Home for the Holidays

Ahhh, the holiday season is upon us once again. Time to visit the people who drive us insane: our families. I do not care who you are, if you have a pulse then you have a crazy family member or two. Perhaps you have an uncle who is a bigot, or a cousin who always has to one-up you. It’s part of life. All we can do is suck it up and do shots of tequila when no one is looking.

I’ll be the first to admit that I get a bit nervous when I bring home a new boyfriend for the first time. I have family members who simply love to tell embarrassing stories about me to anyone who will listen. I’m all for honesty in a relationship, but I don’t think my new beau needs to know that I once locked myself outside and had to go to my neighbor’s house wearing only a towel and huge slippers shaped like bear paws with my face painted up like circus clown. It was not my proudest moment, and I have no problem keeping that little nugget of info to myself.

Along with a love for nostalgia, my family also enjoys breaking into song at the oddest times. There is just no way to prepare someone for that kind of experience. My relatives are the Polish version of the Von Trapp family and they have a vast and diverse collection of songs memorized. Can you imagine your new love having to sit and watch your father sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time”? It’s an experience that takes years of therapy to get over.

The holidays can be quite the test for new relationships. Lots of careful decisions need to be made. Do you bring the person you’ve been seeing for three months home with you, or do you each go see your families solo? If you do ask your boyfriend or girlfriend to come over for thanksgiving dinner, are they going to freak out and think you are getting too serious too fast? If you don’t ask them, are they going to be hurt and sulk until New Year’s Day? What if her parents are still crazy about her last boyfriend and they spend a good part of dinner talking about how this guy volunteered with homeless children, was the youngest person ever to be promoted to a senior position at his job, and once helped save a dolphin that was trapped in a tuna net? If that’s not a good time then, well, I just don’t know what is.

A few years back I went with my then-boyfriend to his parents’ house for Thanksgiving. I was living in Boston at the time and I had to work the next day, so it was easier than trying to travel home and back in less than 24 hours. His parents lived just twenty minutes outside the city, and the idea of not having to spend a good portion of my day off sitting on the Massachusetts Turnpike was appealing. The man I was dating played the mandolin in a bluegrass band and we had met at a bar that was near my place of employment. Music Man and I had been seeing each other for about three months when the holidays rolled around. I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy at the thought of meeting his parents, but I wasn’t turned off by it either. We got along well and were dating each other exclusively. Meeting his family seemed like the logical next step for our relationship. It ended up being one of the worst decisions I have ever made.

Even though I am an outgoing person, I have always been extremely nervous about meeting any of my boyfriends’ parents for the first time. I worry that I’m going to say the wrong thing or wear an outfit that is too dressy or too casual for the situation. I know that the day is most likely going to go by without any serious social blunders on my part, but I still get a bit anxious.

Dinner was scheduled for three o’clock and my boyfriend and I arrived a bit early so that he could introduce me to everyone before we sat down to eat. Music Man’s family consisted of his mom and step-father, Ruth and Tom, his grandmother Alice, his brother and sister-in-law Steve and Claudia, and his unmarried aunt Trish. There was also an older man there who they called Cousin Bert, but I never met him because he was asleep in the den the entire day.

The first hour or so was pleasant. Everyone seemed friendly and I could tell they were trying to make me feel welcome. We all made small talk; discussing topics like sports, recent vacation destinations, and the local news. I was starting to realize that my anxiety about this family gathering was silly and unfounded. Then his aunt spoke up. With only a few sentences the entire day made a screeching U-turn and sped off to Crazy Town.

Music Man’s Aunt Trish was a professor at a local college. She taught women’s studies and had recently published a book that discussed various ways that the average woman could improve her sexual encounters. I told her that I was considering becoming a full-time writer and we talked about the pros and cons of the profession. Suddenly the conversation shifted and Aunt Trish began asking me questions about my sex life. Her first question was how sexually compatible I thought her nephew and I were. I don’t think my jaw has ever dropped so fast in my entire life. I stammered some generic answer and tried to switch to a more appropriate subject. Trish was having none of that though. She unmercifully continued her version of the Spanish Inquisition with gusto. I was asked about my favorite position in bed, if I ever considered having a threesome, and what kind of sex toys I had in my nightstand. The idea of crawling into the oven with the turkey was becoming more appealing by the second.

I was blown away by how casually Music Man’s family talked about this rather personal subject. Not wanting to be left out, my boyfriend’s mom cut in and shared her opinions. Ruth, a 56 year old mother of two, loudly stated that she loved her sex swing and kindly offered to send me the website so that her son and I could get our own. All I could think was, “Are you shitting me? Is this really happening right now?” I had never wanted to be home with my family as much as I did right then. I’d gladly take hours of singing Neil Diamond songs over listening to these people discuss their favorite Penthouse Forum letters. Fuck it, I’d stand up on the dinner table and perform an Irish step dance while belting out “Sweet Caroline” if it meant that I would never have to hear anyone my parents’ describe the various ways that handcuffs can be used in the bedroom.

Finally, Music Man’s step-dad came into the living room and announced that dinner was ready. I have never gone from one room to another as fast as I did at that moment. I wouldn’t have moved faster if I was being chased by a Somali pirate hopped up on crystal meth.

