Things You Buy When You're A Slut Like Me

I just spent $18 on a panty. 

Correction: I just spent $18.50 + tax on a sequined, overwhelmingly sparkly panty that my boyfriend is not likely to even notice or care about (not that I bought it for his enjoyment, but barring running down the street in my panty, who else is going to see it but me?). On second thought, I bet he's not even going to be surprised by the sparkle. He's just going to go, "yeah, looks about right," or, "yep, that  fits all I know about you so far." Whatever.

I also followed the aforementioned purchase with a hot pink bra, and then used the coupon I did have for a free panty at Victoria’s Secret and selected a hot pink one. You know, because I hate pink so much.

See, that’s how they get you. The coupons from hell Victoria’s Secret mailed me and I so innocently believed I would just use the free panty one. I went into the store with every intention of grabbing my free panty and leaving unscathed. But then, I saw the light shining off the limited edition sparkly panty, it called out to me, I tried to resist its allure, but we all knew it was a lost cause. It was pretty, sparkly and had a lace back. I didn’t stand a chance. It was too much sparkle... 

Actual closeup of the panty. How could I resist this?

Now every time I wear my sparkly panty, my v-area (vagina included, of course) is going to resemble a disco ball. Well played, Victoria’s Secret, well played.

Slut-o-ween

I'm a slut. You know it (possibly because of the blog's title). I know it. My ex-fiancé made sure everyone knows it. So, yes, at least we're all on the same page on that matter.

Enter: Halloween. Yes, halloween, the one time a year where all of us sluts (and by all of us I mean everyone who has ovaries, obviously) are free to let our slut flag fly by dressing in costumes that usually have the word "sexy" or "sassy" in front of them for marketing purposes (let's be real, slutty is all they mean by those two qualifiers; that or, "hey, I can almost see your vag and nipples, thanks!").

I've found myself completely and utterly excited for this Halloween. Chalk it up to not having a proper childhood (the fact that my mother thought springing for costumes was a waste of money) or being with someone who didn't like going out (at all) or dressing for Halloween for six years. I'm an adult, and I'm excited about Halloween, end of story.

My quest to find this year's costumes (yes, there is more than one) began in July. If you have ovaries and are above a certain age (usually ten), you can sympathize with my conundrum: I've seen more modest attire in Victoria's Secret. And, because I'm a slut, and because I think Halloween is all about dressing up as someone that you are not, being a slutty [insert any costume here, really, ANY] just didn't appeal to me.

I briefly considered going as the eleventh doctor (God bless Matt Smith) from Dr. Who, but I didn't want to spend all night explaining to people who I was supposed to be, and why I am a woman dressing as a male character. It's too confusing for people. It's just not my place to make their brain hurt. I'm nice that way.

For the sake of anonymity, and covering most of my bases, I'm not about to disclose my three costume choices (you can't be too careful on the internet), but I will say that although one of them is very skintight, it covers every inch of my body. So that's a win in my book. The other two are harmless. While I could have a free slut pass for Halloween, I choose not to use it because it perpetuates a double-standard for women.

"Hey women, you have ovaries, you can dress like sluts for Halloween, we boys like it when you do that, but remember, you can't actually act like sluts. And days where it's not halloween, go back to not dressing like sluts and not being sluts."

But, hey, in a world where Mitt Romney is a candidate for president, we have to count the small victories, right?

Wanting, Needing

I consider myself a smart, independent woman. I know that I can be alone, and that I can be perfectly happy doing so. The older I get, however, I become more accepting of vulnerability and want the trappings of a life shared with someone else. Perhaps this is a byproduct of being so close to getting married to the person I thought was the One, an occurrence in which I allowed myself to be caught up in the idea of it all and finally relaxed enough to contemplate a real, honest to God future with another human being.

The fact that this ended going up in flames in a spectacular fashion apparently doesn't faze this part of my psyche. I still want to share my life with the right person, someone who will be there day in and day out for me. I need and want someone whose arms I can just collapse to after a rough day at work, someone who will take care of me while I'm sick, and someone who'll understand my need to see my friends. I want someone who'll be a good father to our children, who won't flinch at the thought of helping me change diapers, taking them to school, or grocery shopping. I want someone who I can trust, someone who I can give my everything to and not wonder what they did with it all because he's as committed to us as I am. I don't want perfection, but I want a real partnership.

This needing and wanting scares the living daylights out of me because sometimes it seems like I want too much and am asking too much of another human being. I look at my parents, who've been married for almost 40 years and I think that it's a rare occurrence, a lottery of sorts. I look at them and I want that, and I'm scared that I will never get it because I don't deserve it.

I know life has a weird way of working itself out. I see the potential my now boyfriend has to be the person that I want. He fits most of my wants almost to a T, even if sometimes I wonder if that's true or if it's something that I want to see. Then I think about how independent he is, something I truly adore about him, but something that makes me worry that he'll never be able to fully share his life with me. I need someone to be there, with me, committed to the household day after day because it not only was his choice, but it feels like he should be there. I worry he won't choose me, just like my ex ended up taking back his word.

Days like today, where I'm plagued by the good memories of a previous relationship, memories of him taking care of me when I was sick, like I am today, and I find myself alone in my room typing because my boyfriend is out of town; I worry that I'm not strong enough to be the woman I believe myself to be. The woman I think I am and the woman who feels the need to type this are two completely different people, one is an ideal and the other one is broken.

Today I seek the strength to mend myself. Tomorrow I may get it.

It's the Little Things that Nag at Us

In any relationship, seriously ANY, there are things that nag away at our core. These are the little things. Sometimes these little things gather up in our proverbial closet and we keep shoving them in until one day they just come tumbling out of it and we're left to face the mess we've ignored for so long.

Then again, if we address those little nuances, we're in for a life of nitpicking and fighting without actually looking at the bigger picture. All those little things that bother us so much are symptomatic of the deeper issues that we may have as individuals and the existing issues in the relationship.

In my case, at least, upon further inspection of these little things that nag me I found that they all came back to the same place: fear. I'm afraid of being vulnerable, afraid that I'm more into this relationship than my boyfriend, and afraid that I'll screw this up somehow.

