The Land of Sex and Drugs

I've discovered something recently. My friend Ruth, a seemingly rational, confident, sane woman is quite the opposite when it comes to one thing: men.

Last week, Ruth had a lovely evening with a man she had had a few lovely evenings with, but this time with a different ending. This time, at the end of their evening, she invited him up for tea. Their platonic relationship became not-exactly-platonic. (And yes, "invited him up for tea" immediately became our favorite euphemism.) The evening did not include sex, but it did include a lot of other things much less innocent than drinking tea. He spent the night with her in her teeny, tiny, university-issued cot. So glad I don't live in a residence hall.

The next day, when I asked her how the evening went, she responded with "It's complicated." Thinking that there was some kind of Luigi-style over-sized baggage problems going on, I met up with her later. She told me everything that had happened. I couldn't figure out where the problem came in, so I asked. Her answer went something like this: Well, I didn't have sex with him, so he's never going to call me again. This statement made about as much sense as pouring milk before the cereal. (As in, no sense whatsoever, why would you ever do that?) There is no law stating that you have to have sex with everyone you invite up for tea. It's also not as if they had just met that evening in a pub, snogged in the bathroom, and started taking each other's clothes off in the taxi. They've actually been out a few times without the rest of the crew; if he were only interested in sex, he would have made a move by then. I asked her to remind me again where he was from. "Holland," she said. "The land of sex and drugs. He definitely won't call me."

I told her he would definitely call her.

She seemed to accept this. Then: But what are we going to do? My visa will expire, I have to go home. How is that going to work?

It was then that I realized that I was dealing with a crazy person. How does one go from "He's never going to call me because I didn't have sex with him" to "Ohmygod, we have to get married before my visa expires" in 30 seconds?

I very gently reminded her that 24 hours prior, she had never even so much as kissed this man, and that September is 6 months away. Let's focus on the second date before we start weighing the pros and cons of an international relationship versus a quick wedding to prevent deportation, shall we?

Despite my best efforts, she repeated the same concerns to Amelie the next day. Later, Amelie said to me. "That girl is CRAZY! She would marry him next week, wouldn't she?" Yes, I'm afraid she would.

I think her craziness is by no fault of her own. She is merely a product of her culture. Ruth is Arabic, and by Arabic standards, she is incredibly liberal. However, compared to the Western culture of Amelie and me, she's very conservative. This is the same girl that was shocked that I had kissed Luigi in a busy train station during rush hour. In her country, when you kiss someone, you kind of are practically engaged. Even married people don't kiss in public. And yes, Ruth has had boyfriends before, this isn't the first man she's ever "invited up for tea," but I do have a feeling that if it goes wrong, Amelie and I are going to have our work cut out for us.

In honor of International Women's Day today, I thought it would be the perfect time to get a few things off my chest. 

What the hell is going on, America? Seriously, I've only been gone for 6 months, but all of a sudden we seem to have turned back the clocks. It's as if women's lib never happened and we've gone back to being nothing more than baby-making machines. It kind of pisses me off. 

Where to start? How about with quite possibly the biggest Douche Bag on the planet, Rush Limbaugh. All poor Sandra Fluke, a 30-year-old law student wanted to do was exercise her democratic right to go before Congress and speak about the need to include contraception, including hormonal birth control and IUDs, as part of the new health care coverage. And what did she get for this? Rush Limbaugh, on national radio, calling her a "slut" and a "prostitute." For three straight days. Apparently, he didn't get enough national attention for doing it the first time, so he went back on his show the next two days and escalated his misogynistic and outrageous claims until he was so far over the line, as Joey Tribiani would say, the line was a dot to him.

 First, he showed his extreme ignorance by proclaiming that Fluke must be having so much sex she couldn't afford to buy all the birth control. Rush clearly doesn't understand how birth control works. You take one pill a day no matter how much sex you're having. You don't pop a pill every time you have sex. One a day, whether you're having sex 8 times or no times that day. He is clearly confusing birth control with Viagra, a product I have no doubt is necessary for him in order to get it up. Although I highly doubt he can even convince his 4th wife to have sex with him.

And when that didn't get him the attention he felt he needed, he went ahead and said that if the taxpayers were going to be paying for feminazis (because wanting equal rights is at the same level as a political party responsible for the mass slaughter of millions?) to have sex, they needed to get something out of it. And what would that something be? For her to post a sex tape so everyone could benefit. Rush Limbaugh, you are a disgusting, sick, pathetic excuse for a human being. 

