Jennifer Aniston vs. The Oprah

This week the long-running Oprah Winfrey show came to an end. She's on to bigger and better. Many news stories and celebrity "news" stories this week chronicled her success, her rise to fame and riches by overcoming the poverty and abuse of her early years. She's a philanthropist who has done charity work with girls and schools in Africa. Her book club endorsement can make or break an author. She created trends. She gave audience members cars. She has her own magazine and soon-to-be cable network channel. She spawned Dr. Phil and Dr. Oz. She ushered in an era of copy cat talk shows and hosts that wanted to follow in her footsteps. She's a media mogul. Earlier this year, Forbes put her net worth at $2.7 billion. Yes, folks, that's a b. She's bigger than Jesus. I like to refer to her as "The Oprah."

And THIS is exactly just how wildly (unattainably) rich, famous, successful and influential women have to be before people, the media and the tabloids will shut the fuck up and stop obsessing about when is she gonna get on the marriage and kiddies train already. Sorry, Jennifer Aniston, you're just not there yet. There is absolutely no hope for the rest of us...

Wedding Season or A Small Pony

It's almost Memorial Day. Summer is upon us. And you know what that means? Wedding season. And I love a good wedding. The dressing up, the drinking, the dancing, the groping randoms on the gold course... love is in the air. I can only hope that this wedding season is as fun as last year's.

I was in a good friend from childhood's wedding last year and found myself the only single girl in the wedding party. Actually, that's not true. There was another single girl, a cousin of the bride, and when I tried to do a little female bonding and jokingly commiserate about our relationship statuses, she told me her boyfriend had recently died of cancer. She wins. I'm an asshole.

Regardless, single is not a good place to be at a wedding, especially when the male half of the wedding party are in relationships/unfuckable. First, I tried hitting on the photographers. I spotted a wedding ring on one. He was out. So I asked the other one what he was into. He said, "Jesus." I said, haha, no, really. He said, "Jesus." Ok, strike two.

So imagine how fortunate I felt when I saw one of our mutual friends, a super cute and sweet guy I knew that I used to work with, E. I hadn't known he was coming to the wedding. The last I knew he had a girlfriend, but I quietly asked around and they apparently broke up. He was flying solo that night and in need of a rebound. That was all I needed to hear.

Several drinks and some dancing later, we are making out behind a tree on the golf course adjacent to the pavilion where the reception was. At the time, I thought we were being really stealthy, but he told me later that there were hoots and applause from some of the guests as we ran out.

After making out against a tree for somewhere between five minutes and an hour, (vodka tends to make you lose all sense of time) I became paranoid that our absence would be noted. I insist we go back inside and act nonchalant.

So I'm busy acting nonchalant when the groom comes over to me (our absence was most definitely noted) and says something to the effect of "You should tap that. E is hung like a small pony." Now I'm just confused. Is that good or bad? Because I thought the expression was "hung like a horse." Can you elaborate? I ask. "E has a really big dick," the groom tells me, winking and nudging like we are in cahoots. The seed has been planted. I HAVE to see for myself.

So I find E, suggest another make-out session and creep not-so-stealthily away again. (It's hard to be sneaky when you're wearing heels and stumbling.) So we are making out and I move my hand a little further south... Wow. Holy crap. The groom wasn't kidding. This thing is huge. This guy won the anatomical lottery. He belongs in Ripley's Believe It or Not. Or at least pornos. Feeling isn't enough, especially through the clothes. This, I have got to SEE with my own EYES.

So I start unzipping his pants. I'm so focused on getting the confounding layers of clothing, zippers, buttons and belts to cooperate with my super dexterous drunk hands so I can get a glimpse of this thing, just to see if it's real, that I don't realize what HIS hands have been up to. The top half of my strapless dress is now down around my waist, yet the bottom is also hiked up to my waist, so the dress effectively covers NOTHING but my waist. It's basically a cummerbund at this point.

