The Cake That Can't Be Frosted

I had an interesting conversation with two gentlemen over the weekend about relationships. They were a tad older than I, so they sort of bore the brunt of Feminist politics in relationships and the confusing dictate that women put out for men to be more in touch with their feminine side while still being a man but not a chauvinist. They had to deal with being yelled at for getting a door and weren't sure if they should pay the check, ask her out or wait for her move. Don't blame the trailblazing Feminists for this. They had to push hard to knock down barriers and tip the scales back toward equality. The pendulum has to swing to the other extreme before it gets to the middle, you know? But, what confuses me is that they remained confused about women and take solace in the words of Norman Mailer. Whatever. We all need to turn the page.

As the conversation progressed, I realized what the problem seemed to be. In the dance of the relationship, no one was leading, yet neither were willing to follow. Toes were stepped on, moves were missed and, at the end, someone left with a limp (and I don't think it was her).

I am a Feminist (note the capital F). I believe in equality, but I am also aware of gender roles. In a relationship, there is a male energy and a female energy -- or a yin and a yang if you prefer. Either person in the relationship can take either role. However, once you claim it, it kind of sticks. Sure, there are ebbs and flows to this, but, for the most part, defined roles make for more successful relationships. I think it cuts down on the confusion, and relationships are confusing enough as it is.

See, I had to learn to be the girl. Really. I remember dancing with my seventh grade choir teacher (who was also a family friend) at a wedding and him saying, "You need to learn to follow. We can't both lead." I got a little huffy and said, "Well, all the boys I dance with don't know how and I've got to show them." After all, I wanted an A in gym class (we danced when it rained), and if that meant counting out loud, giving direction and taking the lead, that's what I would do. It never occurred to me to seek out a better partner.

Many years later, after a very long, "equal" relationship, I absolutely melted when I dated a man who demanded to lead. Now, he didn't always present that in the most diplomatic way. It ruffled my Feminist feathers when he took the martini shaker away from me and told me to go sit down. Granted, we were at his house and in his kitchen when I kind of took over the cocktail making. But, when he said, "You be the girl, let me be the guy," it totally pissed me off. Who was he to say that? Why couldn't I make the martini if I wanted to make the martini? But, he was right. He was leading the dance. He wanted to take care of me. I needed to learn to let him. Because that was the kind of relationship I wanted to be in, not one where we were trying to be equal in power, equal in work, equal in effort. Because in that dance, when one reached the middle, that dancer stopped no matter where the partner was on the dance floor (unless the dancer was me, then I did all the extra steps, too).

There are lots of dances in a relationship. Some of them are fast, some of them are slow. Sometimes you want to dance when your partner doesn't. Sometimes you can't dance and your partner busts the moves. Even though one leads and the other follows, the dancers are a partnership. It only works when they move in rhythm together. That's the beauty of it. Sometimes, though, you can miss a beat.

For a while, I've been tapping my toes with a great guy. We had the makings of something amazing, but our timing was always slightly off. I wanted him to lead. He wanted to make up the steps as we went along. I waited for him to rise to the occasion. He was hoping I'd let down my guard. With one grand gesture, that wall would have crumbled. Though, if the wall wasn't so high, I'm sure I would have seen a bold motion. We had all the right moves, we just couldn't agree on a song. It was slightly disappointing. Sort of like a cake that can't be frosted: It's pretty good, but isn't quite right and we both know it could/should be better. We were a case of, "You can't have your cake and ganache, too." How very bittersweet. At the end, neither of us had to say it. We just smiled and kissed each other goodbye.

I tried to explain the dance analogy to the gents before throwing in the cake. One nodded, the other simply believed Mailer had it right. No matter how you slice it, here's the deal:

Don't go to a square dance if you want to hustle. If you'd rather not lead, don't count out the beats. You want a 50-50 relationship? I suggest line dancing or perhaps a Texas Two-Step. Me? I'm looking to tango.

A Little Bit of Me

For someone with a blog, I am intensely private. For as opinionated and "expressive" as I may be, I'm incredibly shy. As clever as I may come off, I've enough Dsylexia to make me hesitate. For as liberated as I am, I am a failure at one-night stands. They all turned into relationships. I've realized that monogamy is all I am built for. Not that it's a bad thing. I'm just always perplexed by the simple things I cannot do.

With an admission like that, I shouldn't be surprised that people think they know me. After all, isn't that the point of blogging? A literary exhibitionism of self and soul? I don't know. Is it? Sure, people know parts of me from my words. But even those parts exposed are only surface. It's not that I'm hiding anything, or bending the truth one way or another. No. I suspect that I also have a form of Tourette's which renders me brutally honest. It's cost me more than a few invitations to dinner parties. That's actually for the best since I'm allergic to smalltalk.