At last count, twelve of his sponsors have backed out. Only 12?! And how did the politicians react to this? Did they condemn him? Speak out that he was wrong? Mitt Romney said only that those were not the words he would have used. Really, Mitt? You would have used other words to call her a slut and a prostitute? How many other words are there? You can't stand up to a worthless radio buffoon, but you think you can run this country? You are spineless and pathetic. President Obama on the other hand, is a very smart man, and called Fluke personally to offer his support. Note to Republicans: Women can vote now. Don't piss us off. 

Then there's the trend of government sanctioned rape sweeping across the country. The governor of Virginia, who, until this whole debacle was expected to be a favorite for a vice-presidential run, signed a law requiring any woman who wanted an abortion to undergo an ultrasound by way of vaginal probe. Despite what some people may think, getting an abortion is not something that women take lightly. I can only imagine what a traumatic decision it can be, and then to have to go through that? And what about women who require an abortion as a result of rape? The government is going to require them to go through that again? For shame. (Of course, I already wrote about the hypocrisy of the right wing.)

The good news is, women seem to be fighting back. In Oklahoma, state senator Judy Eason McIntyre held the sign you see above in order to protest Oklahoma's Personhood bill. That's right, an elected official allowed herself to be photographed (proudly, and smiling) with this sign. I love her. I want to vote for her. Her colleague, Democratic Senator Constance Johnson, attempted to attach a provision to the Personhood bill that would make it illegal for any man to ejaculate anywhere other than a woman's vagina. I also want to vote for her. 

In Ohio, state senator Nina Turner introduced a bill requiring men to undergo full rectal exams in order to get  a prescription for Viagra. Of course, as most of the men voting for these laws require Viagra in order to carry on cheating on their wives, it won't pass. Funny that Viagra is often covered with most health care plans, but birth control isn't. I guess we know who makes these laws. 

Ladies, I'm angry. And you should be too.

Fuckwittage: It's catching

Recently, I met up with Luigi. I probably shouldn't have, but I needed some closure.

I didn't get it.

Turns out, it's complicated. (Isn't it always?) It's also a long story, which I honestly don't feel like getting into right now, because when I do, I pretty much always start to cry. Let's just say I'm not the problem, but until the complications go away, I have no closure, and I just sit around wishing things were different. I even went on a date with the Pool Boy, which was a perfectly nice date, and I enjoyed myself, until it was all over, and I was thinking of Luigi instead of the Pool Boy. And then I started to notice that the Pool Boy was playing a game.

It started when he was teaching me to play pool. Before he even asked me for my number, he announced, unprovoked, that he had come out of a relationship last year, and that he was damaged goods. Aren't we all? We're not kids anymore, at this stage in our life, everyone has a few bruises. I knew this was his way of telling me before I had even thought to ask, that he wasn't interested in a relationship, so if I wanted one, I was barking up the wrong tree. Don't worry, Pool Boy, I'm not interested.

His good friend did the same thing to my friend Amelie. He and Amelie went out for drinks one evening, but before the evening started, he was sure to inform her that he was also out of a relationship last year, and he didn't want to get into anything either. Then I noticed that both of them are playing the same game. Hot and Cold. One day, they'll greet you in the student union with enthusiasm and a kiss on the cheek and tell you how great you look. The next day, they won't even acknowledge you. Amelie and I decided immediately we were not about to play this game. We're not in high school anymore, boys. Grow up.

But the "emotionally unavailable" rash is spreading. And yesterday, I had a good, long, coffee and pastry break with my friend Audrey, who is seriously hot. (And who I'm trying to convince to go out on a date with my housemate.) But take heart: Even the really pretty girls get their hearts broken. She had been going out with a guy who is also a friend of mine (we all go to school together), although there was something about them that always made me squirm a bit. He's ten years older than she is, and she's so pretty, and he's so... not. Also, I could see how much she liked him, but I also knew from being friends with him, that he wasn't exactly looking for anything at the moment either. Sure enough, on the same weekend I saw Luigi, Audrey was having a slightly similar conversation with him (although with more fuckwittage). He told her that he had lately started thinking about his ex, and now he wasn't as enthusiastic about her as he had been at the beginning. Seriously? He's not as enthusiastic about her? She told me she felt like he was making it out to be her fault that his enthusiasm had waned. It's not her fault. He's being a fuckwit.

I mean really, guys. If you are still hung up on someone from your past, that's fine. But don't start something with someone else. I really don't know what's worse: starting something and then pleading emotional unavailability, or walking around telling girls you're "damaged goods" as a get-out-of-jail-free card. In the latter case, you're covering your bases immediately. That way, we can't call you a fuckwit: you already warned us.