I realize that this has seventy five percent to do with myself and my psyche. In fact, I don't think I have ever allowed myself to become so vulnerable in a relationship so quickly, and to feel that the other person is holding back emotionally for the sake of maintaining a semblance of control is unnerving. Of course, it's annoying because I've done that before and I know how and why it seems like a good option.

The real truth is that I feel unhinged, vulnerable, and out of control, which is why instead of blowing up at any single thing, I retreated into my mind in order to look for patterns. Once I found the glaringly obvious reason for these little speed bumps, I also realized that I cannot force anyone to come to the same conclusion I have, that perhaps part of my problem is that I need instant gratification and lack patience to see things through.

That doesn't mean, however, that I'm going to keep quiet forever. I can sort through the mess, find the pattern and work it out within myself, but that 25% that is the relationship also needs to be sorted out. That is just something that I can't do on my own.

We Need to Talk

The talk.

Those two words carry a variety of connotations within the dating scenario. None of those are good. In fact, those are the two words that will inevitably make a man run to the hills like there's no tomorrow and he's being chased by a pack of wolves.

In this scenario, you are the pack of wolves, of course.

I, for one, hate the talk.  I would much rather do as I have done in the past and ignore the situation all together because the idea of verbalizing what's going in my head makes me want to throw up (and head to the hills like I'm being chased by a pack of wolves).

Perhaps it's because I am not one for confrontation to the ones I care about, or perhaps it's because I'm afraid of the outcome of these so-called talks. In my current relationship, the talk has loomed over my head for a while now, and like Marie Antoinette, beheading is imminent, at the very least.

 So, do I drink a bottle of wine and let the words come out as they may, or do I formulate an apologetic, yet direct and assertive, speech designed to explain the innermost workings of my troubled brain? I could keep quiet, but if past performance is any indicator of the success of that tactic, I'm in for a lot of trouble and heartache.

It seems to me that no matter what choice I take, I risk getting hurt. Then again, isn't that the nature of relationships?

Like any good composition teacher, I know that it's all in the rhetorical situation. I mean, I'm not going to drop this talk in the middle of a group hangout, or in the middle of other activities. The time and place has to be (not necessarily perfect) acceptable to have a conversation that will hopefully clarify the reality of the situation versus the mess that's going in my head.

Because the fact of the matter is that as much as I would like to, my boyfriend cannot read my mind, and I cannot divine his. Even more so, the more I try to imagine what's going on through that mind of his, my inner self-hater interjects with a few choice ideas on how I'm awful, and how he's probably re-thinking the whole relationship every single second of every single day.

I know that some of this is on me, and I, for one, am trying to sort the mess that's in my head and understand that reality does not match my thoughts, especially those self-hating ones laced with abandonment issues. Then again, once I finish having "the talk" with myself, I can start thinking of way of having "the talk" with him.

There are Dresses, and then There's THE Dress

There are dresses that make you want to be a bride. This is one of them:

Hi, can I have this and get married tomorrow?
Thanks.

Of course, I'd just rather wear that dress to some fancy event if I'm not getting married to the right person. I mean, the right dress does not make the wrong person right.

Then there are men who make you want to be a bride. I think my current boyfriend fits the bill.

Also, I may be losing my mind (alongside my heart).

Wanting to Have it All... And Fried Chicken Strips

I can't sleep. Maybe it's because I ate fried chicken strips late at night. Maybe it's because I'm worried I'll never be able to get a car. Maybe it's because I'm an idiot. Maybe it's because I have too many thoughts.

Seriously, though, the chicken strips are most of it.

Well, that and the fact that I told my boyfriend I was in love with him a month ago. Why would I do such a thing? Because I'm an idiot.

His response? He said he cared about me. Romantic, no? (I vote no)

THE END.

Only not quite. I'm freaking out. I've been freaking out and hiding my crazy for a month now. I don't know how much longer I can leash the crazy in.

Once he realizes the bag of crazy I carry around in me, it's over. That, or he's re-evaluating his priorities.

The crazy is motivated by the idea that, well, I really didn't set out to be in a relationship. You see, this guy pursued me. He wanted this. I wasn't sold on being in a relationship (hello, my track record dating after the breakup shows how much of a grey area I was used to). In fact, he was the only one of the guys I dated after the breakup (6 if you must know) that flat out wanted me to see no one else but him (and said so during our first date).

He won me over little by little until, well, I was a goner. Then I fucked things up and told him. Now I'm on the receiving end of static. Oh, fuck me.

Now, that is not to say he's a horrible boyfriend. Quite the opposite, actually. During the five months we've dated, he's always acted like he's in love with me. Yet, he doesn't say it. Then I play this game in my head, the "would you rather" game. I ask myself, "Would you rather have someone who says he loves you and doesn't act like it or someone who acts like it but doesn't say it?"

Then my bitchy self chimes in and declares that I shouldn't have to choose because I should have it all.

And I do. I do want to have it all. I want him to allow himself to be as vulnerable as I've allowed myself to be in this relationship because I've loved and lost, too, and because it would make me feel like we're on equal footing. I want him to want to be with me every day. I want him to choose to be with me over and over and over again.

Who knows? Maybe I do have those things I want but am not seeing them. Maybe I don't. How will I ever know? When do I cut my losses? Do I have to stop wanting to have it all?

Maybe if I stop wanting to have it all, I won't lose sight of what I have in the moment. The problem with wanting to have it all is that it's unrealistic and cruel for everyone. People can only give so much of themselves, and sometimes they're doing the best they can.

I know that I'm the impulsive one. I know that he's the calculated, calm one. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he can balance me out.

Lord knows premature "I love you"s are my specialty, and even when said back they are not guarantees of happily ever afters.

Until then, these chicken strips and my thoughts will keep me up because I'm an idiot with no self-control..

More Questions, Unanswered

There comes a time in every new relationship where the magic wears off an we're left wondering how to get that bit of magic back. Because that little magic makes the mundane bearable and everything seems to run smoothly. No matter how little or how long it lasted, we always end up feeling like it wasn't enough time at all.