I slumped in my seat and silently prayed for death. Steve, Music Man’s brother, stood up to say grace. He started the blessing in a rather normal manner. After what I had just sat though, I didn’t think the day could get any weirder. I was wrong. After thanking the Lord for the great food and wonderful company, Steve asked everyone to bow their heads’ and pray for the souls of communists everywhere. He proclaimed that the only way to avoid the apocalypse would be for the world’s communists to let Jesus into their hearts and come back to the flock.

Apparently Steve’s wife, Claudia, became a born-again Christian shortly after the couple got married, and told Steve that if he did not convert as well that she would leave him. So Steve joined her church and devoted his life to bringing Jesus to the masses. My boyfriend had failed to mention that this thanksgiving dinner was also going to be a religious revival. I sat there stunned, praying feverishly for some sort of deity to come down and save my ass from this insanity. I guess Jesus wasn’t making house calls that day.

After we prayed for the “Pinkos” as Steve called them, we dug into dinner. My boyfriend had raved about his step-dad’s cooking abilities and I was looking forward to the break in conversation as everyone ate. The plates were passed around and I took a little bit of each dish except for the turkey. I am a vegetarian and I haven’t eaten meat in over a decade. I’ve never had a problem with other people eating meat, but I don’t particularly like when other people make rude comments about my dietary choices. Grandma Alice, who had been pretty quiet up until now, noticed that I did not have any turkey on my plate. My boyfriend quickly explained that I was a vegetarian and assured her that I was completely content eating everything else that was being served.

This explanation did not satisfy that woman. Grandma Alice, a 4’ 9” Irish immigrant, loudly exclaimed that only an idiot would refuse to eat meat. She went on to say that animals were created specifically for human use and told me I should be grateful to have been born a carnivore. My blood pressure was skyrocketing and it took every ounce of restraint I could muster not to jump over and beat this lady with a turkey drumstick. I kicked my boyfriend under the table and gave him a look that said, “I will rip your throat out if you do not do something about this right now.” He shrugged his shoulders and gave me a return look that told me I was on my own for this one.

Ruth, his mom, spoke up and asked me what I did for a living. I was a bartender before I became a writer, and at that point in time I was working at a popular Irish bar in Boston’s Faneuil Hall district. Ruth listened politely as I talked about my profession. I was hoping she felt how uncomfortable I was and that this was her attempt to save me from further scrutiny. Nope. Wrong again. Out of nowhere, Ruth launched into a long tirade about her ex-husband. She used a plethora of profanities to explain how Music Man’s father was a heavy drinker and quite the philanderer. She passionately described the “whores” that he went with behind her back, and proclaimed that the only thing he did could do well was drink Budweiser and belch out the first verse of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” I glanced at Tom and watched his face go from winter-pale to tomato red in a matter of seconds. He was clearly on the verge of tears, and I was on the verge of drinking directly out of the wine bottle in front of me at the table.

As we ate, I silently pondered the best way to exit Satan’s fun house the minute the last dish was off the table. As a thank you to Music Man’s parents for inviting me to their home, I had made a dessert for all to enjoy. I brought an apple crisp dish and I was proud of the way it had come out. Everyone took a portion and sat back to enjoy the after-dinner coffee and tasty sweets. All was going well until I noticed that Aunt Trish’s face was becoming blotchy at an alarming rate. She kept scratching her neck and arms until the entire table knew something was wrong. Music Man leaned over and told me that his aunt had some weird food allergies. A feeling of dread washed over me when he asked what types of spices I had used in the desert.

I listed the ingredients praying that there was no way someone could be allergic to a dish that was so simple. No such luck. Aunt Trish had a severe allergy to cinnamon. Once Music Man heard the word cinnamon, he jumped out of his chair and told his brother to get the car. I looked back to Trish and her face and hands had swollen to biblical proportions. My mind was spinning. If I had put crack cocaine and shards of glass into this stupid apple crisp it wouldn’t have had such dire results. COME ON! Why would a person who was allergic to cinnamon eat apple crisp. I swear she did it to fuck with me.

I sat paralyzed in my chair, thinking “I killed his fucking aunt” over and over to myself. She wasn’t having heart burn or hiccups from my desert; she was having a goddamn heart attack. I prayed that the entire day was a twisted version of Punked and that Ashton Kutcher was going to pop out of the pantry. I actually leaned down and started to bang my head on the table. I’m a pretty laid back chick, but this was too much. The family rushed around in a frenzy trying to get out the door and to the hospital. No one said a word to me; instead they glared at me with looks of disgust on their faces.

In a matter of minutes the entire clan was out the door with the dying aunt. Even my boyfriend had left the house. I grabbed the vodka that had been sitting on the sideboard and chugged directly from bottle. I needed to leave immediately, but I hadn’t driven there and all my friends had left Boston for the long weekend. There was absolutely no way I was going to sit in that house of horror until Music Man returned. I would climb mountains wearing nothing but stilettos, a hula skirt, and a bee keeper helmet if I had to; I was getting the hell out of there one way or another.

