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.