Without the magic, the honeymoon phase, or whatever it is that we choose to call it, we are left staring at the harsh reality, much like staring at your reflection under neon lights. That's the moment where we choose to work it out or cut our losses and get out of the game.

When we decide to stick it out for the sake of propriety, love, affection, curiosity, or what have you, we know that it's not necessarily going to be easier. We cling to the hope that this time it'll work out and that it'll be different.

What happens, then, when you see the patterns reemerging once again? Patterns that you thought you'd left in your previous relationship. If the person you're now with displays some of the same patterns as the old one, does this mean that the problem is you and not them? Are you the one bringing out this side of them?

Is this new relationship that showed so much promise destined to fail? Or can you manage these issues in a different way this time? What happens when the dust settles and the magic is gone?

Failed Relationship PTSD

It was morning. I was walking to work.

It was a hot morning, mind you. I was simultaneously walking to work and dissecting every event of the previous night, looking for clues that it was time to abandon a potentially sinking relationship ship.

That’s where it hit me, and by it I don’t mean the proverbial relationship ship. It hit me that I am a sufferer from failed relationship PTSD, but I’m probably not alone in this group of people.

Let’s define what I mean by failed relationship PTSD, shall we?

Failed Relationship PTSD: After being brutally bludgeoned in the heart by an unsuccessful amorous tryst, the person becomes consumed with the desire to anticipate if a relationship is going to fail or not quickly, oftentimes leading to grim conclusions that become self-fulfilling prophecies. This person oftentimes looks for “warning signs” that may or may not be there, projects those to the future and makes rash judgments. Person may or may not be plagued with both uncertainty and flashbacks of good and bad moments of the previous relationship, which he or she compares to any future relationship.

If you do not count yourself in this group of people, consider yourself lucky.  

After the demise of a six point three year-long relationship, in which there were one point three years of engagement (you know, to be married), I have become one of those people who live in constant fear of things ending suddenly and without obvious warning signs. And why shouldn’t I? The warning signs, red flags and neon clowns jumping up and down with signs that say “DON’T DO IT. RUN AWAY!” are only glaringly obvious in hindsight.

As a sufferer of failed relationship PTSD, I’m trying to manage my relationship anxiety by breathing, taking a step back, breathing again, and drinking a glass of wine (or a bottle) when that doesn’t work. I’m kidding. Mostly.

What I have been doing is keeping myself busy with friends and turning my energies into cooking things beyond the “just add water” variety.

Alas, I don’t believe my failed relationship PTSD will be over any time soon, but we’re all relegated to deal with our pasts, for better or worse. I wouldn’t be the person I am without that last relationship; yes, I have baggage and some ghosts, but don’t we all?

If all’s fair in love and war, and if love is a battlefield, then PTSD just means I’m alive and coping.

Toothbrushes

Something happens as  I look at the two toothbrushes now inhabiting the pewtered-colored tumbler in my bathroom sink. By something happening, I mean that I am overcome with incredible happiness, dread, and anxiety.

It goes like this: I smile and think this is a good step forward, then I dread that this could ever come to an end, and then I get anxious about… well, about everything.
  

I’m transported to a place and time in which someone took the time to make space for me in his life, space that was signified by a drawer and a clear, plastic toothbrush of my very own at his place. Back then I was in love; back then I thought I had it all.  

The clear toothbrush and drawer signified clear progressions of our relationship --one that went up in flames as tragically as Lindsay Lohan’s face (seriously, she’s supposed to be 26, not 62). While memories of toothbrushes and drawers from a past relationship are complicated in their bittersweetness, I have a hard time separating the positive from the negative events that culminated in that one phone call that ended what I once thought would be forever.

Then start the comparisons, bringing the past to the present and hoping that I will be able to find the one loophole that will help me avoid the catastrophe of a failed relationship once again. Is there a way for me to go from here to happily ever after and avoid the mess? It would be too easy, I know.

Of course, I can’t really compare the feelings I once felt to the ones I am currently experiencing and  am aware that each relationship is unique --I’ve watched Sex and the City after all (I’m kidding, mostly). The differences between the two men, the one in my past and the one in my present, are monumental and key to the dynamic of each relationship.

While what I had in the past is what I needed then, yet we both outgrew each other and in different directions; what I have now is fantastic, but who am I to say it will last forever? That’s the crux of my anxiety, the fact that there are no guarantees or shortcuts. Yet, if the volume of dating books being continuously sold and published is any indication, we still want to search for those guarantees and shortcuts.

The truth of the matter is that these two toothbrushes are not a shorthand for guarantees or proven shortcuts, but they are proof that for the first time in my life I’m taking the risk of making space in my life for someone else.

For now, that’ll have to do.

The Bed that Broke Me

Building my bed broke me –or, should I say, my futile attempts at building my bed by myself broke me.

Like countless of single girls before me, I ventured upon the uncharted territory of living alone as a necessary step in my transition from graduate student into full-fledged adult. The time could not be better; fresh off graduation with highest honors, a new full-time office job, and a new apartment close enough to work determined my new fate. I had always shared living space with people. That I’m good at. As it turns out, I’m just not so good at living alone.   

You’d think it’d be easier. I mean, when you live with people you have to be mindful of their quirks and their presence, you stand higher chances of drama, of cleaning up after them, and you stand higher chances of being disrupted at all hours in the day. Growing up in my particular household, I never had a chance to be uninterrupted. Whatever I was doing, my mother would interrupt with a request to do this or that, no matter if I was penning important words. With roommates, I’ve had my fair share of good friends, and rambunctious dwellers.

But this silence in my new place… It’s just something to get used to. I resort to employing the company of chick flicks to distract myself from the silence. It was during the middle of one of these In Her Shoes, if you need the details, that I had the bright (if by bright you mean dangerously stupid) idea to build my new bed.