It's at this exact, very opportune moment that a fellow guest decides now would be an appropriate time to pull a golf cart around to pick up grandma from the reception and drive her to the parking lot. For a brief second we were illuminated, squinting and frozen in the headlights. Guess we should have picked a bigger (or further) tree. Almost busted. That was a close call. We convince ourselves that they probably didn't see anything, but I'm still freaked out. I decide these antics have gone a bit too far. (I like to keep it classy at weddings.) So we pull ourselves together and go back inside.

Unfortunately, I never did get to find out if that thing was the real deal. You see, there were no hotels to stay at, as the wedding was in the middle of nowhere. He couldn't come to my house because I was staying with my parents and I had a painfully early flight out the next morning. He lived 30 minutes away so I couldn't go to his house. My parents are old. I was being considerate. The embarrassment of me stumbling in at 6 a.m. still in my bridesmaid dress could very well have done us all in. So we parted ways. Sigh.

A few weeks later, my friend the bride asked if E and I had had sex on the golf course the night of the wedding because a cousin or friend or aunt or grandma or someone, I don't remember who, had told her they had seen two naked people. I said, no of course not. We just made out. Which was (mostly) the truth.

So, no, cousin/aunt/friend/grandma/whoever sabotaged the imminent verification that I had indeed just discovered God's gift to women with those perfectly ill-timed golf cart headlights, I WISH we had been having sex. The fact that we DIDN'T have sex may turn out to be the biggest regret of my life. You have quite the imagination, but no, nothing quite that cool happened on the golf course. And I have you to thank.

This is what it's supposed to look like

So for all you women out there trying to wade through and make sense of the confusing does-he-like-me-are-we-dating-or-just-friends quagmire, I have your answer.

Here's what it's supposed to look like: So I met this guy on Match.com and on the third email he quit beating around the bush and asked me out. (Note to internet daters: I do not need another excuse to dick around and waste time online. This website is to facilitate meeting people in REAL LIFE. I don't need cyber boyfriends. So either ask me the fuck out already or stop emailing me twice a day with your ridiculous small talk and emoticons. Thank you.) We went out for tacos and margaritas. Everything went swimmingly (as far as I was concerned), we had great conversation, had a lot in common and I didn't get too drunk, confess wildly inappropriate stories for a first date or do anything else to horribly embarrass myself.

As he WALKED ME TO MY CAR, (get ready, this part is key) BEFORE THE DATE WAS OFFICIALLY OVER, he ASKED IF I WANTED TO HANG OUT AGAIN. I said yes. Then we hugged and he said he would call me. He texted two days later and said he would be busy studying for finals for the next few days but that he had fun with me and wanted to hang out again.

I texted him after his finals to ask how they went and he IMMEDIATELY CALLED ME and asked what I was doing that night. We ended up meeting for drinks that very night. Then, he walked me to my car again and KISSED ME GOODNIGHT. (As an aside: what the kiss symbolized was way more important than the actual kiss. The actual kiss was clumsy because he was wearing a hat and I was wearing spectacles so we had to maneuver around facial obstacles. Also, it was raining, we were standing in the middle of the road and almost got hit by a car. But that's not the point. The kiss moves our relationship from two strangers, who met on the internets, hanging out in a bar, to hey, I might be romantically interested and might think about dating you.) Translation: I think you are cool/attractive enough to want to hang out with again and the thought of maybe possibly getting naked with you sometime in the near future does not make me recoil in horror.

You know what DOESN'T say that? Fleeing my apartment like it's on fire with barely a goodbye and a one-armed hug with a bike between you. Also, rationing sex doesn't say that (more on that later.)

Then, he TEXTED ME THE NEXT DAY and said he had fun again. He said he wanted to hang out again and that he would call me soon.

Now, I have no reason to believe this will end in anything less than a spectacular implosion like so many other dating scenarios that have become the fodder for this blog. And I'm not even sure yet if I really like him. But I don't even care. Even if I never hear from him again, I will be OVERJOYED that this has at least gotten as far as it has and that this guy seems to GET all of the little social cues and nuances of dating and what you are SUPPOSED to do if you might like someone. He's playing by the rules. He's predictable. He makes sense. He does not leave me scratching my head and cursing the confusing boy behavior. I know where I stand after only two dates.