Persona. It's a queer conundrum. Even if you don't intentionally create one, one can be constructed for you. Without your consent let alone your input. Assumption is an uncomfortable fabric to be draped in, especially in front of people who believe they understand you. Instead of bringing forth commonalities, it can make me feel that much more isolated. How can a friend stop at a blog post and think they've got me all figured out? How should I react when I am greeted with, "Oh, you're that Sandra." It's kind of creepy. And, up goes my guard.

No one gets me. Well, not all of me. There are certain people I share most everything with -- a couple of BFFs and whomever my significant other might be at the time because I am a serial monogamist of sorts (cursed with high standards and low tolerance) -- but, even they miss some things, simply because it lived in a moment, and now that moment's gone.

As unsettling as it might be for people to think they know everything from the little bits I share, it serves as a good reminder for me not to assume I know anyone, no matter how close we might be. I should be continually surprised by the people I cherish. What the hell's the fun of knowing every move or punchline?

While the core of me might not change, I will continue to evolve as a person, as a writer, an artist, a friend, as a lover, as a part-time philosopher and a total goof ball. It's that whole enigma wrapped in a riddle thing. Though, I think I'm more of a pun.

Dialing It Back

I was chatting with a co-worker the other evening on the way to our cars. She's in a new relationship and, well, they kind of did it before they defined what they were doing. You know, is he seeing other people or not? And, even if he's not, does that mean they are exclusive...at least until further notice? It's the awkward conversation that we would rather avoid so as to not spoil the mood. Especially if we get the wrong answer. It's the loophole that women have to close so we don't have to hear, "Well, we never said we were exclusive," somewhere down the road. It's part of being a grown up. After all, if we can't have these conversations, we shouldn't be doing anything more *adult*, if you know what I mean.

So, she asked me if I had any advice on how to dial it back a bit. And here it is...

[Production Note: The bugs still exist, even with the Lego-like people, so the jump cuts and whatnot were not intended. Enjoy the show. And you can always watch it here, too.]



And that's not even covering the paperwork that's involved these days to be especially adult and responsible. And guys, don't even bother complaining about the swab up the urethra. You have no idea what we gals have to go through.

Ah, love in the time of Chlamydia and other cooties. Who said romance was dead? Use a condom. xo

I Figured 8 Out!

It's been an exhausting week. The high high of the Obama win (let's be honest, Obama pwn3d McCain), and the low low of Proposition 8 passing was draining. Talk about buzzkill. I truly believed we would vote it down and make marriage available to all. We. Us. Californians. The trendsetters of the nation. Hey, didn't we bring you smoke-free bars, yoga and colonics? Enough said.

What is so bitterly ironic about all this is that we gladly passed Prop 2, which enables farm animals to turn around in cages. I'm pro-2. Don't get me wrong. But how did we give animals rights while we took them away from tax-paying humans? That's insane. And brought to you by a religion that believes in polygamy. Sweet Jeebus of late-in-the-day stains. Then again, we are the dorks who put Conan in our capitol. [Hey, Arnie, swell job with the budget. That whole "let's just open the books" strategy of governing is really paying off.]

It's taken me a while to process the whole debacle. But, I think I've figured out why people were so concerned about same-sex couples getting legally wed: A gay wedding is hard to top. Think about it. Same-sex weddings would be beyond over-the-top, but in a really elegant and efficient way. What straight couple could live up to that? Especially if all the best wedding planners, caterers, florists and designers were booked for years doing gay weddings. With that level of competition, and supply versus demand, it would certainly drive up the already high cost of a wedding. Imagine what a multi-tier wedding cake would cost under No H-8 circumstances. And, with our crappy economy, it really does come down to the bottom line.

If we know anything in California, we know not to piss off West Hollywood or San Francisco. They rally, picket, march and candlelight vigil like nobody's business. They are or-gan-ized. And they pull the numbers. Because these cities are known for fabulous, *inclusive* parties, everyone wants to crash them, easily doubling or tripling their crowds. People who love good dance music and strong drinks tend to tag along (and throw down their support). See, it's all about *community*. [That, and we know that the rallies end up at The Abbey in WeHo or Harvey's on Castro.]

I'm convinced that weddings are the reason Prop 8 passed. Straight people are insecure and afraid of being upstaged. Breeders have no style on their own. Oh, you think I'm being bigoted now? Puh-leez. Look at the difference between, say, Ellen and Portia's wedding and that of Celine Dion and Rene What's-his-name. That's what we are capable of without gay guidance. Everyone knows that. I'm not stereotyping. I'm stating fact. Reference Cher with Sonny and then Cher with Bob Mackie. Need I say more? And, while I would like to think I would avoid the meringue and a sad silhouette on my own, believe you me, if/when I get married, I'm bringing my queer nation with me to make sure I don't regret my wedding photos. And, that's what straight people are afraid of.

