“We really need to put our heads together,” Sarah rested her cheeks against balled-up fists and scrunched her eyebrows. “…and come up with a way for me to marry Jimmy Stewart.”

I choked on a laugh and a mouthful of coffee.

“You know he’s dead, right?”

Sarah and I had stayed up way past our bedtimes watching The Philadelphia Story, falling in love with the male leads. Then we spent the next morning plotting out romances with them over French toast at Tom’s Diner. I’ve always carried a torch for old-time film stars. Men like Cary Grant and Gregory Peck. Men who knew how to wear a suit, how to sweep a lady off her feet, and how to deliver a perfectly-time, super suave insult, all while being firmly camped on the moral high ground. These are men impossible not to worship. I mean, what pulse-having person saw To Kill a Mockingbird and didn’t develop a sudden, overpowering need to marry and/or befriend Atticus Finch?

No one. Don’t even try to be contrary. I won’t believe you.

Roger Thornhill was my first. Drug him, kidnap him and mess with his lady friend and the guy just gets wittier, crankier and more swoon-worthy. Then try to throw him off Mount Rushmore and… well, from then on, I was pretty sure no man I met in my lifetime would measure up.

Until last night. Until there came C. K. Dexter Haven.

“You think we’d have to have a séance?” I asked. “I mean, if we’re going to marry these men.”

“What we need is a whiteboard,” Sarah said.

I stared at her with a look on my face that said, are we still taking about the same thing? What’s a whiteboard to do with bringing back husbands from beyond the veil?

“I mean, how else do people make plans?”

So practical. And Sarah is probably right. Men like James Stewart and Cary Grant wouldn’t fall for any of that séance malarkey, anyway.

Heather: I was in ur shower shaving with ur razorz
Heather: And now, I’m in ur bedroom using ur q-tips.

I had just about worked myself into a giggle-frenzy, when Ari shot me an IM from work, informing me that LOLCats were so over. Crap. I’m always a little late to the party. Ah, well. I amuse myself and that’s really all that matters.

I’m in New York for the next several days, camping out on friends’ couches, eating at my favorite corner diners, and getting in some quality nibbling time with my Half Baby (God, Torrie makes pretty progeny). And last night, after stuffing myself on molten chocolate cake with Goldner and Rach, Ari and I headed back to her place for some couch time. We spent the next couple hours gossipping, snorting laughs into the straws in our Diet Coke cans, and torturing her younger brother. It was like I never left. Even (and especially) the part where I got really irritated by sidewalk crowds and grossed out by the fetid, putrid odors oozing from the subway grates. Yeah, that shit hasn’t changed one bit.

Some break-ups just make good sense.

Me: He said that the reason I have failures in life is because of sex, and that I needed to have a relationship with Jesus.

New Friend: That’s crazy.

Me. I know.

New Friend: I mean, sex is the only thing that makes failure tolerable.

I called Jennifer, probably to go to the movies (when you’re 16 and living in Boring, TX, that’s about the only thing to do. Except bowl, I guess.) and got the not-infrequent answer,

“I can’t. I’m grounded.”

“Put your dad on the phone.”

I don’t really know what had gotten into me. I mean, that was the sort of crap I’d pull with my dad, but Jen’s dad was a little scarier, a whole lot sterner and well, not mine to harass. And fourteen years later, I don’t really remember what I said. Something about the prisoner and a deserved furlough, I think. All we know is that when he hung up the phone, he told Jen to get ready.

“Heather will be here in ten minutes to pick you up.”

I called him ‘Warden’ after that. Even bought him a silly key chain when I visited San Francisco that summer – a plastic oval with the words, “THE WARDEN” in red, angry-looking letters. Just as tacky as possible, like you’d expect tourist crap to be. He made a good show of putting it on his desk in the office, the way my dad had for years with with arts-and-crafts clay ashtrays, saved for the day he might actually take up smoking.

On Saturday night, back at Jen’s house after almost a dozen years, The Warden cracked some jokes about the prisoner (now an MBA grad).

“I still have that little thing you gave me, you know,” he said, inclining his head toward the direction of the office.

And he did. In the same spot it’s been since I (openly) read Seventeen magazine and wore denim cutoffs. I grinned, totally delighted that the joke had hung around for so many years. And then I made a mental note to ransack my father’s house when I see him in a couple weeks. If I don’t find any amoeba-shaped ashtrays, I’m gonna be really put out. I mean, especially since my old man actually smokes now.

P.S. This is the sight that greeted me on my dashboard when I went to run errands this afternoon. One oh eight. Try not to be jealous.

Dallas, Texas. Birthplace of swamp-ass.

I didn’t realize when I posted the story below, that people would take it so seriously.

Perhaps in this case, humor and hyperbole did not translate well. Or at all. Which is my mistake, entirely. And now I feel like I have to assuage your fears and tell you that my self esteem is perfectly intact, and that writing about silliness with my friend Todd (who now feels very amused and informed by all the comments) wasn’t meant to be anything more than fun. Entertainment. A little something to make Thursday more spicy.

I know, I know. I asked for it by putting it out there. But I guess I’d forgotten just how mean and nasty the Internet has the potential to be. Or how fickle.

Again, my mistake.

Ordinarily, I wait until a good three months after any… romantical interlude to write about it. By then it’s been over long enough that either the fella is no longer reading, or I’ve stopped caring if his ego implodes. But with Todd, it’s a little different. I suspect that we’ll be ninety-three and trading dirty postcards that we’ve dictated to scandalized nursing home staff. So, really, it’s never going to be over.