In the meantime, get thee into therapy and move on.

The Loch Ness Baby

Last week, I had dreams about babies. Talking babies. In fact, I dreamt of talking babies three times in one week.

The first dream involved Eloise, the girl I used to nanny. She's 7 now, and she was in my dream, but she was a 7-year-old baby who could talk. The second dream was even more bizarre. I had a baby of my own (also a girl), but she was covered in scales, and I had scales too, under my arms. I decided we would both go to the doctor so he could treat our "psoriasis." The third dream, I don't actually remember much about the talking babies, but I know they were there somewhere. What I do remember is that I got a giant bouquet of red roses from none other than Tom Brady, only Tom is apparently short for his real name, which is "Colonel." I know because that's what was written on the invoice for the roses. 

I was freaked out by these dreams, so I turned to the expert in dreams: Grayer. You may not know this, but in addition to being a professional DNA machine builder, Grayer is also an expert in dream analysis. And this time, I think she hit the nail on the head. 

According to Grayer, the talking babies are my rationalization of wanting to actually have one. The baby with scales represents the fact that I think there's something wrong with me, either for wanting to have a baby, or for not having had one by now. And as for Colonel Tom Brady? That's easy. I want a man to come in and take control, just like a quarterback, or a colonel. 

Huh. This all makes perfect sense. One half of me feels like there IS something wrong with me. Not necessarily that I don't have a baby by now, but that I'm not at all in a position to have one. The other half of me feels like I shouldn't feel this way. I'm a modern, independent woman, and I should be completely fine with that. I don't need anything to hold me down. So yes, I'm a bit conflicted. 

And yes, I DO want a man to come in and take control and be there and not play games and not disappear. Is that so wrong? 

I'm sure this was brought on by Luigi's flakiness, and my disappointment that he couldn't step up to the plate.   Batting next? We'll see.

No one wants VD: Happy SAD!

Happy Single's Awareness Day, friends!  February 14th can be hard on singletons like us, but that's only because we let it be hard on us.  You're not alone. We're here for you, just as we always have been.  

Several years ago now, we simply decided that Valentine's Day wasn't a thing.  If anything, it only reminded you that you were single. If you've spent anytime single, like we have, you realize that you really don't need reminding of that.  Hence, Single's Awareness Day was born and the revolution has really took on.  It seems like every year, people care less and less about an overhyped commercialized day in the dead of winter.  Well, at least on the sane singleton front (Smug Marrieds are a different story).

It's not that we don't believe in love, we just don't believe you need a declared "holiday" to show love. It's not that we don't believe in romance, we just don't believe romance is defined by tacky gifts of the pink and red assortment.  Don't call us skeptical, pessimistic or bitter.  Love is what you make it, when you make it.  Not when the greeting cards tell you so.  Please feel free to use that explanation on that Smug Married coworker who feels the need to specifically ask you what your Valentine's Day plans are.  Then just smile, and wish her a good night on her rip-off of a prix-fixe menu dinner, her overpriced roses that will smell like cat feces in 72 hours, and that box of chocolates that will taste like shit, but she'll eat anyways after being disappointed by yet another Valentine's Day.  Who's smug now?

Pool Shark

Like I said, I decided to pull the plug on Luigi. It's funny how once you decide to give up on one thing, something new always seems to pop up. It makes you realize just how much you don't need the fuckwit disappearing act.

I was at one of my three jobs yesterday when the Pool Boy walked into the shop. I had run into him the afternoon before, on my way home. He asked if I was working the next day. I said I was, and he said he'd stop by to say hello. And here he was, 10 minutes into my shift. Stopping in to say hi. He asked if I'd be in the student union that evening. I told him I would, because I needed to learn how to play pool. He said he could help out with that. Then I told him about my secret ambition to be a pool hustler. I don't know why I've always wanted to do this, but I have always wanted to pretend like I'm terrible at it, then play people for money and kick their ass. His response to this was, "Yeah, with that smile you could probably pull that off."

Oh, ok, I thought. This guy is flirting with me. I can do that! No, I NEED to do that. I need to let this cute man teach me how to play pool. My brain needs to know that Luigi is not the only single man in London. This is the perfect way to figure that out.