America, don't give up on us just yet. H-8 doesn't belong in our groovy State. So we are taking to the streets. We are taking it to court. We are taking it to Utah. We are checking out of Marriott. We are petitioning up a storm. We will break 8!

And, not that I am any sort of legal eagle, but I don't think there is any way this can hold up in court. We have a precedence of same-sex marriage. Some same-sex couples were wed in that legal window. We can't make those marriages invalid. Therefore, we how can we deny others the same rights? It seems to this laywoman that there's enough here to fight the good fight and win. And equality will prevail. Because, while we might be known as the land of fruits and nuts, we are also a bunch of rebellious trailblazers. We know how to make things happen.

And, if Arnie needs to bring in some revenue to Cali, he might want to think about helping us bring down Prop 8. We need the marriage license fees.

That Spat

In relationships, the first fight is rather a pivotal moment. For the first time, the rosy glow of infatuation does not dim the ire. Guards are let down. Shit hits the fan. Most of these "exchanges" are quickly erased from memory. Some, however, are just too good to forget. Therefore, I would like to share with you The Toothbrush Incident:



[Production Note: The Grayscale People are a little buggie. Some of the camera angles and movements were not what I "directed", but I think they add to the narrative. And, in real life, he's not Australian. The accent was just better. Isn't it always?]

[Another Note: The framing blows a little on the embed. You can watch it better here.]

That spat happened seven years ago. He is only alive today and walking without a limp because he used the manual and not use the Braun Oral-B. We still laugh about it...or needle each other with it. It's a running gag. How can it not be? He did spend that night on the sofa, which was his last night here. The next morning he returned home. Not the way either one of us wanted to end the visit. But, a line was crossed and there were consequences for that.

The second spat was even better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it. The subject matter is one of utter hilarity; the conflict itself was rather painful. We spent the night in separate sections of the city after that one. Such is the price of passionate personalities. The goal is to avoid a third. I think we can. Though, I wouldn't be surprised if betting pools were forming. If there ends up being a tiff, though, it's sure to be animated.

Cocktails & Conversations, Part 1

I have to give credit where credit is due. Deb on the Rocks created a series (which is beyond hysterical genius), on her blog that inspired me to have a little fun with it myself. (Cheers, Deb.)

Being that my friends and I have a lot of cocktail-infused conversations, I can either write about them...or bring them to a bit of staggered, animated life.

Enjoy. (Note that my "character" has the soccer-mom bob.)



Remember to vote tomorrow! It's the best excuse to be late to work, or leave early. I say do it on your way in and be late. That way it's done and you can feel good about yourself all day, and show off that hot little sticker.

Yes? Yes? No!

About two months ago, I had a conversation with a certain someone on the East Coast. He mentioned he would be coming home for Thanksgiving and inquired if I might have time to see him while he was in town. I said yes.

About three weeks ago, I had a conversation with the same certain someone and he asked me again. I politely (for me) reminded him that we had that conversation before and that I recalled answering him. Did he, by chance, remember that? He said yes; he was just checking to be sure. I suggested he might want to find a better way to check rather than ask the question like it had never been asked (or answered) before.

I stopped him last night when he started to ask again. "Jeebus," I exclaimed, my fuse lit in a way only he can ignite. "Have we not solidified these plans twice now?" He confirmed we had, he was just checking. Again. "Seriously," I said, my eyes rolling so far back a contact was momentarily stuck, "if you ask me again, the answer will be no." He asked if we could change the subject.

Now, in all fairness, I can understand (as I'm sure you do) why he's probably keeping our date in pencil. Thanksgiving is still weeks away. Things could easily go pear-shaped between now and then. Our history, after all, has been a tad turbulent. The last date we had ended with a row in the back of a cab. Kind of hard to play make-up with three-thousand miles between you. So I do get the air of caution he's taking. But, criminy. He's a clever man. I'm confident he could inquire in another manner. Or just simply take me at my word since I'm not the kind to be flip about my calendar. It's Tiffany. I don't like eraser droppings in it let alone black ink exes marking the spot of a botched plan. I know that schedules are constantly in flux and that we end up overbooking ourselves. I respect and appreciate a secondary confirmation, but not as a repeat proposal. What girl would?

It took me a good ten minutes on our call to lessen my irritation. "You know," he said, "I think it's kind of cute when you chide me." He was lucky those three-thousand miles were there as a buffer, or it would have been a long cab ride home.