On Monday, when I IMed him to ask about men, women, and friendship, things with Todd took a scandalous turn pretty quickly. It wasn’t my intention, mind you. Just a happy coincidence. Well, by Wednesday, after two days of suggestive — no, outrightly hot — messaging, I was beginning to think I was going to have permanent high-beams. Sitting by the pool, in a fairly tiny bikini, the impact some of those text messages were having on me was terribly obvious. And the impact on him?

“Is this where I invite you to DC for steamy sex?” He asked, after I suggested a reprise of our making-out-in-cabs days.

“That would be appropriate.” I said. A reprise, you see, is a do-over, only with a better ending.

“It seems so easy to chat about it. Actually bringing you here and pinning you against the wall is a whole other monster.”

“…”

I think in pictures, people. And a picture like that? Well, let’s just say that’s where working at home comes in real handy. Handy! Ha! Pun not intended.

“In my brain, it sounds fantastic, ” he continued (I had to agree). “But then I think I’d feel awkward.”

Awkward? I can imagine it being many things, none of them awkward. So, I offered a couple of scenarios – you know, the ways I see our reunion potentially working out. One, we’d meet, decide the physical attraction is old and dead, get drunk and hang out, catching up. Awkward? Nah. Or two, well, it involved vertical surfaces and the deadbolt digging into my bare shoulder.

“You’re too funny,” he said. “And hot at the same time. I want it; I’m just over-thinking it, I suppose.”

“Well. You ruminate on it.”

“I will. A lot.”

Holy cow. Just typing that out and presto! High-beams. Meanwhile, Todd is still ruminating. In fact, he suggested forming a committee and asking the Internet if it’s a good idea for him to um, give me the business.

So, is it?

Hint: Say no, and you’re dead to me.

Bless me, Internet, for I have sinned. I’ve had impure thoughts all day long. And all day yesterday. And the day before.

I’ve actually had to adapt my wardrobe and wear a lined bra, so that the world isn’t constantly seeing proof of my sinful musings. Not to lay the blame at nature’s feet or anything, but this might be hormonal, and thus, completely out of my control. And if it is? Well, mark your calendars, fellas. Because this is totally the time of the month optimal for…. getting stuck in an elevator, for instance. Oh dear, there I go again. Another impure thought.

Do I need to start over? No? Fine. Well, Amen, then.

Can men and women be friends? I’ve always thought the answer to that was, “Absolutely. Of course. Why not?” I have plenty of male friends — most many of whom I’ve never even made out with. I know. Such restraint. But are those actual, honest-to-god friendships without any strings attached? I decided to ask some friends — male and female — what they thought about the matter. The result was pretty entertaining.

Goldner, our very favorite non-boyfriend boy:

Heather: We’re friends, right?
Goldner:: You and I? Yes.
Heather: Good. Well, you know how they say women and men can’t really be friends. Why do you think that is?
Goldner:: Men are too stupid and women are too pretty. It makes for a bad combination.
Heather: Ha! Do you think one or the other always has ulterior motives in being friends? You know, the sexy kind?
Goldner:: Always? No. Often? Yes.
Heather:: Probably initially anyway.
Goldner:: Definitely. You and I met at a bar, sorta. There was definitely the “Oh, ok” moment. It was only later that I realized you hated me.
Heather:: I did not hate you. I was sleeping with your boss, if you recall. Which isn’t the same thing as hating. Redirecting… are friendships with girls more complicated than with boys? We might be an exception to that, because you are more sensitive than I am. I might actually be the guy in the scenario sometimes.
Goldner:: Also you pee standing up.
Heather:: Shh! I’m not ready for the Interweb to know that.
Goldner:: I think that generally yes, women are more sensitive, and they don’t say what they mean. I speak English; women speak … something else. Like, “It’s fine” means “You’re in trouble.” Or “Nothing” means “You’re in trouble.”
Heather:: Sounds like you’re in trouble quite a bit. Redirecting again, attraction between friends is pretty unavoidable. So, is that something you ignore, or acknowledge and accept? I mean, which is better, for the survival of the friendship?
Goldner:: Accept. I’d rather take a chance on something great (and maybe lose a friend down the road). I have “favorite mistakes” if you will.
Heather:: So you hold out hope. But is that the basis of the friendship?
Goldner:: No. That’s deluding yourself.
Heather:: I mean, you and {girlfriend} were friends for like, forever. Then kablaam!, making out.
Goldner:: Well, that took a lot of hypnosis. She and I were friends. If she were not attractive, we’d still be friends. I wouldn’t want to date someone i cant be friendly with. At least, not for more than a little bit
Heather:: Ha! Perfect. I think that will do.
Goldner:: That was easy. I didn’t even get to talk dirty.
Heather:: Maybe next time.
Goldner:: You always say that.

Jen, girl friend and travel partner:

Heather: Can men and women be friends?
Jen: Sure. You can have “like brother and sister” friends or you can have the “one of us is semi-interested” friends. Either ultimately works, but if you wanna call it pure friendship, I’d say they’re in the minority.
Heather: Do you think sex is always a factor? I mean, can we be friends with a man and never once think about him in that regard? Even just to size him up?
Jen: No. Absolutely not. Unless you aren’t interested in men as potential life partners. That’s what sucks — you’re always judging a little, but, that’s biology for you.
Heather: It has to be purely biology. Because often, it’s against my will that I even think it. Take my married friend, whom I adore, for instance. One day, the naked thought flashed across my mind, and I was so ANGRY that it even had. I really loved the friendship for its simplicity, so it bugged me that a weird, impulsive, uncontrolled thought could creep in. It made me feel dirty.
Jen: Totally! You’re like “Why am i staring at his hand? I AM NOT INTERESTED.” That’s the toughest one of all. Marriage changes your guy friendships, too. I was so, so close with my friend, and nothing was ever going to happen between us. And then he got married and all of a sudden it’s SO uncomfortable.
Heather: Because some stupid gland in your brain is always trying to find you a partner.
Jen: It’s not fair, because nothing was going to happen!
Heather: But now that it can’t, biology is pissed.
Jen: I know. Like, Move along, you two. I used to be adamant that pure friendship was totally normal and easy between men and women but I think I was just in denial.