I don’t know what prompted the waterworks, but something inside me broke as I glanced back and forth between the panels, bolts and pieces that were supposed to compose my new bed and the instructions. It could have been the scene in the movie that was playing in the background –a sad one to be sure, the overpowering feeling of being alone, the assembly instructions telling me I’d need two people to assemble the bed, or a noxious combination of these factors. All I know is that if I’d walked in on myself I would have slapped myself silly because I must have looked like a sad, sad version of the woman I’m supposed to be as 

I was sobbing on the floor amidst the debris that would be my bed.

The fact that I was a sad spectacle to behold did not escape me at that moment, but that didn’t stop the pity party. This particular pity party lasted a whole ten minutes, playing my most-loved hits, such as “This is all my fault,” “This is why I’ll never get married,” “I’m all alone because I’m a horrible human being,” “What did I do wrong to end up building this lovely bed by myself?,” and “No one will ever love me enough to commit to this amount of crazy.”

Then, I realized I might never be over my broken engagement because that’s just something I have to learn to live with. That’s the thing about broken hearts, you think they’re fine, but then you realize that the heartbreak was deeper than you previously thought. I loved someone for six years. He said he loved me for six years. That’s a long time.  They weren’t always wonderful; in fact, I’m convinced that it was an unhealthy relationship for many reasons. But if I can commit my heart for someone that wasn't that good to begin with for six years, that means I have the capacity to make it work in a good marriage when the time comes. Most importantly, that means I can commit to myself and make this living alone thing work. Because I’m damn wonderful.

Oh, and that bed that broke me? Well, I enlisted the help of my new boyfriend to assemble it, and it was quite alright. Sometimes there are things you can’t do by yourself.  

The Price of Vulnerability

Being vulnerable in relationships is something I don’t know how to do, and if I once did I completely lost the ability by the time I turned 19. Well, maybe I lost it during the course of my relationship with my ex and I can’t quite pinpoint the moment it happened. All I know is that there was always trepidation, some emotional safety net, and some fingers clasped around the possibility and what I thought was the inevitability of everything to blow up in my face. Perhaps this has something to do with my high adaptability to new scenarios, which is partly because  I moved around schools so very often and was forced to make what I quickly learned were temporary friendships, the less I rooted down, the easier it was for everyone else. I bet my fickle, transformative nature has something to do with it, as well.

On the surface, this seems like a good defense mechanism, always prepared, always having the upper hand in the relationship. Perhaps because I do not like relinquishing power –which makes me working in groups so FUN (not), just very bossy--, I came to the very painful realization that in order for anything to work out, I have to let go. I have to let go of my fears, I have to let go of my hopes, and I have to let go of how I expect others to act or react. I cannot control every scenario, even though I wish I could.

Proof of my defensive nature rests on how I handled the sudden, inexplicable, phone-induced disintegration of what was, at one point, an engagement and a six-year-long relationship. I had encroached myself in so many protective layers and considered the possibility of heartbreak that once it happened, I was crushed but not broken. During the next few months, I was able to hold on to my graduate career, my friendships, and my sanity –whatever was left of it, anyway—in a manner that surprised those who thought I should be a blubbering mess.

Perhaps this proof is enough to advocate for my method of handling relationships to be the standard, but I have the nagging sensation that if I live always waiting for the other shoe to drop, then it inevitably will. In that relationship, I waxed poetic about being in love; at times, I thought I was very much in love. Now, after months of the breakup being a very real event and after two years of essentially living on my own, I begin to question if I just wanted to be in love or if it was a very real thing. Undoubtedly, I broke down a few times and felt empty. I was lonely, scared and almost anyone would do to fill in some kind or role. I don’t think that was love. That was wanting to fill a void.

I was only able to differentiate this after a long conversation with myself, a grueling one sometime in February.  I cried my fair share, admitted things that I wouldn’t have admitted to anyone (not even to myself), and I realized that if I was able to sustain myself for two years, I would be alright even if the plan had shifted. I then accepted another truth, there’s nothing wrong with needing someone else, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting a future with someone else; that’s when I stopped punishing myself for wanting things and when I started to realize that in order to give myself and someone else a fair shot I would have to be open to vulnerability.

Now, I’m not saying I’m there already, but at least I’m trying to abide by these realizations in my new relationship. In the three months we’ve been together, I’ve had to let go of my defensive nature, trying to predict his next move, and let go of that nagging sensation of wanting to manipulate his reactions with my actions. I’m trying, I’m not saying I’m perfect. There are times where I’ll become a bit panicked and tense myself up once I realize I feel safe and relaxed once I’m in his arms. This panicked feeling also comes and washes up on me when I realize I’d come to need him, not just want him there. I become cautious at that time, wanting to give him as much space as I can spare, not wanting to overwhelm him, even hoping that there aren’t reasons that he’d want to leave. Laced with those are the realizations of my vulnerability, but that doesn’t make me any less strong. At least I hope not.  

(Semi) Naked Men in a Movie... YES!

Because we all know I'm a slut (thanks to my ex's authority on such matters), it's not surprising that I'm super excited about seeing Magic Mike. 

I'll share my excitement through these user e-cards from some ecards (and through the knowledge that I already purchased tickets for the Friday showing).

Love, a Four Letter Word Vomit

I've decided I shouldn't be allowed to speak anymore. From this point forward, I should only be allowed to communicate via text and sign language. Maybe, just maybe, incidents like this morning won't happen again.

Let's be clear here, this is not the first time my mouth's got me into trouble. This time, I can't take back what I said without looking like more of a fool.

You see, this morning I told my boyfriend I loved him before getting out of his car after he drove me to work. This is the same boyfriend I've been dating for almost three months. Just three months. Three little months. God help me.

The words just came out of my mouth as I said goodbye and then were followed by an awkward I'm sorry and a quick exit (well, as swift of an exit as my mortification would let me).

Side note: I almost face-palmed in front of him after my impromptu declaration. Now that would have made the experience way more awesome, agreed? What is wrong with me?!?

So here I sit at work, vowing to never talk again in his presence. Apparently, my mouth cannot be trusted to follow the strict instructions set by my will of not saying "I love you" to my boyfriend before he says it to me.