An Affair to Dismember

So John Edwards was unfaithful. BFD. The man isn’t running for office anymore and his wife is terminal. I think we can hold off on the public flogging, don’t you? And what exactly is the big deal? He’s not a priest. He’s a politician. A male politician at that. The shocking thing should not be that he cheated, but that it was with a woman. An attractive woman. An attractive woman who wasn’t a prostitute. And one who was of age. For an affair, this is beyond vanilla. It’s not news, it’s snews.

This happens every day in America. People cheat. Usually, it’s the men who get caught. The women who do it seem to be a bit more clever about it. Perhaps men do it for ego and women do it for emotion. I don’t know. I don’t cheat. Though, I can’t say I’ve not been the dreaded “other woman”. Okay. I hear the gasps. Trust me, it’s nothing I’m proud of. We all make mistakes. Sometimes we aren’t aware of the error being made (only after the fact do all the details come to light). Or perhaps we go into it knowing the wrong we are doing, the risks and the cost. We might have our reasons, but there is never an excuse that makes it okay. I won’t talk about it any further than what’s already been mentioned because it is private. There’s no point in being honest about it because the whole thing is founded on dishonesty. What could possibly be said to make someone say, “Oh, I totally get it. It all makes sense. Thanks for shedding the light. I feel much better about it now.” See what I mean?

I’ve learned that it’s pointless to make assumptions about a situation without knowing the whole story. And the thing is, we don’t know the whole story. There’s no reason we should. It’s none of our business. Yes, we can assume the marriage vows they made, but we don’t know what agreement the Edwardses may or may not have had. None of our beeswax. If he were still running for office, yes, to a point it would be our business. In spite of my scarlet letter, I happen to think that a certain vow of chastity should come with the Oath of Office. Keep it in your trousers for 4-8 years, or keep your mistress locked in another wing. Whatever. Just don’t diddle the interns. That’s beneath the Commander in Chief. I also expect the person in the Oval Office not to be popping pills, doing lines, shooting up or falling down drunk. These are my standards. I expect them to be met. Decorum; it’s important. But John Edwards is not in public office. He is now a private citizen. He and his family should be allowed to deal with this in private, which is hard to do living in the public eye. Which we all do now, by the way, thanks to camera phones and YouTube.

You can judge all you want. It’s a human foible. But, let me ask you: Is your relationship perfect? I suppose we’d have to define “perfect” in order to answer that. Have you ever strayed? It’s okay if you want to plead the Fifth. Have I? No. When I am in a relationship, I am certifiably monogamous. Have I been cheated on? Yes. One boyfriend only kissed another girl. Big deal, but it still pissed me off. This was after he had an emotional affair with this really annoying broad, which was beyond irritating but doesn’t “technically” count, right? Oh, we were in our twenties. Drama happens. Big whoop. Another cheater taught me the difference between assuming that you are in a committed relationship because you have been seeing each other 5-6 days a week for four months straight and the loophole left open because you didn’t have the commitment conversation. Haven’t made that mistake since.

I’ve known the effects of cheating from an early age, having sat up with my crying mother when my dirtbag of a father didn’t come home. I was three. They divorced when I was five. He cheated on her, namely with the woman who would become my stepmonster, who was later surprised to find out he cheated on her. The most sympathetic thing I could think to say to her was, “Duh.” Well, at least he waited fifteen years before he got caught.

I don’t know what I would do if my (theoretical) husband ever cheated on me, but I’m pretty sure it would involve lead pipe and kneecaps...theoretically speaking, of course. Still, even with my temper and poor ability to forgive, I don’t know that it would spell the end of the relationship. People eff up all the time. Men especially. Egos can run amok. And spouses can emotionally vacate leaving the other alone in a couple. I have learned that relationships bring out the very best and very worst in people. And I know they take constant work from both sides in order to function at all. But, if you are in it for life, you have to take the good with the bad. For better or worse are in those vows. And I think they Edwardses have had their share of worse. They don’t need any more from us.

We can talk and point fingers and say, “Never me.” But, I’ve found that’s the surest way to bring Fate to your door. Perhaps we should just back away, leave them alone and pray, “May that never happen to me.” But, if it should, I really hope that you get to deal with it behind closed doors and not have the public dismember your affairs.

Young at Heart

The funny thing about growing older as a woman is that we will do just about anything to not age. We will inject ourselves with unnatural things, have surgeries, apply chemicals to our face so we can peel off a piece of time. At the very least, we will spend a little too much on lotions, potions, serums and creams to do battle on a daily basis, or gag down fistfuls of vitamins that might serve as a remedy. No longer being a spring chicken myself, I get it. I'm a slave to sunscreen and appreciate a good peptide as much as the next girl. But, in spite of what the magazines are writing about, the one thing that truly keeps us young is men. Well, that's more than one thing, actually (pardon the pun). But there's nothing that will take a woman back in time, and to a perpetual teenage state, like trying to figure out a man. It's uncanny.