And finally, Todd (aka Indie Rock Boy of blogging past), former co-worker and make-out partner:

Heather: Can women and men can actually be friends?
IRB: It’s pretty tough. I’m pretty sure one of them always wants to jump the others’ bones.
Heather: Hmm. Though we may be long-distance friends these days, I’d still consider you my friend.
IRB: Sure we are.
Heather: Well, neither one of us jumped the other’s bones.
IRB: In our case, I think we both want to jump each other. But haven’t.
Heather: We just were too smart to?
IRB: Perhaps.
Heather: So that’s the basis of our friendship? Bone-jumping potential?
IRB: No, no. I like you a lot. I wish we lived nearer. You make me laugh… in addition to all that bone stuff.

And…we’ll stop right there. Because after that, the conversation became more of a… Tell All Thursday one. You know, the kind that makes you want to get drunk and ruin your friendship.

Obviously, my opinion on the matter has shifted somewhat.

Last week, I got an email from a potential suitor, declaring he had a crush on my profile. Well, that’s kinda cute, I thought, and hit reply. We exchanged a couple of messages (literally, TWO), and then I got bored with him. He wasn’t all that funny or particularly clever, and his insistence that we chat on instant messenger (I uninstalled mine many moons ago) was a bit too Degrassi Junior High for me. So, I didn’t write back.

But he did. Three more times the same day. And then again late that night (“Are you awake?”). When I got home from Austin yesterday, there were five unread messages from the guy in my inbox. All varying degrees of boring, except the last one, which amuses me to no end:

Theres too much drama in your life.

Thanks for the interest but I dont think we are a match. Hope your situation improves soon.

Regards

V

At first, I just stared at the message thinking he must have gotten me confused with someone else. What drama? Wait, do I have drama I don’t even know about? I mean, to me, that’s like finding money in my pants pockets. But then I realized, that it was just boy-speak for sour grapes. You can’t reject me, because I reject YOU. Because of… your drama!

Oh, man, that’s classic. I’m just glad he let me down gently… and without apostrophes. Otherwise, it might sting.

I came home last night a smidge away from drunk and feeling snacky. So I sat down and ate half a box of cereal. Super good-for-your-heart, high fiber cereal. You can imagine how awesome I feel right about now. Even better, I’m taking off to Austin in an hour to help my little sister move apartments (I know! I deserve medals!). I can only imagine what an excellent car ride that is going to be. Can you die of too much fiber? I mean, it seems entirely possible at this juncture.

Sometimes I feel like I live in a sitcom. And not in the good way where my hair always looks fantastic and I get to make out with Magnum P.I.

Mmmmm. Magnum.

I was six years old when I heard my babysitter say the word suck.

“That’s a bad word!” I said, shocked. In fear of retribution from on high, more like it. She was about to get zapped by the Lord, right there on our brown tweed couch.

This should tell you a little something about the kind of household we were raised in. Jesus did not approve of the word suck. What he thought about all those words my dad hollered when fixing the car, well, I was pretty sure the two of them came to an arrangement long before I was born. The Almighty gave my dad some crazy back disease, and my dad was allowed to curse.

“It is not a bad word,” Natalie assured me. She was sitting next to her lanky, red-headed boyfriend, eating Cheetos, totally relaxed. She didn’t look like she was afraid of any zapping. “You know, like, suck an egg?”

I wasn’t convinced.

I was ten when I saw that same babysitter again… at Girl Scout camp. I can’t tell you how many cool points I got for knowing that the lifeguard’s name wasn’t actually Splash. I called her Natalie every chance I got. This, in turn, should tell you a little something about just how “cool” Girl Scout camp cool points actually were. I think you got a dozen or so just for wearing a training bra. I also rocked at tie-dyeing. Sometimes I suspect that I peaked in coolness at Camp Treefoil.

Anyway, so suck was a bad word, and I never heard my mother curse in our home, and even in all my awkward rebellion, I didn’t allow the F-bomb to pass my lips until I was twenty-three years old. And now? Well, now you’d have to peel that word from my cold, dead tongue if you wanted me to clean up my act. Funny how that works. (I guess it’s sorta like how when I was eleven and I wanted to wear pantyhose so bad, I gave up both of my security blankets for them in one of the least shrewd trades I have ever made. And now? I’d kick puppies to get out of wearing them. And I want my damn blankets back.)

Sometimes, I get it in my head to write a post, and then midway through it occurs to me to question why, oh why, the Interweb would need to hear such a story. This is one of those occasions. But then again, a foul-mouthed father, Camp Treefoil and Jesus all made me who I am today. So, you know, what the f*ck. I’ll tell the damn story.

I must confess, it’s days like today when I count on your job to be really freaking boring.

My friend Mike has an opinion on just about everything. He’s always had an opinion on just about everything, which is why we needed about ten years of healing between screaming at each other in Ms. Minor’s French III class, and meeting for happy hour the other night. Though, even with healing, we were still at our old games.

“Heather always thought she was smarter than everyone else,” Mike told his buddy as we shook hands.

“Not true,” I said, lowering my voice. “I just knew I was smarter than you.”

Anyway, Mike and his opinions. He may hide them a little farther below the surface is his old age, but they’re still there. And the other night, as we were celebrating my unemployedness by watching the spectacle of patrons at an uptown bar, Mike took one look at the pack of drunk females to our left, and declared that he ought to start a finishing school for girls. You know, to save them from themselves.