But no, oh noooo, the moment my brain is slightly turned off and I'm not thinking of anything in particular My mouth decides to blurt "I love you." Jesus Christ. Clearly, I can only be trusted with text and sign language. From now on, the sound of my voice will be a privilege to hear and not a common occurrence --as it is right now because I just LOVE to talk. There is is again, that word. Ugh. I disgust myself. I really do.

To make matters more interesting, le boyfriend is picking me up from work today (as he usually does because he refuses to let me walk four miles each way --see, how could I not l*** him?). I briefly considered walking home in order to avoid the obvious awkwardness (because the scene keeps replaying in my mind to my simultaneously oscillating humor and mortification). A vow of silence seems appropriate at this point so that I don't end up blurting that L word every five seconds.

Honestly, I do feel this way, but I'm mostly upset my mouth ran away with it. It was supposed to be my decision, dammit! My mouth created this mess and didn't give me the tools to solve it.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck!

A vow of silence may be the way to go. Seriously.

Grad School's Bitch

The more educated I "get," the more I start to wonder if it's worth it. Of course, an education has been one of the most important things in my life for me, and pursuing a graduate degree in what I love was one of the non-negotiable aspects in life. In fact, you could say I'm now single because I left my home to pursue a master's degree (on that front: best decision ever). However, with graduation looming in the near, near future, the graduate school bubble has burst and I'm left with the following:

• My graduate degree in the humanities will not allow me to make a decent living.
• The more I am in graduate school, the less I feel like I can interact with the non-academia world around me. 
• I've learned to justify every single thing I do with a logical argument.
• The graduate program I am currently in parallels high school a lot more than I would like it to. It's just petty.
• Again, I won't make a decent living after this.

Now, the people I've met in graduate school are between the best and worst I have ever met. There's no grey area (unlike in my recent dating experience, where every damn thing is a grey area). I think that the good outweighs the bad, but sometimes, just sometimes (and by sometimes I mean every time they open their mouth) I want to stick an used sock down some of the worst people's throats --and then duct-tape their mouths shut. Just saying. 

These lovely creatures aside, I think that graduate school has allowed me to grow as an intellectual and to think critically about everything --which just means that I can't just enjoy a movie anymore, I have to theorize about it. Between graduate school and the changes I've undergone in the past few months (hey, I was called a stupid slut) have changed the way I look at the world and the way the world looks at me. The stress of a broken engagement, calling off the wedding, having long white dress that won't be worn any time soon, getting back into the dating scene, having bad dates, teaching, and oh that little thing called graduation looming around the corner have very effectively added more wrinkles on my face than there should be at twenty five. 

Twenty five has not been the best year of my life, and if I were superstitious I would have thought that my horrendous birthday was enough of an omen, given the fact that my family forgot my birthday, got me the wrong cake, and my then fiancé took me to an auto shop so he could fix his car (romantic, no?). Note to self: On second thought, maybe I should become more superstitious. 

Superstitions aside, the truth is that while I'm completely grateful for the experiences graduate school has allowed me to be a part of, the end of this stage of my life brings me back to a place that it didn't prepare me for: the "real" world. I know a lot of people feel like this at this point in their semesters once they reach that one semester they will graduate. I know that I'm not the only one with an existential crisis.

But sometimes... Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one. 

I Heart Assholes (No More)

If you know me, you know I harbor a shameful love of romantic comedies. 

Oh, Kate Hudson... You make me believe love is for real
and always starts with a dare (or bet, or article assignment).

When I think about this shameful love (in times where I am painfully aware of my sad, sad life) I realize it's because romantic comedies are often simple to figure out. 

We (and by we I mean anyone who's seen at least two of these) all know who the protagonist is going to end up with (spoiler alert: It's usually someone she hates at first sight). 

If this were true, I'd end up with one of the many douchebags I know. 

... And I'm not in the mood to deal with that kind of shit. 

However, we all love our Mr. Darcys (thanks, Ms. Austen) and even our Mr. Rochesters (oh, Charlotte Brontë). These two characters, in particular, have created my love for arrogant, self-absorbed, assholes with a seemingly soft spot.

Enter a parade of all the boys I've liked and dated.

Sure, they all had their redeeming qualities, but if they were right, wouldn't have they lasted, or is it that I'm just not leading lady material?

From today on, I hope to stop living like my life is a romantic comedy and being surprised when the assholes in my life don't suddenly convert to the perfect boyfriend. The facade of the "changed man" lasts about three months (or less), in my experience.

When all is said and done, why don't they make more romantic comedies of what happens after the wedding? Or is that just reserved for a tear-jerker?

Ah, the questions of life. 

Call Me a Slut

Like many others reacting to Rush Limbaugh's smear campaign against Sandra Fluke's decision to present to the Democratic hearing about Obama's contraception policy, I am enraged (to say the least) at the thought that even today women are still being slammed for having a voice. Now, the fact is that this Limbaugh character seems to be the epitome of what is wrong with taking beliefs to their extreme (when they're no longer recognizable); it also reflects some things that are fundamentally wrong in our society:

• Instead of attacking ideas, we resort to attacking people. 
• We do not take into account our personal history before attacking others' personal lives.
• We believe our opinion to be fundamentally more important than anyone else's.  
• We do not think twice before calling a woman who is threatening a slut. 

How I see it, the most problematic aspect of Limbaugh's argument (attack, really) was his muddling of Fluke's argument in order to make it seem petty, and then demeaning her on a personal level by calling her a slut.

The derogation on basis of (hypothetical) sexual promiscuity as a reactionary response to a woman who clearly has a voice is a troubling move, but it is (to a point) an expected one. Our society values women as physical and reproductive beings, while wanting to negate any aspect that denotes the same sexual freedom men seem to enjoy. 

Sure, a woman can hold a job just like a man, is asked to set aside any plans to start a family because that would cause some logistical problems in the workplace if she wants to advance, but is denied the same sexual freedom men are freely given on the basis of their genitalia. Sure, men can have families and be successful in the workplace, but at what cost? Does that mean his partner stays at home and takes care of the children or does this mean that they have to hire someone to take care of the home?

