I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (21 page)

This didn't feel Undefined.

This felt Single.

I tried to enjoy myself, but I was pissed. At the end of the night, I got my own coat to go.

Euro Trash materialized at my side. “You're leaving?”

“Yes, I'm tired,” I answered as I said good-bye to other friends.

Unbidden, he followed me out and caught up with me on the sidewalk, linking an arm through mine. “Where are we going?”

“I'm going home.”

“Well, am I coming with you?” He smiled slyly.

I stopped in my tracks. “Now you want to be with me? Because it didn't feel that way up there.”

He apologized and explained he wasn't comfortable with PDA.

“I'm not suggesting we make out in the kitchen, I'm suggesting you stop acting like you're married.”

Arguing on the street—trademark move of city romance.

Maybe we were in a relationship.

He vowed to be better at showing his feelings, and I forgave him. But it might have been that I didn't want to waste the blow-out.

We got through the holidays, largely because he was overseas visiting family. But come January, I had grown tired of not knowing. We'd been undefined for five months. And something about the new year made me crave resolution.

Five months is too long for this basic American girl.

“Look, this is the longest I've ever dated someone without knowing where I stand.”

“I know, and I'm sorry. It takes me longer to evaluate whether or not I want to be in a serious relationship than it does you.”

Who said anything about being done evaluating? Dude, I'll be judging you all the way to the altar.

But instead I said, “If you need more time, that's okay. I'm not giving you an ultimatum.”

Cool girl, see?

Cool, but not a doormat: “But in the meantime, I need you to show me that you care about me. I need to feel valued no matter what we are. And if you find yourself lukewarm, turn me loose. We can part ways with no hard feelings. Deal?”

He assured me that he cared “very much,” that he wasn't seeing anyone else, and that he could see a “real future” with me.

One day at a time, bud.

As if the gods of love were delivering a test, that very night, I came down with the worst fever I've had in my adult life. I was so sick, I had to have him take me home early from our date. He made me tea and put me to bed.

Was this the new him showing me he cared? I wondered.

Then I didn't hear from him for two weeks.

So I had my answer.

When I'd regained my voice, I called him to break things off.

He said he was “blindsided,” and that he's not the “type to do this over the phone.”

I don't know what type he is, but I know my label for him.

Ex.

 

Everything Old Is Nude Again

Lisa

You may have heard the bad news.

Playboy
will no longer be publishing photos of nude women.

What's this world coming to?

Is nothing sacred?

Playboy
has been around for as long as I've been alive, and I remember sneaking peeks at it when I went to babysit, because the people I babysat for kept theirs in the top drawer in their bedroom.

Don't ask me how I knew this.

Just take it from me that your babysitter knows more about your dresser drawers than you do.

By the way, I waited until the baby was asleep to start looking at pornography.

The very definition of a great babysitter.

This, back in the day when babysitters earned fifty cents an hour.

Listen, you get what you pay for.

Anyway, it should be obvious that a world without
Playboy
magazine is the worst thing that can happen to women.

Without
Playboy
, how is a young girl going to learn that breasts should be at least a G cup?

To match a G-string.

It's sort of like matching your bra and your underwear, only different.

Not only that, but
Playboy
taught me that breasts are supposed to be completely devoid of moles, stretch marks, and nipple hair.

From now on, where are we going to get our self-loathing from?

You think it's easy to hate your body, overnight?

You need good reasons, and
Playboy
gave us tons of them.

Meanwhile, who else but
Playboy
would've ever thought of putting bunny ears and tails on women?

Who knew we could be woodland animals, as well as human beings?

Expanding our horizons!

Not only that, but
Playboy
was educational. It showed us women lots of interesting ways we could sit on hay bales, tractors, and even boring old beds. There's no reason to sit down and cross your legs, when you can lie down and form a flying wedge with whatever limbs you have available.

Open your mind, ladies.

And your legs!

Plus
Playboy
taught me about fashion, like the fact that I should match my outfits to my setting, so that anytime I sat on a hay bale, I knew that I was supposed to have a folksy-looking straw hat pulled down seductively over one eye.

Men are so into hats.

Also hay bales.

They love that.

Besides, I learned so much more from
Playboy
magazine, which was a true friend to women. For example, I used to read the hobbies of the various Playmates, and without that information, I never would've realized that walking on a beach could qualify as a hobby.

Good to know!

Come to think of it, I don't remember any of the Playmates saying that reading was her hobby.

Maybe the joke was on them, since people evidently stopped reading
Playboy
.

So I've clearly proven that life without
Playboy
will be terrible for women, but how would it be for men?

Just as bad.

How will young boys develop unrealistic expectations of women?

You can't expect them to go back to
National Geographic
.

But wait, this just in.

The reason that
Playboy
isn't showing pictures of nude women anymore isn't because people aren't interested in pictures of nude women.

It's because there are so many free pictures of nude women on the Internet that
Playboy
can't make money that way anymore.

In other words, there are so many new businesses exploiting women that they are squeezing out the old businesses that used to exploit women.

The legacy exploiters aren't even being grandfathered in.

Explain that to your grandfather.

This is exactly the specter of technology that I've worried about.

That the Internet will bring so much progress that nobody will ever have to pay for pornography, thus putting out of business everybody's favorite pornographer.

I don't know what this world is coming to.

But I have a feeling I'm going to find out.

 

The Unofficial Wedding Party

Francesca

As wedding season throws its final handful of rice, I've reflected on what it means to be a great wedding guest. Anyone can show up on time, dressed appropriately, with a warm heart and well-wishes for the happy couple. But how can you take your guesthood to the next level? I've identified some key players at every successful wedding. See where you fit in, and make your next RSVP essential.