“All I’d need is a week – maybe ten days…”

Mike went on, and I pictured his finishing school, set up on some store front in a Dallas strip mall. And Mike teaching a bunch of hapless females how to walk in heels with the Oxford dictionary balanced on their heads, and how to properly wear hair accessories.

“So,” I said, when he’d finished explaining the ins and outs of Mike J’s Finishing School for girls. “How much finishing do I need?”

My eyebrows were raised in expectation of some snide, provoking reply about how some people are just beyond repair, but without hesitation Mike set his beer down on the table and said,

“None. You don’t need any finishing.”

“You do! I mean, what?”

I was stumped. I thought at first, that Mike had been through some rigorous training of his own. Schooled by the ladies. But then I realized that not only had he left the rules of engagement behind, but in not delivering a smart-ass answer, Mike got me to do something I have never, ever done. I was forced to agree with him.

Tricky bastard.

P.S. I filed for unemployment today. Man did that feel way less awesome than I’d have expected. Who doesn’t love the idea of free-ish money? Turns out, I don’t.

Twenty minutes after my last post about being cranky and feeling like something was wrong, I lost my job. The project suffered one final and paralyzing setback, and my boss (from some internet cafe on his African safari), pulled the plug. I’ve always had fierce instincts – usually too late, mind you – about when something bad is going to happen. But this is just too much.

Forget all the logistics of paying bills with an unemployment stipend, updating resumes and job hunting – I’ve been sitting at my kitchen table for the last twenty minutes, crying because I realized that I got too fat for my interview suit.

So, you know, I’m looking for freelance work. If’n you need something writerly done, I’m your girl. I can be reached via email at thisfish at gmail dot com. Oh, and if it helps, I bake.

P.S. I did not get fired from iVillage. It was my full-time gig that went under.

I feel sorta crappy today. I woke up late, weirdly hungover (must be all that Pellegrino I had at the bar last night), and possessed with this eerie certainty that somewhere, something is very wrong. I freaking hate Impending Doom first thing in the morning. Can’t it wait until I’m properly caffeinated?

Anyway, I’d be on my way to feeling much better if someone could explain something to me. That gesture that WWE champion John Cena makes on all those RAW commercials – what is that? Some pro wrestling version of jazz hands? ‘Roid rage spirit fingers?

That’s about as complicated as my thinking has gotten this morning. I’m teetering somewhere between Mmmm, toast. and wondering if it’s too early for a nap. So, please, explain John Cena. Or if you can’t do that, explain how The Coreys (could there be anyone more irrelevant? Okay, maybe one of the cast members from Alf, but still!) got their own TV show. You know whoever threw that out during brainstorming (“there are no bad ideas!”) is sitting around shaking his head thinking things were just never meant to go so far.

This story is for the turkey who suggested that we lay off the Lifetime Original Movies and stop imagining Bag Guys under the bed.

When I was in college, I had a roommate we’ll call Ann. Ann was from a wealthy family; her dad was the local diamond guy and the family name was splashed across dozens of not-so affordable jewelry stores all over the state. The Diamond family had a large, lovely and security-monitored home not too far from our college apartment.

One night, their youngest daughter went to bed, and somewhere in that fuzzy hour between sleep and awake, became aware of a hand on her leg. Coming from under her bed. Now, being half asleep, her brain decided that it just had to be Ann’s fiance, Cameron, playing a trick on her.

“Cameron! Get out!” she yelled.

When he didn’t comply, she grabbed that arm and yanked. And yelled. And then he did, indeed, get out. Only, it wasn’t Cameron. A stranger, with his pants around his knees, scrambled to his feet and made a run for it. The commotion brought her parents, and then the cops. By then, the man was long gone. But lest anyone suspect her of making up a horrific story, the cops documented an imprint they found in the carpet under her bed. The outline of a man who had laid very still for hour after hour. Waiting.

So, dearest Robert, you tell me to mind my imagination. But I have absolutely no doubt in my mind, that were something horrible to happen to me as a result of lowered defenses, you’d be the first person to suggest that I should be careful; it’s a dangerous world out there.

Over her lifetime, one in four women will be the victim of sexual assault. One in four of those will be assaulted by a total stranger. Often in her own home. The problem is, you don’t get to choose not to be the one in four. Or the one in sixteen. And that’s enough to convince me that checking under my bed and in my closets is not, in the least bit, irrational.

But, don’t you worry, Robert. Only roughly 7% of stranger-related sexual attacks will be perpetrated against men. You should be just fine.

Statistics courtesy of The Women’s Self Defense Institute and the National District Attorney’s Association. Don’t agree with them? Take it up with them. I’m not here to argue.

Living alone in Dallas has really done a lot to bring out my paranoid side. How is it so different from New York? I’m so glad you asked. For starters, I now have exactly three times the square footage I did in New York. And if you know anything about New York apartments, you understand that this translates to roughly sixteen times the closet space. Great, right? Sure, except that more closets — bigger closets — means there’s a whole lot of places for Bad Guys to hide.

And I’m terrified of Bad Guys.

In NYC, I was never afraid that there was anyone lying in wait to maim me and rob me of all my possessions. Because where would the bastard hide? If I opened the front door, I’d have been able to see him. From the hallway. Where I could easily shout to the Super next door who would come running with a pipe wrench and his miniature chihuahua . And where’s the fun that? I mean, for the Bad Guy. For me, it was like a three hundred square foot Barbie’s House of Dreams; there was no damn place to hide. Except maybe behind the shower curtain. And I wasn’t much for consistently keeping that thing closed.

Also, in New York, I had things like a locked front gate, a Super with a yappy dog, and an elevator that only worked when all the planets were correctly aligned – all highly discouraging of a fourth floor trip to steal the two pieces of electronics I own. But here, there’s just my front door – totally exposed to the whole menacing world. No elevator needed! Then there’s the patio. Great for checking the weather, but bad for not being killed. I mean, it has these enormous sliding glass doors that any old fool with a rock could shatter.