And THAT is what it's supposed to look like. Write that down.

Jose Cuervo, You Are A Friend Of Mine ...

I realized something today.

The difference between my emotional IQ now, at the age of 29, and 22 year-old me is merely that I am now fully cognizant of how delusional I am. This is a revolting development really. The painful part of going crazy is the part where you feel yourself slipping away, or so I'm told. Once you are crazy I hear it's pretty cool. Velcro shoes and crazy straws for everyone!

I am currently in New York, interviewing, visiting friends, and most importantly making poor decisions in my love life. My bad relationship choices are now officially bi-coastal. The realization that I really hadn't evolved much with age washed over me last night as I caught myself in a bold faced lie. A lie that many many many women have told before and many many many more will tell in the future. I looked directly into the big brown puppy eyes of the phone sexer and said "I'm not looking for a relationship either! Just fun is great for me!"

This phrase went through the rube Goldberg device that resides in the part of my brain where emotional/relationship intelligence is supposed to be stored and popped out the standard reasoning for this lie, "He says that, but look how he's looking at me. he'll change his mind. just give it time" I just can't seem to resist the emotionally unavailable. I feel like Odysseus trying to resist the Sirens song. I'm pretty sure I cannot do it alone. I am going to need someone to tie me to a metaphorical mast or whatever so I stop crashing my vagina into all these dead end men.

A few observations about why I might find these men so appealing that I have sorted out in my musings today.

First, for whatever reason, they all seem to be excellent in bed. My ex and the phone sexer are about as self-centered as they come. They orbit themselves. Yet, I have never come across two more INCREDIBLY giving men in the bedroom. Truly, what they do should be studied and comprehensive pamphlets should be handed out to descent kind-hearted men everywhere. In my personal research, the good guys just don't throw you around the surfaces of the apartment like that as often. I suppose I could ask that of the nice guy, but that seems awkward. "Umm, I was just thinking, how about you throw me up against the window of your high rise and pull my hair in front of god and all of Wall St, you know, for a change...of pace" SEE! It just doesn't sound as classy when you have to spell it all out. I prefer to have my castle stormed.

Number Two: I think there is a good bit of Groucho Marx in me. I don't want to be a part of any relationship that would willingly have me as a component. If I have to beat you into submission, then I can be reasonable sure that you have seen my crazy parts. Like the part of me that likes to wake up ultra early after a long night and eat 16 Eggo waffles in bed while discussing current events, for example. I figure, a rational person should pump the breaks a time or seven when they witness my neurosis in all its glory. If you can't wait to be a part of it? Well I find you suspect.

Number Three: My mother. Enough said there. I can't pin point it exactly, but I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that she is at least partially responsible for this. When in doubt, assume it's something your mother did.

That's it for now. I am going downtown and have some tequila. That feels like the right thing to do. I can't wait until I am full crazy, like Britney circa the head shaving. In relationships, as in fast food calorie count, ignorance is truly better. Sigh.

I got mansplained

Ok so I signed up for online dating. And by I signed up, I mean that drunk me let sober me be talked into it by one of my friends. But I'm on there nonetheless, proclaiming for the world wide web that I am single and ready to mingle. I had second thoughts when the first person to message me was a 35-year-old divorced Catholic with two kids, a place in suburbia and tons of shirtless photos of his tattooed chest. If this is the kind of person who thinks I would date them, Match.com had best review the way it calculates its compatibility algorithms...

One of the guys who messaged me soon after seemed cool enough. We had things in common, he looked really cute in his pics and he was a doctor. I do not see dollar signs when a guy is a doctor, I just figured it meant he was really smart and probably a good person. But I began to get red flags from this guy almost immediately. Douchey red flags.