I pulled out my cell phone and called information for the number of the local cab company. Because it was a holiday there were very few drivers working, and the dispatcher informed me it would be at least 45 minutes before anyone could pick me up. I told him that I needed to leave and that I would be willing to ride in a rickshaw if I had to. I begged him to send someone over as fast as possible.

I collected my purse and coat and walked down to the corner of the street. It had been a terribly cold day and while I waited outside the temperature hovered at a balmy 14 degrees. After what seemed like an eternity, the cab finally appeared. I melted into the back street, gave the driver my address, and put my hood over my face. Thirty minutes later I was back home and out fifty-five dollars. This cab company charged double on holidays. Lovely. I was not surprised one bit. In fact, I have never been surprised by anything since that fateful Thanksgiving.

Needless to say, that was the last time I spoke to Music Man. He emailed me a few days later to tell me that his aunt did not die. He also said that we should probably go our separate ways. I couldn’t have agreed more. I would chew glass before I would spend time with anyone in that family ever again, including him.

A few weeks later I went home for Christmas. I had never been so happy to see my family wearing matching Frosty the Snowman sweaters and doing their acapella version of the Beach Boys’ “Kokimo.” My tale of the torturous day became THE topic of the house. No one believed that something like that could actually happen. My friends found the entire ordeal hilarious and even today it is brought up pretty consistently. I don’t remember fantasizing about being a cautionary tale as a child. I wanted to be a vet.

This year, as you make your way through the upcoming holidays, take the time to appreciate your family and your significant other’s family as well. You may not like that your Uncle Joe still gives you a noogie each and every time you see him, but believe me, things could always be worse. Dive in and enjoy the craziness of your loved ones and embrace the new families that you meet along the way. They may have a few odd habits or strange personality quirks, but that is what makes them special. They might be freaks, but at least they’re your freaks.

Just don’t forget to ask about food allergies.

Rules, rules, and more rules ...

I think we can safely say that modern-day manners have reached an all-time low. Once apon a time a date was an engagement where two people tried to show their best qualities to one another. Meeting new people is as unpredictable as throwing dice in a craps game. Maybe your companion for the evening loves collected bird houses or is only happy when speaking in rhyme. At least you could rely on the fact that your date was not going to punch the waiter, talk on her cell phone the entire night, or drag you along while he cuts to the front of a 50 person deep line. I never thought I would want a criminal background check before agreeing to go out with someone new, but now I'm not so sure. It could be a handy little thing to have.

While these few rules may not sweep over the country at the speed of "The Jersey Shore", they may help steer our society back to a place where manners and good grace were required, not options.

Dating Etiquette and Rules to Follow:

http://www.topdatingtips.com/dating-etiquette.htm

Don't Worry - You'll Find Someone ... The Holiday Edition

Five, four, three, two, one …. Hooray!!!! The holidays are over!! Screw counting down the last minute; I’ve been counting down since Thanksgiving. There is nothing, NOTHING, in this world that makes you more aware of being single than the last month and a half of our calendar year. No, I take that back, weddings may be the worst at pointing out the fact that you are a party of one. At least those things only last one day and there is usually an open bar to help take your mind off things. As much as I would like to go on a thirty day bender during the “loveliest time of the year”, I don’t think my employer would find it as cathartic as I would. In fact, knowing him as long as I have, I could easily guarantee that the only thing he would be putting in my stocking would be a pink slip. I guess I’d rather be bitter during the holidays than unemployed in January.

Before I begin my tirade, let me assure you all that I do indeed enjoy the Christmas season. I am by no means a Grinch who is just using my relationship status as another reason to hate the holidays. Tree decorating, baking gingerbread houses, snow angels, caroling; there is nothing too cheesy or sappy for me to take part in. I play Christmas music starting right after Thanksgiving and only stop on New Year’s Day because my friends have threatened me with physical violence if I don’t. I decorate my house, I decorate my workplace, I even put those stupid antlers on my cats. I can’t get enough of this shit. Basically, just think of me as an extremely tall elf.

As much as I do love Christmas, I have to admit the season is a little sweeter when you have someone you love by your side. It’s nice to have someone to curl up with on the couch and watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” together. It’s nice to take a walk on the night of the first snowfall holding hands and marveling at the neighbors’ Christmas lights. Snowball fights, sledding, kissing under the mistletoe; this stuff all takes two people. Well, maybe sledding doesn’t, but what sane adult really goes sledding alone? That’s just weird.

Although I am perfectly fine with being single at this point in my life, I will be the first to admit that I do get a wistful sense of longing as soon as December rolls around. I’m only human after all. There is a limit on the amount of Hallmark commercials a person can watch before you start to seriously consider letting your grandmother set you up with her hairdresser’s daughter’s son. You know … the one who studied Geology in college and now collects old radios. She has said he’s quite the dish after all.

Speaking of family … I think they might be the number one reason why I dread the jingle of sleigh bells every year. Don’t get me wrong, my family is great. They are kind, funny, warm people who love me unconditionally and support whatever I choose to do with my life. They have welcomed in all of my past boyfriends graciously and worked hard to cheer me up when the same jerks walked out of my life. Hell, they have put up with me getting tattoos, dying my hair blue, and following the Grateful Dead around for a summer. They are good (and very patient) people.