Fair warning: If you are a Bad Guy and you are reading my blog, please don’t take this as encouragement. I may be easily frightened, but I am also promiscuous (just kidding, Mom), and may at any time arrive home with a very brawny and fierce gentleman caller. Who is secretly a ninja and a Green Beret.

Predictably, Sir Hal isn’t really doing much to ease my fear. He rarely accompanies me on my nightly closet check (lord knows what I’d do if I actually found someone in there). And — perhaps it’s that there is always, somewhere in the apartment, a bug that needs destroying — he is always on alert. And when I’m laying in bed reading, my furry companion snoring (yes, he does) next to me, it is not at all comforting when suddenly, he shoots straight up, pupils wide, staring at the great darkness beyond the bedroom. Gee, Lassie. What is it? Is Jimmy stuck in the hall closet with a machete?

Usually, I give him a little push off the bed and encourage him to go investigate. My little canary in the coal mine. If he doesn’t come back, I’ll know there is a Bad Guy in the kitchen feeding him and I can call for help.

Spicy crab crusted sea bass.

If nothing else good happens to me ever over the whole rest of my life, it’s gonna be okay. Because I had the crab crusted sea bass. Seriously, I still have a bit of a food hangover from the experience.

The girls and I went to Hibiscus for dinner last night to drink hibiscus martinis with orchids floating in them, and then dialed it way down to meet the fellas across the street for pints of cider and sarcasm. It was perfect. And now that I’m 29, and there seems to be no way to stall this turning thirty business, I’ve started to make a list of things to accomplish before then. You know, before I’m a really real grown up.

1. Learn to make a really kick ass martini. I don’t even own a shaker, so I’ve got a ways to go.
2. Learn to say “No.” and stick to it. I’m not a pushover, but I don’t always… not get pushed over. Keen difference, you see.
3. Adios the credit card debt. So, you know, in the between time, gifts of cash will not be turned away.
4. Eat more crab crusted sea bass.

Whew. Goal-making really wear me out. Being an almost grown up is tough. Thanks for all the birthday wishes – it really was a lovely day.

Dallas Meet-up
Somewhere in those 200 comments below, it was suggested that we have a Dallas meet & greet. I’m very down with that. How’s next Wednesday? Great, it’s settled then.

Wednesday, July 25
8:30 PM
Ginger Man (back patio)
2718 Boll St
Dallas, TX

It’s Birthday Week around here (Thursday is the big two-niner) and so to kick things off, I thought we’d futz around with a little Q&A.

You ask the questions you’ve been dying to ask (boxers, natch) and I provide the answers. Right there in that little Comments box. We’ve done this before and it was very diverting (that’s Jane Austen talk for super wicked fun).

Ready? Okay!

Oh, and just to get it out of the way, anyone being mean-spirited will just have their deleted, sans apology or explanation. Ya dig? It’s my damn birthday. Be nice.

It’s Thursday, so you’re probably expecting to read about phalluses and the men-children who name them, but it is not to be. I did say Thursdays were for “dating, mating and that guy who was not only really bad in bed, but stole my favorite sweater.” Well, we’ve covered the sweater guy, and I’m just not in the mood for sex (talking about it anyway). But I do have a little something to say about dating — online dating, actually.

Despite what I do for a living, I’ve never been a big fan of finding love on the old interweb. I’m not judging – if you’ve met the love of your life online, I’m ecstatic for you. It’s just… it’s always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. You know, somewhere on par with suddenly finding yourself watching a Vagisil commercial with your brother or dad next to you on the couch. Awkward. It just makes me squirmy.

Last week, though, I decided that I was going to have to get over my little phobia and go online to get some offline socialization. And you know what I found? There seem to be a lot of nice, well-adjusted guys looking for love on the internet. Shocker! Problem is, there are even more who are… well, not. I’ve learned that in the online dating circus, it takes patience and focus to get through the weirdos to find the guys you’d not pepper spray as soon as meet out for a drink.

The face only a mother…
The first thing I do is click the little red x next to the photo of any man that looks like a criminal. I totally understand the disservice I can do myself by judging on a man on looks. But if he’s sporting a pedophile mustache, or looks like he has experience with a switchblade, that’s a risk I’m willing to take. I also — and this is clearly my own issue — click the x next to men without visible jawlines. I’m not looking for the Brawny paper towel guy, but I am certainly not interested in bearing children with the mark of the inbred. I absolutely refuse to have Hapsburg babies. I once knew a girl whose chin all but disappeared into her neck, and I won’t lie: it was an impediment to our friendship. People without jaws, you give me the willies. There, I said it.

Just an average guy
Next, I take a look at the first line of his profile. “My friends would describe me as laid back…” Yawn! Or, “I’m just an average guy…” Click! If you don’t think you’re special, why should I? If you truly are nondescript (and honestly, I have a hard time believing that anyone is entirely quirk-free), you totally deserve the kind of girl who would be intrigued by such a statement. May the lord bless you with a houseful of talentless children. And do the literate girls a favor – run a spell checker on that puppy. I just glanced at a dude’s profile, where in the first three lines, four words were misspelled – all in a statement about how he should write dating profiles for a living. Yeah, buddy. Just you do that.