More often than not, women are waiting longer to start families in favor of achieving career stability. I commend them for that. If that means that employers should include birth control as part of their health insurance, then so be it. In fact, that's not at all what Fluke's argument was; indeed, her argument listed other medical reasons for which women take birth control pills. The bottom line is that Fluke's argument was that birth control is not about promiscuity or sexual freedom (though, seriously, when all is said and done who cares? Viagra isn't prescribed for other reasons, yet health insurance covers it): it is about other medical reasons, such as regulating periods and so forth.

Yet, instead of attacking this argument, Limbaugh made the choice of calling Fluke a slut or a prostitute, even going insofar as extending his argument to: 

“A Georgetown coed told Nancy Pelosi’s hearing that the women in her law school program are having so much sex they’re going broke, so you and I should have to pay for their birth control. So what would you call that? I called it what it is. So, I’m offering a compromise today: I will buy all of the women at Georgetown University as much aspirin to put between their knees as they want.”

This, of course, misses the mark on every single point. Limbaugh distorts and further reduces Fluke's argument to one that teeter totters on the border between unbelievable and ridiculous. I can only insist that his attempts at paraphrasing are completely unreliable. 

Perhaps Mr. Limbaugh could benefit from a course of freshman composition, in which us instructors make sure that students understand how logical fallacies and wrongful paraphrasing detracts from a rhetor's ethos instead of adding on to it. Instead of attacking an idea, Limbaugh acknowledges the threat Fluke and other women may pose to his conservative views and calls her (and like-minded women, by extension) a slut.  

And you know what? I, for one, am not a stranger to being called a slut. In fact, my ex fiancé called me a stupid slut because I chose to kiss someone else some time after he broke off the engagement (via telephone, I might add). I resented the qualification of stupid he chose to bestow upon my sluttiness, but I could not be any prouder to be called a slut. 

I choose the direction of my life. I control my body. I decide whether I want to participate in sexual activity or not. I have a voice and an opinion. I understand that some people may want to muddle the truth with concocted lies and distorted realities. I chose to pursue my education and goals in life. I will not be silenced.

So yes, go ahead and call me a slut. 

Boobs Up to My Chin and Other Forms of False Advertising

A good pushup bra will get you places in life. If it doesn't, it at least lets your boobs get places (and by places I mean up to your collarbone, at least).

I'll never forget the day my affinity for push-up bras was discussed by my parents and my least favorite aunt on the way to a restaurant. This aunt of mine is the one whom I have whom I have the least amount of affection for, given as she's always stated that I'm never getting married or keeping a man because I'm too smart and don't keep my opinions to myself; if that's the case, I am shocked that she's divorced twice and hasn't had a long-lasting relationship for as long as I've been alive.

I was about nineteen at the time, and my mother was loudly complaining that I didn't appreciate the minimizer bras she had bought me because I favored bras with lining (or padding, as she referred to them).

Um, excuse me:

1.  There's nothing wrong with liking push-up bras, especially when your boobs are big enough to succumb to gravity. Damn gravity.
2. I. Don't. Like. Minimizers. They squish everything down and make me look more boxy than I already am.
3. It's not like I was a DD or anything. I was a perfectly acceptable C who was looking for a bit of lift, that's all. It's not like the so-called padding was designed to make my bust appear larger.
4. Speaking of which, I've never liked bras without lining. Possibly because I never want to be in a situation where people can see my nipples through my shirt. Just saying.

Anyhow, my aunt turned in horror towards me

Yep, that's about right.

and asked, "What will happen on your wedding night when your husband realizes that your boobs aren't as big as they seem?"

Ok, a few things:

A) Why does it have to be on our wedding night? Can he not see my breasts before? And does he have to be my husband?

B) Come the fuck ON. It's not like once they're in his hands or mouth he's going to be like, "Gross, they're not as big as I had estimated them being. Get dressed this instant and never show those hideous things to me ever again!" Dude, not even a gay man would say that about breasts (let's not get into my propensity to attract those type of males).

C) I'm not stuffing my bra for goodness sakes! It's just a pushup! It pushes my boobs UP to my chin!

D) Who the fuck cares if I wear pushup bras?

"Well, then, he can sue me for false advertisement," I replied.

My father's roaring laughter was the only addition to this conversation, though my mother and my aunt discussed the horrible nature of the false advertisement my boobs were conveying to the world.

Jesus Christ!

As a single lady (this inevitably brings Beyonce's song into my head), I've come to realize that false advertising isn't just in the form of makeup and pushup bras. Sure, some of us ladies use torture devices (i.e. Spanx and wire bras) in order to look our "best," but guys are oftentimes guilty of the worst kind of advertisement: they tell us everything we want to hear (or leave us to fill in the blanks for them) and then don't deliver.

Some of these guys, like Mr. Hot and Cold, knowingly use girls to fill the void of loneliness but aren't interested in "settling" down in any way, shape or form. The problem with this is that you can't tell by looking at most of them. They all look slightly geeky and perfectly nice (which is a problem for me because I just love the geeks), like someone your parents would approve.

Other ones, like church boyfriend, look like they're going to be the biggest douches in the world, talk like the biggest douches in the world, but end up being the nicest human beings possible once they think no one's looking.

Admittedly, one false advertisement is superior to the other, but does that mean that I should be on the lookout for sheep in wolves' clothing from now on?  I mean, what happens if it's just a wolf?

In the larger scheme of things, pushup bras aren't that bad, now are they?

Well, mother, I could do a lot worse than a
push up bra!

Your Labia is Showing

Going to graduate school is a tough choice. I mean, you basically come to school, promise to renounce any semblance of a life, read until your eyes want to shrivel up and die, speak about things during class you can't speak with "normal" people because they would look at you like you're fucking nuts (and perhaps you truly are insane), and in the process meet the biggest nerds you will ever meet in your life. 

Seriously, when you think about it, graduate degrees are for people who wake up one day and think, "Oh, I miss school so damn much I'm going to go back and ostracize myself from society willingly."