Since I kind of wrote the book on getting over a guy, I tend to field my share of relationship questions. I don't mind. They can be some pretty fascinating conversations. Especially the "Why Do You Think He Hasn't Called?" topic. It's amazing the amount of time women will waste on that subject. The precision of the analysis that goes into it. The predictions of doom (which can easily be self-fulfilled). Granted, it's always a curious moment when the man who's always called like clockwork suddenly goes MIA, but we all know that all men do this at one time or another. As one friend says, though, knowing is the booby prize. When that call doesn't come, it will freak more than a few of us out.

I have been going back and forth with one friend for two days on the subject. And, of course, right after one such convo, he called. (I know this because she emailed me after.) But then I got another concerned message from her because he didn't call the following day. What's worse, he didn't respond to a text she sent him. And he always responds to her texts. And she's, like, going away for, like, four days, leaving early the next morning, and he knows this. So why hasn't he called?

Who cares?

I mean, I care that my friend is upset by this (and, for the record, she does realize she's being just a tad irrational), but who cares why he hasn't called? He just hasn't. That's it. If there wasn't a fight or an issue or some other "cause" for the call to be skipped, the guy is just doing a guy thing. Who cares? And, besides, they just talked the day before. For over an hour. Criminy. Even I don't always want to talk that much.

There is one little distinction I would like to make, though: If a man says he's going call and then doesn't, that's going to make a little tickmark in my brain. I'm the kind that keeps a mental note of people who do what they say they will and those who don't. I do that with everyone, though. To me, it's a gauge of character. But, if it was just assumed that he would call and then knickers get twisted because he doesn't, that's simply self-created drama, and a sure sign that someone needs to get out and see friends more, or at least take up a new hobby.

Ironically, it's not like anyone has to be sitting by the phone to feel the angst of the missing man call. Today, our cells are perpetually attached, bombarding us not only with calls but texts and emails...or not. Perhaps that's what makes the missed communication sting a little more. It's so in your face. It's not like you have that one disappointing moment when you walk in the door and find your voicemail empty. No. You know the whole time that phone didn't ring with the call you were jonesing for. Bummer. Still, who cares? I would think by now we'd be beyond that stage and could simply blow something that silly off without a second thought. Then again, it's nice to know that, in some ways, youth never leaves us. It's really only a missed phone call away.

STD and the City

Good promotion is key for any film. And “Sex and the City” did a strong job of it. Commercials at every break. Media appearances on every relevant show. Not to mention the onslaught of ads on the internet. Every day, Facebook would ask me: “Are you a Carrie? A Charlotte? Miranda? Samantha? Take the quiz and find out!” I never bothered to take it because I already know: I’m a Sandra. But whether you ended up as a Carrie, a Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha, which one do you think happened to have Herpes?

According to a city Health Department study, released on 9 June, about 26 percent of New York City adults have genital herpes, compared to about 19 percent nationwide. That’s more than one in four. So, statistically, either Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha is a carrier.

But, let us not forget the men of the City. Statistically, either Big, Harry, Steve or Smith would have it, too. And, playing the odds, it would be unlikely for a couple to share the simplex, thus, chances are two out of the four girls would have been exposed.

I couldn’t help but wonder why Smart Water was so prominently displayed in the film and not Trojan? Why Vitamin Water and Mercedes were linked to the movie in commercials instead of condom companies and related prescriptions? Even PSAs didn’t make a move on the movie, because, even with the study just out, it’s not like this is news in New York.

So, for a show that seems to have talked about everything women in the city face (don’t forget, Carrie was even mugged once), why wasn’t Herpes ever mentioned? They had story lines on Chlamydia, breast cancer, infertility, funky spunk and flaccid junk. So, how come none of women or their men ever had a sore? I suppose it wouldn’t exactly be sexy to see one of the ladies dashing into Duane Reade to pick up her Valtrex refill, or to mention over brunch that she and/or her lover were in the midst of an outbreak. Or having that conversation before engaging in sex with a new partner about transmission and precautions. Maybe it wouldn’t be sexy. But it would be real. And responsible. Have we all forgotten that Carrie was supposed to be a sex columnist? I think after season two the writers did.

While “Sex and the City” implies that a purse nabbed from Bag Borrow or Steal will help make an impression, that a pair of Manolo’s will aide in establishing status, or fabulous friends will help make everything all right, it’s never bothered to say that one of the greatest statements an empowered woman can make is, “Hey, put this on.” And I’m not talking a designer label.