Better off with a thousand words
Once a guy’s passed the first-glance, first-read test, I have a look through the rest of his profile. Occupation, religion, other photos. For a lot of you, this will be a big duh, but I expect, for some of you fellas, this will be something of a public service announcement. If you think that a picture of you with a beer bong belongs anywhere on your dating profile, you are an idiot. You probably drive drunk on a routine basis, eat spray cheese right out of the can, and say things like, “It’s T-dawg in the hiz-ouse!” when you get home from your job as a fraternity recruiter. You are an idiot. And I did not pay a membership fee to meet idiots. I can do that for free, thanks. My point is, lots of people have a beer bong picture. They just have enough sense not to display it before getting some third date nookie. To be safe, let a girl choose your picture for you. That’s pretty idiot-proof.

Picky, picky
If a guy makes it past the online dating gauntlet, and we start emailing, that’s all great and good. I’ve met a few very nice men. But mostly, I spend my time right clicking — copying and pasting scary photos into emails I send to family members. It’s kinda like The Dating Game. Yesterday’s Bachelor Number One described himself as “unable to relate to people well,” and in his photo, he bore a strong and alarming resemblance to Sloth from Goonies. Obviously, this is why I am still single – because I’m mean. Also because I have a whole cadre of arbitrary rules fixed in my brain about what a man should be. But frankly, I’m fine with that. Because if it’s a choice between settling, and spending my life with Ari, our pets, and a mishmash of adopted children – that’s not really much of a choice at all. Ari is an awesome cook and I have never, ever seen her with a beer bong.

We’ve been talking about it since December, but last night, Angie and I finally booked our tickets for Scotland. We leave in exactly three months, three hours and ten minutes. And knowing that Angie is scarily like my mother about such things, we’ll probably be spending at least 94% of that time planning our adventure. Not that I mind. I can be sort of la-di-dah about foreign travel. As long as I understand enough of the language to order lunch, I’m good. But Jen is a big planner, and I have every reason to believe she’s the only reason we made it out of Morocco alive. Well, Jen and Immodium.

Anyway, after all that kilty excitement (we’ve both read the Outlander series, and I don’t know about Angie, but I fully intend on falling through some standing stones to collect my own brawny highlander), it was bedtime. After tidying up the kitchen, I popped a pill, climbed into bed and waited. For Mr. Lincoln and the beaver to show up. See, on Monday, my new doctor gave me some Rozerem samples – with the hope of getting my sleep cycle back to normal. For the last eight weeks, every time I’ve gone to bed, my brain thinks it’s power nap time, and without fail, twenty-five minutes later, I’m up. Wide awake and punching my pillow. And an hour after that, up again. Repeat, until daylight starts seeping into my bedroom, when my body’s ready to sleep in earnest.

Go on and guess just how cranky this makes me.

I’m not sure I’m sold on this new wonder drug — I still woke up during the night and Mr. Lincoln was a no show — but if my dreams missed me, they sure found me last night. Lost passports, confusing itineraries, sinking ferries and Barcelona having somehow relocated to Canada. It was perfect mayhem. And not at all what I’d had in mind.

I suppose it doesn’t matter what drug you take, if your psyche is a big ole mess. I get it. I was really looking forward to sleeping with the 16th president though.

Oh, and by the way, yesterday was my five-year blogging anniversary. See? I am capable of commitment.

Mike from Chicago is my favorite commenter. I’d be surprised, and frankly a little disappointed, if he wasn’t your favorite commenter. He’s wacky and clever and he never corrects my speeling . Er, I mean spelling. What’s not to love? Anyway, for your Monday morning enjoyment, I hereby present Mike with a Lifetime Achievement Award for Commenting, and I present you all with a little Q&A.

First, let’s cover the basics. Name, age, location, and what you want to be when you grow up (I want to be a spy or a pirate).
Age: 31 (going to be 32 this month) Location: Chicago, by way of small-town Michigan. I’m not sure being a grown up is the way I want go, but I pay the bills as a tax accountant in the real estate and luxury hotels industry. Yes, I’m a virtual fireball of excitement, and prior to getting married I had to take Kung-Fu to defend myself from the literal avalanche of women that flock to the industry of tax accounting. You’d be surprised how many hot women like surly, functionally-alcoholic, narcissists with love handles. If I had a nickel for every story and a $1.75, I could ride the bus. However, if I had to do something else, I’d either open a sandwich shop or mow the grass on a golf course. This grown-up shit sucks ass.

You’re my favorite commenter. Ever. Yeah, I know that’s not a question, but I figured I’d give you the chance to say a little something about all that.
Well, I found you, or your blog, in 2003, through a link on a high school friend’s blog. Reading your blog from the beginning, with all the tales about J, it seemed more like a novel. But as that part of your life ended or changed and you focused the blog on yourself, the readers got to see more of your personality. Frankly my dear, you’re a goof, and I dig that about you. You’re also whip-smart. It makes for great writing. I like people that are smart and goofy, because that is what I am. Plus you can’t talk about Magnum with most girls. As for my comments, I just try to crack a joke and see if you get it. I guess parts of this paragraph sound kind of creepy and stalker-like, but I don’t know another way to answer the question.

The Internet thinks we should get married, but as it turns out, you already have a wife. What’s up with that?
What’s up with what? The fact that #1, I’m married or #2, the fact that you and I aren’t an item? For #1 you’d have to confirm with my wife. Let’s just say that a magical Friday night with a few too many Stroh’s beers turned into the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m truly lucky to have her, because if you saw me, you’d understand what it means when the window of opportunity begins to close. Honestly though, she likes me because I’m a kid at heart, I don’t take myself too seriously, and I get a lot of free hotel nights, thanks to my job. As for #2, I’d have to say it’s geography. Based on what I’ve read about you, you’d definitely be someone I’d want to pal up with an cause mayhem with. Also, a great portion of the Internet still lives in it’s mom’s basement and spends a little too much time with the 12-sided dice and not enough time grinding on chicks at the club.