Well, that and we have a crappy economy. 

Graduate school seemed to me like the perfect choice, but after a broken engagement and dissolved plans, I started to wonder what the hell was wrong with me. In this process of discovery I realized I needed to start going out more, something that I didn't even do during my undergrad years (On a side note: my parents are thrilled I'm finally having the real college experience). 

Here's the thing about going to bars where I live: Most of these girls have used too bleach on their obviously non-blonde hair and most of them seem to have forgotten their pants. Or half their dresses. Some of them, it seems have been mugged and have holes in their dresses where there really shouldn't be any. 

I want to go up to them and be like, "Oh, honey, your labia is showing."

I blame this on Lady Gaga, I really do:

Where are your pants? Were you mugged? Have you notified the authorities?

And what in the name of all that is holy is up with your hair?

I guess I'm old-fashioned that way because when I told church boyfriend* 

*Church Boyfriend (noun): guy friend who frequently accompanies me to church, talks about inappropriate things -such as sexual exploits- during mass, holds doors for old ladies, is constantly checking out every female in discernible distance, constantly sexually harasses me verbally, and insists I'm like a sister to him -I know, I'm rolling my eyes too at that one. 

about this very wave of absentmindedness that led girls to leave their pants home he said, "They know what's up" in that very The Jersey Shore kind of talk he mistakes for charm. For someone who claims to have never seen The Jersey Shore, church boyfriend does a pretty good job of displaying all the characteristics that the guys from the supposed show MTV pushes down our throats and some of us watch because we're too lazy to change the channel (and become too intrigued with the inner workings of that pouf of hair we call Snooki). 

However, church boyfriend was not as enthusiastic about this wardrobe choice when I stated my desire to start leaving my pants home in order to understand the appeal of the fad. This led to a discussion on why it was okay for other girls to forget their pants, but not me... Or his future wife for that matter (who he has yet to meet because his standards for women are ridiculously high for someone who is such a man whore and dresses like he got rejected from The Jersey Shore but is still auditioning). 

Speaking of wives, the lovely Michelle Duggar (who just recently miscarried what would have been her twentieth child) has some tips for us women to have better marriages or understand our role in marriage:

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Accepts Him As A Leader And Believes In His God-Given Responsibilities: Husbands are commanded to govern their wives; God works through a man’s decisions — good or bad; Bad decisions reveal his needs and allow the wife to appeal and demonstrate Godly character; The more a wife trusts her husband, the more careful he will be in giving her direction; Never ask others for counsel without your husband’s approval; reassure your husband that you understand and believe that he is your God-given leader.

- A Husband Needs A Wife Who Will Continue To Develop Inward And Outward Beauty: How can you become more of the wife of your husband’s dreams?; discover and conform to your husband’s real wishes; explain your hairstyle to others on the basis of your submission to your authority; separate your 'rights' from your responsibilities.

- Ask Your Husband To Define Your Responsibilities: Ask your husband to tell you when you have a resistant spirit; dispel a backbiting tongue by silence.

Source: Perezitos

Wow, just wow. I now understand that why my relationship with my ex-fiancé didn't work! I obviously didn't accept him as my God-Given Leader and didn't ask him how to do my hair! Phew, what a relief! She's just saved me thousands of dollars in therapy and has given me the tools to prepare myself for my next relationship by being submissive and trusting his judgement above all others. I'm sure that'll work out perfectly.

I just have a question, though... Until then, how will I know how to do my hair?

Mouth Raping

"What did you think about that?" hipster wanna-be asked on our hiking date.

Here's a list of the things that question was not intended for:

1. The view, however lovely it was.
2. Thursday's night's episode of The Daily Show or The Colbert Report.
3. How some graduate students/hipsters frown upon popular culture.
4. President Obama's presidential address. 
5. The current state of unemployment in the US.
6. The role celebrity gossip plays in society.
7. If female comedy is, indeed, shifting to become less of a gender cutesy thing and more of an honest thing.
8. For the love of God, any book I may have read in the past seventeen years. I mean any. 

I know what I think about any of those topics. In fact, I don't have any hesitation in answering truthfully about any of those topics (and quite a few others). 

However, since my life just needs to be awfully interesting and traumatic, this question was geared towards the kiss he had just planted with absolutely no warning on my lips. Inner voice A screamed, while inner voice B tried to soothe her with rationality, while I... Well, I just wasn't too present in my body --and not in a good way. To say that this was my kissing rock bottom would be an understatement. 

In all honesty, this was not the first time he'd planted one on me. The first kiss had happened a few nights prior to the hiking date. We'd had our "first" date at a coffee shop after I'd gotten out of a grueling day. I'd used magical thinking to somehow convince myself that kissing him was not the worst kiss of my life, it was second to last, and it was not as bad as it seemed because I was so tired. I managed to think that this was part of giving people chances. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps it'll get better with time. I thought wrong. Damn that magical thinking.

So there I was, sitting on a rock in the middle of a hiking trail, faced with the dilemma of answering a question I had no intention of answering. Ever. I mean, how do you reply to that sort of question after you used magical thinking to convince yourself to give him a chance and therefore got mouth raped in return? I mean, kudos to him for wanting a feedback on his technique, but was this an appropriate time for honest feedback? It wasn't like I could hide my answers in some anonymous suggestion box. This was reality. 

In this reality, I was hiking with him all by my lonesome (and my two inner voices, of course). The fact that I'd been joking with some of my friends as to what they should inform the authorities should I disappear and my deceased body would be mauled by mountain lions (I watch too much Bones, for sure), only being identified by my dental records did not help in my abilities to answer the aforementioned question.  

I could only scratch my head and muster an "Ummm..."

Then it dawned on me... On the way to hiking, while we were driving on the dirt road to get to the hiking grounds, I had jokingly texted one of my best friends:

How evil would it be for me to tell him that I'm emotionally unavailable?