Without a doubt, “Sex and the City - The Musical!”, is bound to hit Broadway. Do you think STDs will be written in? Would they include such ditties as: “Mister, Is That a Blister?” or “Ain’t No Lovin’ Without Some Glovin’”? What about, “Got That Itch, Ain’t It a Bitch”? Not that sexually transmitted diseases are funny. I get pissed when a guy gives me a cold. But pretending cooties are not part of sex in any city, town, suburb or hamlet, is a stretch beyond fiction.

A Month of Somedays

Summer is ending. And it’s not just the warm weather (or endless-seeming heat wave) and long days that are fading away; so many other things have come to an end. Good, bad, indifferent or appropriate, loose ends have been tied, questions answered and natural resolutions occurred. Spring shot it all into action, bringing my past into my present. By summer, my future had come into clearer view.

I don’t believe you can go back. Though, sometimes, you find yourself doing just that. I was brought back in touch with Masters when I went to Manhattan. He was still in the city working. Having received his graduate degree, he’s now teaching at his alma mater, warping young adult minds, writing freelance and working on his novels. Six years ago, Masters and I had an ill-fated, long distance, telephonic callationship. Suffice it to say, two, broke, struggling writers who cannot come up with the funds for consistent cross-country travel should not bother being involved. It seems romantic in theory, but the reality is harsh if neither one can afford the airfare. Phone calls and emails can only take you so far. We did the push-pull of wanting more but not being able to have it. Sweet conversations turned into terse talks because neither one of us was getting what we needed. Finally, I cut the phone cord. Even though the feelings lingered, I kept them at a twenty-eight-hundred-mile distance. After all, what was the point? He was there, I was here, and the space between wasn’t getting us any closer to something real.

We had stayed in touch off and on over the years, though not always on the best of terms. I refused to flirt and found his late night calls more annoying than charming. Do you like the phone ringing at 2:30 AM? On a weeknight? And I mean my time, not his. The guy should have a breathalyzer attached to his phone. Still, I thought it would be nice to see him while I was there. Surely enough time had gone by for us to move beyond what was and move forward to something new. Like an actual, grown-up friendship. We made tentative plans to see each other, understanding that my schedule was unpredictable and his was pretty booked. We stole some time on a Sunday night and met for wine at a Spanish bar.

I had no intention of reopening the door to our past. We would be friends, and that’s it. I even donned my most “I’m so not sleeping with you” ensemble: Plain, white, button-down oxford and jeans; hair not redone; makeup suitably subtle. The conversation was kept safe. Respectable physical distance maintained. My plan was going along famously, surviving even an Irish pub crawl, until he insisted on helping me get a cab. I asserted that I was more than capable of hailing my own taxi, but he wanted to play the gentleman. He failed at that when he pulled me into a kiss before I got into the yellow sedan.

Damn. We still had it.

I rode back to my apartment with furrowed brow. Perhaps it was nothing more than the Guinness mixed with fond memories and jetlag. Still, I had a feeling that I was being haunted by history. You have to understand, I had just taken a job that I had ten years earlier, gone to my twenty-year high school reunion two weeks before, and now had made out with a beau from half-a-decade ago. There was a hell of a lot of karma closing in. It was enough to make your head spin. Mine surely was. Like the candy floss I had for dessert the next night.

Masters wanted to see me again, and I couldn’t find a reasonable excuse not to. So we grabbed time again on Tuesday and the Friday before I left. In true “us” form, we did the push-pull thing back and forth during the week and ended up having a huge fight on Friday night. And when I say huge, I mean apocalyptic. I really let him have it. It had been a long week and a hard day. Mix physical and emotional exhaustion with some truly stupid moves on his part, and you get a rather unpleasant public display of agitation. But, if you are going to explode, there’s no better place to do it than in the back of a cab in New York City. I got into another taxi and went home.

Two weeks went by before we spoke again. Feeling terrible over my end of the fight, I offered an apology the best way I knew how…email. He accepted, offered his own set of sorries and then we talked. A lot. About why we did the push-pull, what we might be afraid of, even about going to Ireland together in the fall. After two-point-five hours on the phone, it seemed the wounds were healed, but a question mark still lingered. So, the next morning, I did the unthinkable. I invited him to come to L.A. and stay with me through the month of August. While it might seem crazy, I thought it was the saner move than just going off to Ireland for a week and potentially ruining my favorite place. We needed some sort of test-drive.

I knew Masters was going to take August off and go to the Catskills, of all places, where there was a free place for him to stay via a family friend, in order to work on his book undisturbed. With that amount of free time on his hands, I saw this as an “If Not Now, When?” situation. Someday had come, as far as I was concerned, and so I offered up my home for him to write and for us to experience reality. The reality of two writers, that is. We needed to spend quality time together, day in and out, so we could see what it was we really had, and if it could last longer than a phone call and some stolen time. And, if it could survive both of us in creative mode, as I would be working on my book, too. I told him to think about it, it was a big step. For him, it came down to finances, which I well understood, and finding a subletter. So, I left the offer on the table and waited for him to come back with his answer.

