like "Step off bitches", even though she was the one that told us he was "very single" just a few days before. So eventually she leaves and Hot Bartender comes back and this is the conversation that follows:

"Hey, come here for a sec."

"What's up."

"So, I know we've never really talked, but I'm going to give this to you cause, well, I want to."

"Ok."

"It's my number."

"Uh, yeah, I know."

"Oh."

Ok, this isn't going so well. I turn to my friend for support and SHE'S GONE. So I turn back to Hot Bartender and the awkward conversation follows with us bantering (and by bantering I mean one sentence each) about how word around town is that I'm awesome. Then he starts to say something like "We could probably do something..." before he is cut off by the flirting bartender who returns with a PRESENT SHE MADE FOR HIM THAT DAY. So Hot Bartender turns and puts my number on the pile of receipts next to the cash register, the pile that is just asking to be blown away in the wind, and walks away. Meanwhile, I found myself searching frantically for a sharp object to gouge my eyes out.

Then my friend and I ended up staying at the bar for about 3 more hours, sitting right there in front of the first guy I had ever given my number to. During this time, there was a water gun fight, and a group of drunk guys asking which girl in the bar was going to get naked. Now, nothing pisses me off more than being surrounded by extremely drunk people when I'm not drunk enough. And unfortunately for one of these guys, he wasn't able to realize this. So he would not leave me alone until I turned to him and yelled,

"I'M NOT INTO YOU, NO WE ARE NOT FRIENDS, AND NO I DON'T FIND YOU FUNNY. NOW STOP TALKING TO ME CAUSE YOU'RE PISSING ME OFF."

I turn to my friend and tell her we have to leave before I "punch that guy in the face, I swear to god". So she gets her stuff and I lean over and call Hot Bartender over one more time.

"Listen," I say, "if you don't use the number that's totally cool, just make sure you rip it up and throw it out though cause I don't want it floating around the bar."

His response was, "No, I put it with my tips, I got it."

Apparently the receipts were the tips from people's tabs. So I ended the night with a nice little blonde moment.

Summary? I went from shy girl that might have been intriguing to Hot Bartender, to awkward girl that gave him her number and was pretty much rejected as nicely as possible, to loud angry bitch that surely drove the nail all the way in by completely terrifying Hot Bartender.

By the way, he hasn't called. Shocking, right?