Perhaps they are a bit too supportive though. This year I chose to count how many times I was told, “don’t worry – You’ll meet someone”. Would you care to guess what the final tally was? The grand total was 327 times. Now let’s not focus on why I decided to really record the amount of times I heard this sentence. That is not the point here. The point is that every five minutes another family member was bringing up the fact that the most significant relationship I have with a man these days is with the guy who delivers my pizzas. Sometimes it was a conversation between just me and my relative. Other times it was the topic of discussion over the family meal. Awesome. Let’s get everyone’s opinions on the subject – please. I’m just dying to know your thoughts on this oh-so-not-sensitive matter. Shall we discuss my latest Pap smear while we are at it? Let’s get everything on the table.

This year I tried something new. I decided to take a shot of vodka every time I heard that dreadful sentence. I kept a “water” bottle next to me anytime I knew I was going to come into contact with my family. In retrospect I’m not sure if it was the greatest idea. I was black-out drunk at 1:30 in the afternoon on Christmas day.

My family is pretty progressive. They vote mostly democratic, they are not prudes; they can deal with the idea of an independent woman living her life as she wants. But I know deep down inside they are keeping track of my age and how many years I have left before I am technically a spinster. For the record, in their minds that number is pretty low. Like, I’m going to go past my expiration date this upcoming March, kind of low. Glad to see there is no pressure on me or anything. I can’t blame them. They come from a different time period. When they were my age if a girl wasn’t married by twenty-five she was pretty well fucked.

My family doesn’t keep their opinions strictly to the dinner table; these opinions also bleed into the kinds of gifts I have been receiving over the past few years. I hate to cook. I think I’ve made this pretty much clear in all of my columns. You would never believe this fact by the amount of cook books I’ve received lately. Good Housekeeping, Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, that guy who says “Bam!” a lot. The whole gang is hanging out in my kitchen cabinet. Quite frankly, that is where they are going to stay for the foreseeable future too.

My family’s attempt at making me more domesticated doesn’t just stop there. I’ve been given every kitchen gadget imaginable. Some of the stuff is so foreign that I don’t know if it is modern art or a functioning tool. I’ve received a sewing machine, a vacuum, and a blender. Jesus Christ! What’s next? Kitten heels, a string of pearls, and a mop? A few years back my grandmother gave me an amazing set of china. The same exact set she gave my sister for her wedding. The tag said, “just in case …”, as in “just in case you never get married you old bitch”. Thanks gram. Next year I’m going to get her Depends adult protection. You know … just in case.

As awful as being single during Christmas may seem, there are a few brightly shining benefits to it. First and foremost, I do not have to go through the whole “Oh my GOD! What do I get him!!!” dilemma. I’ve seen this rather innocent question send the most grounded people over the edge. Unless you have been with someone for a good amount of time, the Christmas present problem can be quite the nightmare. We’ve been together three months. Do I get him a CD or an X-Box 360? If I buy him clothes will he think I’m trying to change him? Should I ask his friends? Should I ask his mother? Is he going to freak out because I talked to his mother? Of course these questions are always flying through the person’s mind while at the local mall a week before Christmas, on a weekend, with major blow-out sales going on. What a lovely, calm place to make decisions.

This problem doesn’t affect only women. I watched one of my close male friend’s hair slowly fall out as he tried to figure the perfect gift for his girlfriend of four months. Every time I talked to him it was a different idea. He covered everything from a weekend away to gift cards to board games to leather gloves. He secretly called her best friends to enlist their help. He talked to every woman he crossed paths with for an entire month. I think he even called into a local radio talk show that offers love advice. In the end, he picked out a fabulous gift. My friend bought his girlfriend a beautiful silver necklace and a gift certificate to her favorite day spa for a day of luxury and pampering. What did she get him? A twenty dollar iTunes gift card. You know, the ones you can buy at the local gas station. Last I knew they were taking a “small break” for a little bit.

Even if you can manage to navigate the gift giving maze from hell you still have someone else’s family to deal with. All families are weird in their own way. It’s a fact of life. Someone is an alcoholic or a shoplifter or needs to wear a helmet when they go in public. It’s easy for us to deal with our families because we’ve lived with it our entire lives. The small idiosyncrasies that each family member exhibits have become something we don’t even notice anymore. Other people’s families on the other hand … now there is a real eye-opener. Two minutes in the door of your new significant other’s parents’ house and you have already witnessed his parents fighting, grandpa sticking his fingers in the egg nog, and his fourteen year old cousin asking you if you “smoke the chronic”. Holy Christ! Where is the vodka? Did the fourteen year old take it? It’s all you can do to restrain yourself from ransacking the medicine cabinet in search of the Valium that his mom had a “small problem” with just last year.

At the end of the day, no matter whether you have someone beside you or not, the holidays are bound to make us a little batty. It’s a universal fact. Birds will always migrate with the seasons, Dick Clark will always do his New Year’s Eve Special, and there will always be a last minute present that we forgot to pick up until quarter of six on Christmas Eve. But if we can see past the chaos, the craziness, and the annoying family members; we can see the true meaning of Christmas. It is a time to honor and celebrate the relationships we do have in our lives, not worry about the ones that are missing. It’s a time to watch the current year come to a close and take comfort in all the blessings and lessons that it brought with it. It’s a time to get excited about the new year that is dawning and to revel in the hope and excitement that beginnings seem to always bring with them. It’s the time to return all those hideous sweaters that your aunts and uncles bought for you and get something you will really use.