Up first is the Master of Ceremonies. He or she is that friend with the right mix of warmth and seriousness to pull off the most important duties at the ceremony, like giving a reading or officiating. My buddy has been asked to give a reading at nearly every wedding he's invited to. He's a pop-culture junkie with an English PhD, so he finds the perfect excerpt, whether from an Edith Wharton novel or an episode of
Gilmore Girls
. It's a gift. Don't waste this friend as a ring bearer; a cute dog can do that. Get the Master of Ceremonies front and center to make us all look more mature and responsible than we really are.

Another classic is the Cry Baby. Every wedding needs that one guest to provide the waterworks. I confess, I suck at this. When I was a bridesmaid, I warned my bride that the performance pressure of a wedding blocks my tear ducts like the Hoover Dam. But that's why this role is important, not everyone can do it. Bonus points if you're a male Cry Baby—man-tears catch like wildfire. Daily Double if the Cry Baby is somebody's dad. Don't be embarrassed, a wedding calls for sentimentality, so bring us on home.

I've recently developed a specialty as the Off-the-Cuff Speaker. Speeches are high stakes at a wedding. I'm comfortable with public speaking, and I have a great memory for funny yet flattering anecdotes. As a writer, I can edit on the fly, so that hilarious spring-break story can be rendered appropriate for all audiences. Every newlywed needs that backup speaker in the wings in case the Best Man whiffs it. A good Off-the-Cuff friend ensures the reception is only a glass clink away from rescue.

Once the reception gets rolling, the Crazy Dancer comes in. The Crazy Dancer can be crazy-good, or better yet, just crazy. He or she breaks the seal on looking cool on the dance floor and gives us all permission to cut loose. His manic enthusiasm is contagious and fun, in small doses. Stand near him too long, and you risk being struck by a flailing arm or the tail end of “the worm.”

Then there's the Child Star. This kid displays the attention-seeking behavior that can make for a terror in the grocery store but a superstar at a wedding reception. Slick moves in a tiny package, this kid charms everyone by dominating the dance floor—and giving us old people a much-needed breather—until the sugar buzz wears off. With that uninhibited charisma, the Child Star could grow into the next Jimmy Fallon or Jennifer Lawrence … or the next Crazy Dancer.

The Social Media Maven. These days, your wedding is part of your personal brand. You need a professional, or a pal who acts like one. The Social Media Maven comes up with a punny hashtag based on the couple's names and posts gorgeous candids of the day online—filtered to perfection, of course. Who can wait two months for professional photos to come out? Newlyweds need bragging rights on Facebook
now
. Consider yourself #blessed to have a friend like this.

The After-Party Promoter. This person intuits the exact moment when the reception is dying down. Or if intuition isn't your thing, just have the DJ play Bon Jovi's “Livin' on a Prayer” and achieve the same end. The After-Party Promoter somehow knows a solid dive bar in whatever city he's in. He's the patron saint of Patrón. He gets everyone else drunk on shots, yet stays sober enough himself to herd us all back on the party bus or other safe transportation home. At the end of the night, he's the bro-hero you need.

Hopefully you recognized yourself in one of these key roles. But if not, don't worry. You have until next wedding season to hone your skills.

 

My Brain Hurts

Lisa

Have you ever heard the expression, Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?

Well, shame on me.

With the plot twist that the person fooling me is myself.

In other words, I'm trying to figure out how and why I make the same mistake twice, over and over.

No, I'm not talking about my marital history.

Thing One and Thing Two were distinctly different mistakes.

I'm talking about dumb little mistakes that I seem to repeat, and for an example, I just did one of them. I was working, and my computer sent me a notice that my keyboard was running out of batteries.

What's the first thing I did?

I ignored it.

That's a dumb thing I do over and over, but that's not even the dumb thing I'm talking about, which came next.

After a few days, I gave in and changed the batteries, which meant I went downstairs, got the new batteries, brought them upstairs, and shook the old ones out of the computer keyboard.

Then I looked down at the four batteries rolling around my desk.

And I forgot which were the new batteries and which were the old ones.

Of course, I tried sliding any two of them back in the chamber of the keyboard, using as many different combinations I had patience for, but in the end, to no avail.

I had to throw all four batteries away and start over again.

The second time I got it right, but it's a mistake I make every time I have to change batteries, whether it's on the computer mouse, the TV remote controls, or the flashlights. I use twice the number of batteries every year because I have to throw half away.

I know, the solution is simple: just throw the old batteries away first, or at least note the new batteries when you take them out of the package, but I never remember.

And still, none of my flashlights work.

Because flashlights never work.

You know it's true.

And I can't bring myself to change the batteries in my flashlights routinely, because it seems so wasteful of batteries, especially since I have to keep extra on hand to throw away.

And while we're on the subject, I can never remember which way the batteries go in my keyboard. I know that one end of the battery has the thing that sticks out, the alleged “nipple,” which is what Thing Two used to call it.

No comment.

And the other end of the battery has the dimple, the little recessed thing that is supposed to fit against the metal contact.

Or whatever.

You see the problem I'm having. I can't describe it because I don't understand it, at all.

I think one side is negative and one is positive, but I don't know which is which.

In any event, when I'm confronted with changing the batteries in my computer keyboard, I have no idea which way they go in.

Like just now, after I had gotten a whole new set of new batteries, it took me fifteen minutes to figure out which way they went in. I had to keep testing the keyboard until I hit the final combination.