I needed an answer of my own, though. I found myself wondering why did I give this guy such a hard time? He was obnoxious and arrogant at times, absolutely, but he also had many fine qualities and characteristics. We couldn’t deny the connection we had, and enjoyed the story we could share of how we came to know each other. I wondered what we would find if we both dropped our guards and didn’t have the luxury of running away; hence, the offer to stay with me. We needed to see what we really had, decide if we wanted it, then find a way to make it work.

Being an Aries, I have to examine the big picture, look at all the potential problems and find solutions. It takes me about five minutes, if that. It’s what makes me good at what I do, and awful at letting the man in my life figure things out on his own. This time, I was determined to let Masters do just that. I was going to let him hang himself, or pull himself up, by his own rope, without any hints from me on which direction he was headed. It was bad enough that I had already done the flight research (who knew Continental was cheaper than JetBlue and offered better airports?). I wanted him to make his own choice. Rise to the occasion, which was something I had waited for him to do since the beginning. So I resisted the urge to remind or cajole. And, while I understand the money situation, I also know that if a man wants something, a man will find a way to get it/have it/make it happen. He had ample time to procure another writing gig, or even just cut back on his bar bill. If there was a want, he could find a way.

Then again, he is a guy to whom things come rather easily, and usually free of charge. The women in his life cater to him. Doors open for him, he doesn’t have to work for much. But he would have to earn me. I rooted for him quietly, waiting for him to surprise me and prove me wrong. Deep down, I knew he wouldn’t come, no matter what words he said to the contrary.

“I’ve got good news and bad news, baby,” he said. He went on to tell me that his aunt had called and the Catskills house was his for as long as he wanted it.

Um, that wasn’t news as far as I knew. The place was his from the get go. So I waited for him to finish, wondering which part of this was good, and for whom.

“Are you there?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied.

“So, do you want to come and stay with me in the Catskills?”

“Nope,” I answered.

“Have you ever been to the Catskills?”

“Yes.”

“Well, have you ever been to the Catskills with me?” His pitch was getting higher.

“Once was enough, thanks.” I couldn’t hide my irritation. Seriously, what part of a job didn’t he get? I had one, a new one, and couldn’t take time off. Even taking a long weekend to visit him, the hassle of getting myself to the remote location was not enticing, nor cost-effective. Going to Manhattan is one thing; going outside of Manhattan is…well…pointless.

He kept going on about how the house was free and so wonderful. Hey, so is mine. All he had to do was cough up the airfare. It’s not like getting to the Catskills was costless. Cheaper, yes, but can you put a value on spending time with me? Well, it seems he did.

“Baby, I don’t want you to think that I don’t want to come to L.A.,” he placated.

“Let’s just not go down that road,” I said. It was just that. Just as simple as that. I got off the phone before I gave in to the urge to school him in semantics.

One of the more aggravating things about Masters was that, for a writer, he was quite lax with his words. Still using the surfer lingo from his Ventura upbringing, which I find terribly grating, he didn’t understand why I would ask him to define my gender when he used “dude”, “man” or “bro” when talking to me. He was good at tossing words around without respecting their meaning. I’m the type of woman who believes that if you are going to bother saying something, you had better mean it, understand it, and own it. I don’t say things just because they sound pretty or are provocative or pacifying. But he did.

“Baby...” he said on a later call.

I let him know that his “baby” days were over. He was no longer allowed to call me that, nor any of the other endearing terms he offered up.

“Am I in the doghouse?” he asked. There were times I wondered if he had brain damage or was some sort of functioning idiot savant.

“More like you’ve been demoted,” I advised.

There wasn’t time to get into it. He had to go, and I had to move on. For a guy who seemed to always have something to say about what we would/could/should do someday, he was easy to let pass a month of somedays when it was offered. I didn’t hear a Plan B, or when he would come out to LA. He did ask when I would be back in the Apple. Funny, no? Still, as irritated as I was, I was relieved to have my question clearly answered. Yet, that wasn’t the last shift to hit the fan.

June and July had come and gone. By then, I saw more changes on the horizon. I treated myself to a new computer — something I do about every seven years or so — went wireless and got busy writing. I was plowing through a new version of the novel and expected to be done with it by the end of September. Everything seemed to be going swell. Until I heard I had a certified letter waiting for me. When that occurs, you’ve either won a lottery, or are getting into a lawsuit.

I didn’t win the Lotto.