I quickly decided that the text message joke needed to manifest itself into reality. Now, if you know anything about how lying works, you know that you need to provide evidence to back up your lie. I mean, who's going to buy an argument without evidence, right? As a composition instructor, it is my duty to abide by the same concepts I instill into my students.

The question wasn't that I needed evidence to back up my "emotionally unavailable" claim, it was what kind of evidence would convince my audience. Needless to say, time wasn't on my side. There was only so much I could stretch the "Ummm..." until it started sounding like a meditation mantra or something.

I had to think on my feet. I mean, ass. I was sitting down, after all. 

"Ummmmmmmmmmmmm..." 

I stretched it out as much as I could and then proceeded with what any good liar, or anyone who lives with a really good liar can tell you, knows. A lie has to be laced with some kind of truth to throw people off. I'm not proud of what I did, but I proceeded to verbally vomit the best half truth I could under the time constraints available, and also when you take into account the fact that I'd just been attacked by an unwanted mouth. 

"You know, I'm not ready for a relationship. I'm emotionally unavailable because I'm still in a weird place with my ex-fiancé. I think I'm still in love with him, and on top of that I have feelings for someone I really shouldn't have. I don't need any more complications, you know?"

I knew I was laying it thick, but I knew that guys didn't like girls with many complications, so I just, well, complicated the truth a little bit more than necessary.

I thought it'd worked. I thought I was free. Until he said that it was ok, he wasn't looking for a relationship.

Are you for freaking real? Wasn't he the one asking you what you were looking for in a relationship a week and a half after meeting you? Also, wasn't he the one that was asking you about your desire of having children the second he met you? He was playing it up like he was interviewing you for being his girlfriend. Not a part time one at that!, inner voice A --the same one who had been screaming bloody murder during the entire mouth raping-- demanded. 

Ok, let's stay calm. Don't make any sudden movements. This is survival. We don't want to end up in the mountain lion scenario, inner voice B replied.

I sucked it up, went about the hike trying to convince him of my complicated situation. I'm pretty sure I contradicted my story ten thousand times in doing so, but who's counting?

It's not working. It's not fucking working. Let me come out. Please. Let me. You know you want me to. I'm the asshole we all know you can become. Desperate times call for desperate measures, my friend, inner voice A pleaded.

I don't know about that. What do you think inner voice B? I asked.

Just let her out. I can't stand him any longer. I know I'm supposed to be the voice of reason, but let her out. She knows how to handle this shit, inner voice B replied.

I let her out and I became the asshole we (me, inner voice A, inner voice B and my friends) know I can surely be. 

There was no defeating his can-do attitude, as "aggravating" was as far as my asshole persona got as a qualifier after she came out to play.

Well, at least I tried. I also got us out of doing another trail. He seemed pretty insistent of that, inner voice A said consolingly as I buckled my seatbelt to make our way back.

I tried wincing and covering my ears for most of it. You were awful, in the best way possible. Now we're on our way back and that's what matters, inner voice B replied. 

Let's just pretend this never happened. How about that? I said to both my inner voices.

Deal, they said in unison as hipster wanna-be drove a bit too quickly for our liking on the dirt road.

Um, you guys, I started addressing both of my personas when it happened.

And by it, I mean the car swerved from the high speed on a dirt road, did a 145 degree turn, the front bumper of the car hit the dirt piled up for this same purpose on either side of the road, as the car teeter tottered until it almost flipped over. 

I don't know if it was that inner voice A and B were completely silent in this moment, or that we all came together as a calm unit as I steadied myself so I would't bounce around like I was the ball in the bad dates of pinball machines, but all I could hear in my head was a calm, yet tired voice intoning (in her best Daria impersonation, no less), Oh, shit. Not today. Not with him. I've got things to do.

It should come as no surprise, then, than when he asked if he could get another kiss as he dropped me off at my place, he was met with a resounding no that my inner voices A and B approved of (they're almost never on the same page), and I proceeded to slam the poor car's door --really, it wasn't the car's fault that its owner is a complete social moron-- and shielded myself in the comforts of my place, where mouth raping is a distant, if not unnecessary, memory. 

About Penis Persuasion and Magical Thinking

As many of my stories seem to start, I met a guy a few weeks ago. On paper, this hipster wanna-be seemed to be ok. We're not talking Prince Charming material here, but bearable. 

Some point after our meeting, I believed him to be of the penis persuasion. I know, I know, how dare I? Yet, when Facebook tells me that he's interested in Men, there's only so many conclusions I can come up with, you know?

I found myself feeling relaxed about the whole situation, though some times I just wanted him to STFU, because in my mind he was of the same persuasion I was -the penis one. 

That was until he asked me out. No rodeo, no bullshit. Though I found him highly annoying, I found this refreshing. So I accepted the following:

1. Facebook must be wrong about his penis persuading ways.
2. The date.
3. It couldn't hurt because how often do we give people chances? Not enough. 

That's when I got this nagging feeling there was something wrong with me. I didn't feel excited about the hiking date, even though it was something that I'd been looking forward to ever since I moved here for graduate school. 

In fact, I dreaded the experience for days on end.

It didn't matter that this guy seemed to be very into me and that he would be in contact with me every single day, not obscuring his motives. In my mind, that just made him more annoying and more repulsive.

Infinitively less repulsive to my mind was the other guy, hot-and-cold. He also didn't have the cuttings to be Prince Charming, but had somehow snuck into the place I thought no one was ever allowed again. Perhaps it was the intricacies of what we were and weren't, and the games that we both played with delayed words and prolonged absences that made it scintillating. The more the hipster wanna-be persisted, the more I wanted hot-and-cold to be the one initiating contact and being persistent. 

I started wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Here I was, single and willing to put up with the emotional toying of a man who should know better, all the while ignoring the advances of someone who was clearly interested. 

This line of thinking is a dangerous one. I should've known better because this line of thinking leads to my using my magical thinking.  Using such thinking, I convinced myself that hipster wanna-be deserved a chance, after all, even if I wanted to slap him every time he was unrealistically mellow and optimistic.

I should've stepped away from magical thinking, I should've known my mind is capable of convincing itself of things that it has no business convincing itself of.