He asked if I wanted to meet up so I gave him my number so he could call me expressly for that purpose. Instead, he begins texting me really stupid, inane, boring small talk while I'm busy at work. How's your day? Whatcha doing? I'm in Chicago, etc. (Here's the thing: If I have never met you, it's safe to say I do not care what you are up to and do not want to expend the time and brain power on coming up with funny/cute/coy responses to your texts while I'm on deadline. When we've met in real life and I see if you are indeed as hot as your pics suggest, then maybe I will engage in witty repartee. But not before.) I responded to his texts, but curtly.

Three days and 20 texts later, he finally decides on a place and time to meet up. I say, ok, great, see you tomorrow night. The next day he texts me to make sure we are still on. Uh... yeah. We just agreed on this 12 hours ago, remember? Then half an hour before we are supposed to meet he texts and says for me text him when I get to the place so we can walk in together. Hmm... I thought it was understood that when meeting someone, anyone, even friends, the first person to get there generally goes into the establishment, gets a drink or a table or whatever and waits for the other person. But I play along and text him when I get there, then I stand around awkwardly outside a trendy, hip bar while he keeps me waiting for 10 minutes. His douchbaggery thus far has sufficiently turned me off to the point that I no longer even want to meet him, but I silence the voice in my head that is screaming at me to run away while I still can.

Things went downhill from there. Five minutes in I knew I had made a mistake. The "date" consisted of me getting mansplained. For one hour. All men mansplain at one time or another and all women have been mansplained. Boyfriends do it, dads do it, strangers do it. Here's what it looks like: the man stands up taller and puffs out his chest so he can literally talk down to you, his body language suggests he knows waaaay more about whatever topic you are discussing than you do. He's an expert in fact. He sticks his chin in the air. Sometimes he closes his eyes while speaking, dismissing your thoughts and opinions while seething with condescension, all in a tone of voice that says, sit down, silly little girl, let me handle this, you don't want to hurt yourself by thinking complicated thoughts. When guys try to manage your expectations, it's a form of mansplaining.

He lectured to me, talked at me, talked over me, telling me how the world works. For one solid hour.

Here were his major points: Boulder is full of communists who hate dogs, doctors and journalists are a lot alike because they are both dying professions, (couldn't really make the leap on that one) the universal health care bill is bad because (sick) people will be getting something for free, because people are dumb and don't know any better they will go to physicians assistants and nurse practitioners instead of doctors, the city is not friendly to businesses and sets business owners up for failure, he lived in boston, hated it, he lived in the carribean, hated it, he doesn't have all the numbers on the economics of it, but he's SURE composting is bad, people who don't go to college deserve to make $15 an hour (this part was really funny to me, because I would sell my soul for $15 an hour. And although a few of those years were a little fuzzy due to all the 40s we drank, I'm pretty sure I actually went to, and graduated from, college. If he thinks $15 an hour is what people who don't go to college make, he is pretty out of touch with reality. Or at least my reality) Oh and because of some reason, blah, blah, I'd stopped listening, his income goes down by five percent every year. Oh yeah, ouch. I feel for you, doctor.

And here's the kicker: He does surgeries to implant some kind of spinal cord stimulator into people who have chronic pain. (Although he likes this kind of surgery, it's not worth it to him because he has to drive to a different hospital and doesn't get paid enough for it. You can see he went into medicine for all the right reasons.) Then he mentioned that a woman once asked him if he was able to implant one that would allow her to have orgasms whenever she wanted. He said yes, he was able to, but no, he didn't do it.

He would ask me questions about myself and then interrupt me to mansplain how I was wrong or interject his opinion on something he was clueless about. It was especially comical when he started mansplaining all about the journalism industry and how it works and what's wrong with it. He just kept talking. And talking. It was like he paid someone (me) by buying them one drink to sit there and listen to his lectures. And I'm pretty sure his hatred of me was equal, judging by his chilly good-bye as he sent me packing, although I can't figure out why since I barely got one word in the entire time and dutifully nodded my head and pretended to listen...

But here's the best part: As we were leaving he actually said, as if he had some kind of ESP: "You aren't one of those people who writes about their dates and how full of themselves they are, are you?"

No, of course not. You mean people do that?