Does this alleged wife know you hang out on a pink blog?
I think I’ve mentioned it. I think most of the best blogs I read are written by women. Plus, I gain little pieces of insight here and there that help me with my relationship with her or might keep me from being a complete Neanderthal. I’ll take all the help I can get when it comes to making her happy. Also, if I’ve learned one thing from women, is that they need guys around to kill bugs and open pickle jars.

Why don’t you have a blog? (or maybe you do and you’re holding out)
I have a blog, but when I started it kind of became part of a network of blogs of my family members, and thus contains personal events relating to other people that are not for public consumption. So, I started another blog where I jot down the dumb stuff that floats into my brain, but I’m not sure it would make sense to anyone. I’m good with an inside joke, not so good a story teller. The weird blog is here. As you can see, it’s weird and I haven’t really kept up on it. I don’t really have a problem being perceived as somewhat “off”. I’ve been told so for a while now. I think I may have posted a retaliatory blog because you made a Nickelback reference in one of your blogs. I may be hallucinating that, though.

Sometimes I picture you with one of those long, thin, sinister mustaches that you twirl while you leave your comments. Do you think in pictures, too?
I think in movies and smells. Before you put your picture on the blog, I had you pegged as a blonde (you are allowed one groin kick for that if we ever meet). Most of my memories actual have motion and I can remember smells from certain days. Like the day I saw The Notebook with my wife smelled like Steven Segal’s tears. When you picture me, please do so after a back wax. Much obliged.

What’s your least favorite word (mine is a tie between ‘fudge’ and ‘moist.’ Though, ‘panties’ is pretty excruciating, too), and your very favorite insult?
That’s easy. Least favorite word: conduit. Favorite insult, from my grandfather, “Sometimes, I think the world is crazy, except for you and me. Sometimes I have my doubts about you.”

Tim once told me I was a “punishing woman.” You’ll have to take my word for it that, at the time (I believe I had a fistful of his hair), he meant it as a compliment. I don’t think he meant it in exactly that way later on, though..

The night before he flew from Dallas to New York to stay with me, my phone lit up with a flurry of text messages, most of which bordered on scandalous. There was even the suggestion (his, incidentally) that we do it right there in the baggage claim. You know, raise a few eyebrows. Possibly get arrested.

But as exciting as all that sounded, it was not to be.

He arrived drunk. And not just airplane liquor tipsy. Drunk. Unshowered and reeking of the previous night’s adventures in booze and cigarettes, he stood at the baggage carousel, looking miserable. I wasn’t feeling much better. It was an auspicious beginning to a weekend I’d anticipated spending scantily (if at all) clad… and not smelling like a hobo. Determined to salvage things, I sent him straight to the shower the minute we got home. We were having dinner at Grimaldi’s later, and I wasn’t taking him anywhere like that.

He emerged from the bathroom a half hour later wearing make up.

“I found your eyeliner.”

“I can see that.”

I was tempted to tell him that Jared Leto hadn’t been hot since the Jordan Catalano days, and that mimicking him now was just bad form, but before I could say a word, he disappeared back into the bathroom… to straighten his hair. Such fanciness, I thought, for walking across the Brooklyn Bridge. Still, I held onto a bit of hope that things would improve.

They didn’t. He spent the entire four-day weekend falling-down drunk, and I spent it feeling like Peg Bundy. For a fuckation, there sure wasn’t much sex going on. And what there was of that, was hardly recognizable. I mean, I’ve heard of a quickie, but the speed at which he pawed (and I do mean pawing. They’re attached, son. Might wanna be careful with those.) his way through it was ridiculous. And after we were done? Back to the booze.

I’d gone to a lot of trouble to make plans, take him to music venues that he’d like. I even wasted my Natural History Museum make-out on him.

“She’s mad at me,” he told his friends when we met them for brunch the morning he left.

“I’m glad you picked up on that,” I said, wishing the waiter would bring the damn coffee. I hate to be a pouter, but seriously, no one puts baby in a corner and no one makes me feel like Peg Bundy. I wasn’t pouting. I was pissed.

“Why? I came to see you.”

“No,” I said finally. “You came to see the bottom of a pint glass. And I hear they have those back home.”

His friends laughed and teased him about not earning his keep, but I’m not sure he heard them through his hangover.

I know I should try to have some compassion – he obviously has a serious drinking problem – but when he left, that drunk bastard packed my favorite black cashmere sweater. And after everything else? Well, I was plum out of good feelings. One day, when finally he gets to that all-important step of his 12 step program, I better get an apology and a damn gift card. I don’t care what your excuse. You don’t fuck with a girl’s best sweater.

Rick* makes a lousy first impression. This friend-of-a-friend makes a fairly terrible second impression, as well, and by the third time I ran into him, my powers of politeness were so faded that even a nod-and-smile combo put a strain on my soul. And most likely my kidneys. They’re always the first to go.

Anyway, on Saturday night, I joined my friend on the patio of a local bar and saw Rick at the end of the table, being irritating and loud, per usual. I nodded in his direction and then spent the rest of the evening paying no attention to him. Because I truly believe in the saying, If you can’t say anything nice, you’d better be good and drunk. And I wasn’t.

When a girl joined Rick later in the evening, it caused a bit of a stir. Evidently, she was his new girlfriend.

“What?” The two girls to my left looked confused. I prodded until one spoke up.

“It’s just… that’s not the way he described her to me. At all.”

“Oh?” My friend and I asked, simultaneously. Our curiosities were piqued.

“Well, he said she was… not very pretty and… chunky.”

It was the gasp heard round the world. My friend and I looked at each other, mouths hanging open. The girl sitting next to Rick was neither unpretty nor chunky. She was… normal. And she had enviable skin and a nice rack.