I hope this holiday season has brought each and every one of you joy, love, and peace. May the New Year bless you with prosperity and good fortune. And if all that fails, may you always have enough vodka left over from the night before to make Bloody Marys the next morning!

Tell Me Why

Oh boy. I’ve been rereading my columns lately and I’ve come to a conclusion: the only common thread in all of these stories is … um, me. Months of writing and all I have accomplished is making myself look like the one who just might be the source of dysfunction in my relationships. Well, thank God that was productive. I could have spent the summer sleeping, playing beer pong, and buying random shit on Ebay and I might have had better results. Since I write about dating and relationships, it’s only natural that I would take some time to analyze my previous relationships. Women tend to over-analyze things in general. Lately my brain has been whizzing like a blender, mixing up a dangerous cocktail of romantic times, heart-breaking times, and times that I’d just rather forget all together. And I thought tequila gave me a level-five hangover.


Even though everyones’ reactions to my stories has been different, the main question I am asked is why? Why am I putting my life on the internet? Why am I calling out these men who I should let slither away to their respective rocks that they surely came from? Am I vengeful and mean? I am finally taking a stand for women scorned across this planet? Do I need some heavy duty psych drugs? Do I need to find a hobby? What’s my deal?


Well first, let me assure you that I am not in it for the fame. There are no visions of reality shows dancing in this head. Even though it seems that achieving our fifteen short minutes of fame is now the only goal of every American; I refuse to participate in that horse race. I am not signing myself up to eat sub-Saharan fire ants or trying to make it on “Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire Sheep Herder”. This kind of stuff just doesn’t do it for me. Even though I put out a lot of information on the internet, I edit the things that I say. I let people view my life on my own terms. And if we can be serious for a second … Who would really want to watch me on my own reality show? The only viewers I’d attract would be people who feel that C-SPAN was just a tad too exciting to watch before bed time. I can only imagine it would sound something like this: "Tonight on 'Token Single Girl', Hadley goes to the grocery store. Paper or plastic? Will she make the right decision?" I just don’t think there is a network out there that is willing to make me their highlight for sweeps week.


I am also not out to destroy and embarrass my exes; even though I think that printing up flyers with their names and pictures and putting them on every car I go by would be great fun. I definitely think that I would facing some hefty legal bills if I proceeded with that idea. It’s a recession; I need my cash, thanks. Although I have dated guys who define the word “asshole”, they are my assholes. The feelings are long gone, but I did love each and every one of them at some point. I use alias’ and I blur the details just enough so that the only people who really know who was involved are me, my exes, and my close friends. However, everything I write is the truth, I promise. I honestly couldn’t make this shit up. Some of the stuff I’ve seen would give even the godfather of imagination, Walt Disney, a run for his money.


While I am at it, let me clarify something. I have had wonderful relationships with a handful of men over the years. Men who were probably better to me than I deserved at the time. I’m no angel. I am chronically late, I am a pro at dicking around instead of getting stuff done, and I have a habit of getting someone else to hold my stuff while I’m shopping. I don’t write about these great men as much because, quite frankly, that stuff isn’t as funny. I guess my exes were good for one thing: they provide entertainment for people who are stuck in cubicles and boring economic classes. They came up with their shenanigans all on their own. I’m just documenting it.


So WHY am I doing this? Well, it’s because I’ve been there. That place where your heart is so broken that it hurts to breathe. That place where you feel like no one can imagine what you are going through. That place where you must wear sweatpants and eat ice cream out of the container while watching “Beaches” over and over for weeks at a time. Even though I can laugh about some of this stuff now, at the time I thought I was never going to feel better again. I was positive that I was destined to be a crazy cat lady who wears cardigans with tissues tucked up the sleeves during the summer. I contemplated buying a rocking chair at Ikea and just getting it over with.


God knows how I made it through these times, but I did. Now I’m out here trying to save others. I don’t want anyone to have to go through what I have experienced. My guys may not have twin brothers, but there are a shit load of men who act the same exact way. Every single one of you has had a relationship where the only good that came from it was the Kleenex’s stock went up significantly after it ended. I’ve actually just purchased some stocks from this company a few weeks ago. Making money every time I get tangled up with a tool helps soften the blow a tiny bit. I’m guess I’m finally catching on after all these years of dating.


If my stories can help someone walk away from a relationship that is causing them nothing but hurt and time, then I feel as though my self-imposed public humiliation was actually a good idea. I’m dating dickheads so you don’t have to! No, no ... there is no need to thank me. I don’t remember wanting to be a romantic cautionary tale when I was growing up. I thought I was going to be a veterinarian. I’m not sure what I did in my past lives to put me in this position, but I am going to make an educated guess and say that I wasn’t the nicest neighbor on the block. No one was coming to my house for a cup of sugar or an egg, that’s for sure.