A “cease and desist” letter was served. It seems my book infringed on someone’s trademark. No, I didn’t check for that. A publishing rookie move that a first-time author/publisher is bound to make. The thought of having to rename my book was devastating. Trust me, if I could’ve come up with a better title, I would have.

I spent the first weekend in August in a twist. I put together lists of titles, emailed my friends for a consensus, narrowed the title list down, and fought a losing battle with tears. It was no time for insipid phone calls. Especially not from a cell phone. Masters made an attempt to be a support for me digitally, but I’m not really going to open up on a call that might be dropped. Besides, if he wanted to be there for me, he should’ve been here, don’t you think? And so I let him know his time would be better spent packing for the Catskills. I had a tome to re-title.

For those of you who bought the original Guide, keep your collector’s item. In another week or so, you will find A SASSY LITTLE GUIDE TO GETTING OVER HIM on the shelves. Who knew one little word would cause so much trouble?

Before August was over, the new job came to an end. You just can’t go back. Things are never the same, and rarely are they better. That’s not to say they are worse. They just are what they are. It’s simply something you left behind, and it stayed there for a reason. And it shouldn’t be sad, or hurtful, or even surprising. It should be looked at as a confirmation that you have grown. You have moved on. And so have they.

“Someday we should get together for lunch or a drink or something,” another old friend suggested. I smiled back and said, “That sounds nice,” knowing that someday rarely comes around. But, if it does, take it lightly. It’s a gentle time to hold, and it usually doesn’t last for long.

Why Men Should Pick Up the Tab

Yeah, you heard me. And this is a Feminist pontificating. But, before you start with the eye-rolling and harrumphing, just give me a second to make my point.

The other day, I was at the CVS picking up a few skincare items. The young man tallying my bill was literally gobsmacked at the price of the skin cleanser I purchased ($17.89).

“It costs that much?” he inquired, ready to call for a price check or reboot of the system.

“Yes. The price of being a woman is a high one,” I responded. “And that is why we expect men to pick up the bill.”

He looked at me with the same baffled expression brought on by the Aveno sticker-shock. I encouraged him to think about it. To think about how much it really costs to be a woman, just in the most basic way. Then what it takes to look as nice, feels as soft and smell as sweet as we do...and then men want us to pay for our own salads? Please.

The young clerk nodded with a new understanding. You could almost see the abacus moving about in his head. I could see that my work there was done.

“See, I’m looking for an equal relationship,” an old flame said to me recently. Yet another reason why he and I would never work out, because I sure as hell ain’t.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in equality. But things just aren’t equal when it comes to men and women. We shall skip the whole “who’s going to carry the kid for nine months, then birth and breastfeed it” argument and get right down to the simple math:

How much does a man pay for his hair cut? And a woman? Easily double, if not triple, his price. Factor in any hair color or highlights and we’ve got a quadruple situation going here. Now, that’s just the cut and color; we still need a hairdryer, styling products (and with our hair generally being longer, we go through it quicker), the right brushes and the occasional accessories. Men need a comb and some goop and they’re done. Men have been known to use soap instead of shampoo, so that’s another penny saved on their end. And what guy do you know who conditions (that isn’t in an actual hair band)? Another bit of savings for men. Even if you consider metrosexual manscaping, women still pull the heftier wax total, unless you are competing with a Yeti. So, is it any wonder we use our credit cards like we do?

Now we can get to the additional monthly maintenance. Do men have to buy tampons, pads, shields and painkillers every twenty-eight days? No. And most of the time, the chick is buying the birth control as well. Compare the cost of a box of Trojans (which can be acquired on sale) to that of a packet of pills...not to mention the doctor visits that go along with them. Expensive.

That cute outfit she wore to dinner; three times as much as his ensemble at least. And her underthings? Well, how far could a girl go on a BVD budget? Boys, when you look through the Victoria’s Secret catalogue, do you ever notices the prices? Maybe take a look next time. Warning: You might lose your hard-on for it.

Compare and contrast dry-cleaning, alterations (free with most suits), the fact that men’s shoes are cheaper and they don’t have to carry a bag to match. Now factor in that women still don’t earn an equal dollar, either. Sucks, doesn’t it? By the time a gal is ready for that date, she has already dropped a serious dime on her appearance. And you guys should appreciate that effort, and the bill that comes with it.

The cost of being a woman is phenomenal when you stop to think about it. And, gents, don’t even start with that, “Baby, you don’t need all that stuff,” crap. Yeah, we do. Because the effect of that stuff is what lead you to us in the first place. Remember how pretty we look, how soft we feel, how sweet we smell? It all comes with a price tag.

Still want that equal relationship, fella? Then pick up the tab. That would be a start. Flowers are a nice touch, too.