“Who says things like that?” I asked, appalled. Well, obviously, Rick does. About the girl he’s seeing. The girl who takes pity on him and lets him see her naked. I frowned into my beer and shook my head.

I have dated men that I knew my friends wouldn’t consider attractive. Once, I was head over heels for a five-foot-three, skinny fella… who made me laugh until my face and sides hurt. When asked, “Ooh, what’s he like?” my answer was, “He’s really funny; you’ll love him.” And they did.

If you’re dating someone — if you like them enough to be dating them — you shouldn’t even consider telling your friends they’re unattractive. Unless you’re an asshole. Unless you’re Rick.

Every woman I’ve told this story to has gotten deeply offended on behalf of Rick’s girlfriend. Me, well, I’ve been feeling a bit relieved. See, I felt sort of mean and guilty for hating someone I hardly knew. And now, I’m just proud of myself for being so intuitive.

*Name changed to protect a jerk named Sam.

Several weeks ago, a new light appeared in the night sky. Only this heavenly light wasn’t attended by wisemen and frankincense and all that. No, this new star came in the form of an amber colored security light outside my apartment. And it made my bedroom glow like a cheap roadside motel. After one sleepless night, I paid a visit to the folks in the management office and very calmly explained to Steve the Manager why, if they didn’t do something about the bright orange spotlight, I was going to hire a 12 year-old with a BB gun to do it for them.

“We’ve had some windows broken in cars, so that light is an added security measure.”

“But it doesn’t face the parking lot, Steve. It faces my bedroom. And I haven’t broken any windows. Or security lights… Yet.”

“Well, I’ll sure see what I can do about it.”

A month passed. Steve, obviously, was not in a hurry and the temptation to invite my friend Jennifer, her boyfriend John, and John’s air rifle over for dinner grew daily. Every night, I closed the blinds as tight as they’d go, drew the curtains across the window, and then tossed a heavy crimson sheet over the curtain rod. And still, the room was haloed in a fierce orange light. You have to be a very seasoned hooker to fall asleep comfortably in that kind of aura. And I’m very new at hooking, you see.

Then the rains came. Last night, I thought we were in the middle of a hurricane. The winds were shaking the windows and doors, and the water was pouring off the roof in thick, dark sheets. Hal, who is ordinarily pretty oblivious to such things, heard the weather slamming the windows and made a beeline for the bedroom. I followed. A few minutes later, as I lay on the bed explaining to Hal about God and moving furniture, there was a pop and the prostitute after-glow vanished. Just like that.

I yipped with glee, rolled over and went to sleep.

This morning, I heard footfall on the roof and looked out to see a maintenance man replacing the whore light.

“Crap!”

In nothing but a wife beater and boxers, I ran outside, down the steps and onto the lawn.

“Hey!” I waved to the man leaning over the roof.

“Yuh?”

“Do you think maybe you could turn that light? You know, so it’s facing the cars and not my window?”

He didn’t say a word, but nodded, smiled and with a flick of his wrist, reaimed the fixture. Done and done. Turns out, Steve’s guys work much more quickly without pre-teen, CO2-powered persuasion. Or um, a bra.

Thank you, ladies.

Alternatively titled: If you are my mother, you might want to stop reading now

“Blowjobs are for boyfriends.”

“You mean you don’t…” Ari made a crude but familiar gesture.

“Nope.”

Ari sat in silence for a minute. Presumably in awe. Clearly, she’d never considered it as an opt-out.

We all have our lines in the sand, and that is one of mine. Blowjobs are for boyfriends. If I remembered how to cross-stitch, I’d hang that, gilt framed, over my bed. Surely I’m not the only woman who thinks that oral sex is more intimate and more… involved than a good, old-fashioned shag. Nor can I be the only woman to say that a blowjob can be a lot of effort (um, they call it a ‘job’ for a reason). And who, I ask, wants to go to all that effort when you’re not sure he’s going to stick around to reciprocate? And by reciprocate, naturally, I mean taking out the trash and killing spiders; for the most part, his… err, efforts down there don’t do much for me.

Now I know there are plenty of people who will tell me that if I’m not sure of a man’s character or staying potential, I shouldn’t be sleeping with him in the first place. On that, we’re just gonna have to agree to disagree. I like sex. So there.

Besides, even if you don’t get all benevolent in the bedroom, sex is just plain risky. Blowjob or no, you still have a good chance of brushing up against the ever unpleasant Penis is Magic Syndrome, so why compound the issue?

What? Never heard of it? I’ll enlighten.

Penis is Magic Syndrome
If you sleep with a guy, no matter what your level of relationship interest, he will automatically assume you mean to spend the REST of your LIFE with him, have his babies and drain the virility out of him. Why? Because his penis is magic, obviously. So magic, it will make you take leave of all your senses. Just watch how squirrely he gets about communication after you’ve done the deed. Proof positive.

Most of the conversations Ari and I have on the subject of men and sex are not fit for public consumption. Which is not to say that the ladies at the nail salon don’t get a good deal of enjoyment out of them (we see you snicker behind your old copies of US Weekly, oh yes, we do). But those ladies are hardly what I consider public. Everyone knows that a nail salons are as soundproof as a confessional box; none of those ladies are running off to tell my mother what I just said about penises. I hope.

Which reminds me: I recognize that things have gotten a little… safe around here. You can’t blame a girl for trying to keep her mother from a heart attack. But now that mom’s been forewarned, and on new blood pressure meds, I’m instituting Tawdry Thursdays (I know, Tawdry Tuesdays sounds so much better, but what can you do? Come up with a better name and I’ll buy you a beer). Anyway, Thursdays are now dedicated exclusively to tales of dating, mating and that guy who was not only really bad in bed, but stole my favorite sweater.

So. Got requests? Want me to make good on stories I promised and never delivered? Remind me in the comments box.