Regardless of why I’ve met these men; I did learn from each relationship. For example, I’ve learned that copious amounts of Fritos and Ben and Jerry’s are pretty much one of the worst decisions one can make. I’m here now to pass these lessons on to you. Take my tales to heart and you will save yourself time, sanity, and emotion-fueled drinking binges. I’m not just taking one for the team; I’m the goddamn Joe Torre of terrible dates and the opposing team is throwing a lot of strikes. I’m going to hit a grand slam one day, but until then I hope my stories can help you get on base.

Yours, Mine, and Ours

Relationships are wonderful things. Romantic,… exhilarating,… fun. All the things that Hollywood and Cosmo said it would be. It’s the break-up that sucks. I’ve never met anyone who has said,” you know, the relationship was OK, but the break-up? Now THAT was a good time.” We hate breaking-up so much that we will stay in relationships that are no longer satisfying just to avoid the ending. Break-ups require a lot of diplomacy. Who gets the friends,… who gets to hang out at which bars,… and the mandatory returning of the other person’s possessions/stuff. Yeah, the little things that have slowly started to creep into our homes;…the CDs,…the DVDs,…the random tee-shirt, that now have to be found and returned with as much dignity as one can muster. What once seemed like a sign of commitment quickly becomes a symbolic “albatross” of resentment, guilt and simmering urges for retribution!! What “might have been” swiftly evolves into “don’t let the door hit ya on the way out”!

One of the worst side effects of having a pile of someone else’s stuff is that it keeps the door open for “rebound” communication. It’s usually the jilted lover that feels an urgent need to return such important things like socks, magazines, frisbees and five dollar sun-glasses. Deep down we know that our exes don’t want this stuff. However, that doesn’t keep us from trying though, does it? It gives us a reason to call and secretly hope that hearing our voice will be enough to send them running back to our arms with renewed romantic intentions. How many times have we had to convince a friend not to call their ex at two A.M. just because a pair of socks and a magazine where still at the house?

The only exception to the rule of returned goods is men’s sweatshirts. A guy who erroneously leaves behind a sweatshirt might as well consider it gone. I’m not sure what it is about men’s sweatshirts but they beat anything found in the women’s department. They are just the right size; slightly too big but not so much that it becomes annoying. Men’s sweatshirts always seem to have the perfect amount of cologne on them. When a girl is in the first amazing weeks of a new relationship nothing, besides actually having her beau beside her, is as wonderful as the smell of his cologne when he not around. Nope, there is nothing that is going to get a girl to relinquish a nice hoodie after she has worn it. It’s actually ;in the dating rulebook I believe; we get custody fair and square.

I’ll be the first to admit that I have held on to things that should have gone straight to the recycle bin in the hope that my ex would try to contact me. My most recent foray into what basically boils down to kidnapping has to do with the Bartender. Yup, this guy, AGAIN. When we were dating he had brought his golf clubs over and parked them on my porch. I’m not exactly sure why they came to my house in the first place. I generally avoid turning my living room into a Par 3 for losers! I imagine it had something to do with his not owning a car. After he disappeared without a trace I looked at those golf clubs like they were the Holy Grail. People just don’t walk away from an expensive set of clubs. He just “had to” resurface to claim them at some point. He would have to contact me and then, THEN, I would get my answers as to why he bolted without as much as a goodbye text.

Instead of calling him, I waited patiently. Or one could say I stewed in a malevolent manner worthy of people who take great pleasure in killing baby seals. And I waited … and waited … and waited. He didn’t come forward to collect his dubious belongings, but his friends came forward with things. Lots of things that I really didn’t need or want to hear. The biggest blow to the gut was when I was told that he had been sleeping with different people the entire time we were together. Not just one person mind you, but “many”,…”several”,….”beau coup”! . He was having so much sex I’m amazed he even had time to get to work. Oh that’s right … he was having sex right in the bar that he worked at. Well, at least it was convenient if not somewhat disconcerting to think about what was growing on the bar surface.

After I was duly informed of this insensitive betrayal, I went from longing to livid to lethal. I no longer hoped that he would come crawling back to claim his silly golf clubs and my heart. The only place I wanted to see this jackass was in front of my car so I could harpoon him with my front bumper. Now, what I should have done after finding out about Houdini and his harem of women was to throw those clubs on Craigslist and reside for a weekend at a day spa with the proceeds. I also could have created a fabulous new age sculpture and presented it to the Bartender on his lawn. Believe me, these thoughts crossed my mind like chickens absconding for the other side of the road, along with various other vengeful scenarios. In the end I put the useless clubs on the back porch. Out of sight and out of mind. I may not be in the running for woman of the year, but I am sure as hell a much better person than this guy. Doing something malicious would have only brought me down to his level (as gratifying as that might have been). In fact, I think you need a passport to travel so far down, and mine is expired.

It seems that the minute we stop longing for something or someone, then they show up. This proved true with the Bartender. I had already exiled his belongings to the back of the porch that I seldom if ever use. I was doing my best to move on from such a shitty, callow relationship, and seeing his stuff everyday wasn’t going to help me. Then he texted. One of his friends was in town and they were going golfing. The Bartender wanted to come and pick up his clubs. As it turned out, karma was on my side for once. I was out of town and obviously unavailable to unlock my porch. Jeez, that really sucks, huh? I had no intention of keeping his things permanently. As a matter of fact, there is no one on the planet who wants his stuff out of my house more than me. However, the fact that he wasn’t able to hit the links with his bromantic partner brought me no sorrow. Like I said, I wouldn’t do anything to harm the belongings he left behind, but I am not going to go out of my way to help him reclaim them either. What do I look like? A hat check girl at the Ritz?? As of this moment, that was the Bartender’s only attempt at picking up his stuff. As summer bleeds into fall, I wonder if he will ever attempt to reacquire his crap. I’ll be sure to keep everyone posted.

As irritating as it is to deal with a few random things left behind, it is a mere “bump in the road” compared to the upheaval that ensues when you break up with the person you are actually living with. I have only lived with one boyfriend:…The Lump. You will get to know this one better in future columns, but for now, I’ll give you the basic highlights. We met through mutual friends, started dating, and moved in together WAYYYYYY too soon. I know, I know … It was a terrible, misguided decision. Believe me, I learned my lesson. Things were going great, or at least I thought so. Three days after booking a very expensive and rather lengthy vacation to California, the Lump walked out of my life. Yes, you heard that right, three *&%$#ing days. Some people really don’t deserve to be allowed to walk among the rest of us normal people. Isn’t there an island for people like that? Can’t we create one?

The Lump broke up with me after I came home from work. It took him all of ten minutes. Folks, that’s all of 600 seconds! He offered no concrete reasons and no sincere apologies. He did, however, leave me behind in a house filled with his stuff. Stuff that I would have to pack up myself. Thanks buddy. Hey, if I want to riff on “stuff” I’ll listen to the late, great George Carlin’s famous take on the issue! …At least that was funny. As he lumbered out the door like a greasy capon, he muttered something about coming back at a later date to collect his things. As painful as I knew it would be to have to put all of his things in boxes, there was absolutely no way that the Lump was going to come back into my home (among other things, he couldn’t grasp the concept of wiping his feet off first).

That night I threw what was obviously “his” on the porch. Clothing,…shoes, …books (mostly comics at that); anything that caught my eye. By the way, I didn’t bother with the formality of boxes either. He was only getting what he brought in. I left it up to the Lump to figure out how he was going to transport it. After I had scoured my apartment of all apparent signs that he had once resided there, I collapsed on my couch and cried like a teenage girl watching the movie “The Notebook” for the first time. I continued to cry like that for weeks.

Once I started my emotional comeback to the land of the living, I was startled by one glaring fact. His shit was everywhere! It was like those mucous trails that snails leave behind. Was this stuff multiplying while I was at work or what? I swear I didn’t see him move this much stuff in. Was this a cruel joke? A cosmic conspiracy? It seemed like the more things I put on the porch, the more stuff appeared around my house. No matter where I looked there were things that had “Lump” written all over them. In what seemed like a blink of the eye, my once calm and serene home had turned into an oversized Jack in the Box filled with material nightmares. I never knew when something was going to pop up and shock the shit out of me. This went on for quite some time. From random tee-shirts to ersatz DVDs to god-awful cologne, there was no end to the perverse treasure hunt my house had become.

Slowly, very slowly, the Lump’s things were starting to become scarcer by the day. My house was becoming a one-person residence again. Truth be told, it was nice to have my closets back and not have to do someone else’s disgusting dishes every day. The Lump was a lot of things but “clean” was not one of them. I enjoy coming home to peace and quiet rather than him and his slacker friends playing violent video games at three in the morning. My life is getting back to normal and I’m pretty damn happy about it. There are still days when I come across a random thing or two The Lump left behind. Yeah, it still hurts but I’ve found an excellent remedy for the lingering pain. I throw the shit in the trash. Except for the sweatshirts, I’m keeping them.

Do NOT do this ...

Ladies .... This is why men think we are crazy. Stay away from the computer. You cannot erase what you have already sent. Consider this a cautionary tale.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qg-heCy0CbQ

Til Text Do Us Part

Technology. Great in theory, but a pain in the ass in reality. As our society goes whizzing along into the future, more and more gadgets are being created for our convenience. We now have GPS systems so that we no longer get lost. Yeah,…right. I had a GPS unit in my rental car while on my last vacation. The thing spoke to me in Korean for the first three days. If sitting on the side of LA’s 405 highway trying to make the little devil box speak English while semi trucks are blowing past me in all 6 lanes of traffic is convenient, then our society is definitely screwed. Ipods have ousted CDs from our vernacular as well. They are handy little devices until the day they decide to freeze up and hold your music collection captive until you can find a 14 year old to fix it for you. Yeah … that’s quite convenient. Thank God I spent over three hundred dollars for this kind of ease of use. Throw in the other assortment of technological goodies that we are now offered such as laptops, self-scanning registers at stores, and my personal nemesis, programmable thermostats and it’s enough to make your hair hurt.

If I had to choose one device that I thought was rushing us to the brink of societal collapse the fastest it would have to be the ubiquitous cell phone. Yes, I admit I have one and I would be lost without it at this point. It has become a permanent fixture in my life. There is no escaping it now. This doesn’t mean I have to like it though. I’m not sure who invented the text message function but they are definitely not making my Christmas card list any time soon. Every one sends text messages these days. Everyone. My grandmother knows how to text for Chrissakes. The same woman who speaks to the ATM machine because she believes the people inside can hear her. Lord, help us all.

My disdain for texting goes far beyond the obvious reasons as to why we should be wary of becoming so reliant on certain forms of technology. It’s pretty clear that text messages are destroying our ability to use the English language faster than our decaying school systems are. This is an actual text message I recently received: …“did u c ne1 u new @ the prty”. What the fuck does that say? I’ve seen hieroglyphics that were more easily decoded. Perhaps when that fourteen year old is done fixing my ipod, he can come translate my messages for me. And please … I’m not even going to start ranting about the fact that texting has made driving the second most dangerous activity after base jumping. That swerving driver up ahead isn’t drunk; no she is just letting her friends know she is two seconds away.

I think my biggest problem with texting is the damage it seems to be doing to our relationships these days. Have we become so reliant on technology that we are now incapable of speaking to each other? If not face to face, at least over the phone? Why have poorly worded fragment sentences become our main form of communication? If there is one glaring problem with texts it would seem to be the amazing amount of miscommunication that emanates from our phones. Men and women interpret things differently. Men tend to be blunt, to the point, very direct. Women enjoy subtext, we infer meaning into the smallest of things. For example, a woman texts the man she is dating to ask about what time they are getting together that night. She writes, “R we on 4 7 still?”. His reply, “Sure, whateva”. This two word answer has now sent this reasonably sane woman into a tailspin. Does he not want to go out? Is this his way of telling me to back off? Why isn’t he excited to see me? Should I cancel our plans first so I don’t look needy? And the dreaded thought …. Is he mad at me?

While all of this is churning in this poor girl’s head, the man is sitting at his desk surfing ESPN.com and staring at the clock oblivious to the inner turmoil that is quickly engulfing his girlfriend. After a few minutes of silent panic the girls sends another text. This one says, “We can get 2gether sum othr time if u want”. Of course this woman is hoping that he will make it clear that he does indeed want to see her this evening. The reply she receives says, “k. thats cool”. It is at this point, ladies and gentlemen, that what could have been a fabulous romance is now hitting a brick wall. The minute this girl received this text message she is instantly on the phone with her best friend deciphering what every single letter means. He must not be into me, she laments. I thought things were going so well. He must be cheating on me. And then the question posed by women around the world … Why do all men suck? During this entire episode, the same man is still sitting at his desk working on his fantasy football team. Unaware that he will no longer be seeing this woman due to two text messages. Like I said, technology is really helping us out.

Another side effect of our addiction to text messages is the wall that it builds between us and the people we date. Receiving a text message is not as intimate as a phone call. It never will be. It wasn’t so long ago that we used to sit around eagerly anticipating that first phone call from that “new” person we just met. Now it seems that phone calls are reserved for emergencies and birthdays. My entire relationship with the bartender consisted of text messages. He called me only two times the entire three months we were dating. TWO TIMES. How I found this acceptable at the time beyond my powers of comprehension. If I didn’t see his name on my caller ID I wouldn’t have known it was him. I couldn’t recognize my own boyfriend’s voice on the phone!! This is a problem.

Text messaging allows us to remove ourselves from the situation. They are just words after all. It’s easier to say things to people we normally wouldn’t utter in person. I’m sure the number of daters who have been dumped via text messages is quickly outnumbering the amount of people getting tossed overboard via the phone, or god forbid, in person. It’s just plain rude and quite frankly, unacceptable. Who really wants to be told that they are loved by their significant other for the first time through a cell phone? Hey guys … why don’t you grab your balls from the pocket that you normally keep your cell phone in, man up, and tell the girl you love her right to her adorable face. You’ll be glad you did, honestly.

For some of us unlucky ones, text messages can also be the bearer of very bad news. In our effort to send off messages as quickly as possible, it is easy to make a mistake and send a text to the wrong person. If we haven’t done it personally, we sure as hell know people who have. I’ve heard countless stories of both men and women who have received texts meant for someone else. Some of these messages suggested that the other person was cheating on them and others just flat out confirmed it. That’s one way to have a perfectly good day ruined in ten seconds flat. Nothing says love more than receiving a text message saying, “ I miss u so much Jen” when your name is Tammy and your boyfriend is parked on your couch. Good times!!

The Bartender was quite guilty of the last dating infraction. This man would sit right next to me typing away on his Blackberry for inordinate amounts of time. He would tell me it was his brother or his roommate and I wouldn’t give it a second thought. Turns out he was actually texting the other girl he had been sleeping with the entire time we were dating. Ouch! Do you know the worst thing about that situation? I was recently told what he had been up to while we were together THROUGH A FUCKING TEXT MESSAGE! Gotta love the irony of that one.

As technology advances, perhaps text messaging will go the way of the eight track. Or perhaps we will realize that computers and electronic gadgets will just never be as satisfying as a “face to face” communication. Until that time I guess I will just have to get that fourteen year old to show me how to send picture messages, right after he is done programming my DVR.