I have never learned how to play pool. My grandma had a bumper pool table in her basement, but mostly Grayer and I would just try to get the balls in the pocket by rolling them with our hands and playing with the cue chalk, but never really playing properly. Instead, we played Cinderella, the world's least imaginative board game (pick up the evil stepmother card? Move back 3 spaces. The Fairy Godmother card? Forward 2 spaces, and so on), and the original Game of Life (Wow! You can make up to $15,000 a year!- IF you're a doctor). And since I hate to be bad at things that are ever shown on ESPN, I stayed away from pool. But now I headed to the student union, prepared to be schooled in the game of billiards.

We played about 8 games of pool. It turns out I'm not that terrible, but I'm not that great either. I made some nearly impossible shots, but I also missed some really, really easy shots, and I definitely experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat simultaneously when I sunk the 8-ball but the white ball followed it into the pocket to lose the game. The Pool Boy, my teammate for that round, didn't seem to mind too much.

There was flirting and unnecessary touching. He practiced his American accent (not bad, but definitely sounds like an Englishman trying to sound American) and I practiced my English one (not bad, but definitely sounds like an American, trying to be English). At the end of the evening, he walked me to the tube station after giving me a free mug from his office. He kissed me on both cheeks (as you do in Europe) and said, "So, I'm going to be in Stockholm for the next week (which I knew about thanks to the evening's conversation), but maybe when I get back we can go grab a bagel or something?"

A bagel?! Really, a bagel? A drink, maybe, or even dessert or a coffee, but a bagel?! Also, where the hell in London can you get a good bagel? Because honestly, I would really like to know the answer to that question.

So I, Queen of Tact, said, "A bagel?! Really? What happened to sticky toffee pudding?" (I should explain here that earlier in the evening, he told me he would take me out for sticky toffee pudding, since I've never had it.)  "Or we could do that," he said, "or a drink or whatever..." So of course I said we could do that, and he asked if he could get my number and I gave it to him.

I still can't figure out the bagel thing. Has anyone ever been asked out on a bagel date? The only explanation I can come up with is that bagels are an American thing, and maybe he thought "She's American, she must love bagels!" And I do, I really do love bagels, and the bagels at the grocery store are a bit shit, but I can't help but think that this might be the first time that someone has said to a member of the opposite sex, "Hey, let's go grab a bagel together sometime."

And you know what? Maybe we never will grab a bagel sometime. The point is that this is a single, attractive man who's not Italian and not named Luigi, and at least last night seemed to like me. That is what is important here.

....Aaaaaand We're Back!

Hey! Remember us? Been awhile, eh? We're back now, though, and just in time for S.A.D. Don't worry, we're here for you.

And I, for one, am particularly angry this S.A.D. Remember Luigi? That impossibly adorable Italian? Yeah, him.

Things were going really great right up until Christmas. The week before Christmas, I left to meet Grayer and my parents on The Continent. We got back to London the day he left to go home to Italy for Christmas, but he called and left a message for me on his way to the airport. Then he texted me on Christmas day. No problem.

He was due back in London a few days after the New Year. I left him a message to see if he could help me with something. No response. Another day went by. Then another. Still no response. Oh, for crying out loud. Not another disappearance. A few more days went by. The problem was, I didn't really know if it was a disappearance or not. I know what you're thinking. Of course it was a disappearance. But the thing is, his mother is really sick, so he was going home quite often to see her, so there was the possibility that something terrible had happened, so not only was I going crazy without hearing anything, but I didn't even know how I could feel about it. I couldn't very well get angry and call him a fuckwit on his voicemail only to find out something terrible had happened to his mother. So I just waited and did the mountain of schoolwork that was due. I had sent him a message on facebook to see if everything was ok, but he's one of those people who has facebook, but doesn't really use it. *sigh*

Finally, a week after he was supposed to be back, I got a message: He was indeed still in Italy, and had been since before Christmas, but he would call when he got back. Whew! Not disappeared on! Everything was going to be ok!

He got back a few days later, then had to go out of town immediately again for work. He called from the road, and we agreed to have lunch the next day, before he had to go back to Italy again. So, the next day I went to his house for lunch, which he cooked. He seemed really happy to see me, and we picked up right where we had left off, even though we hadn't seen each other for a month. I had intended to ask him what exactly he wanted out of this, but when I was actually with him, I didn't feel the need to. Plus, I got distracted by the Afternoon Delight that followed lunch. He promised we'd do something the next week, but then he was out of town again and he was too busy, so I called him and left him a voicemail: I told him that I was confused as to what was going on, and that if he was interested in only getting together once in awhile to hook up, that I wasn't interested, and if he was interested in more than that, than he needed to do a better job of communicating with me. I thought it was a pretty good message, as far as voicemail messages go. (Have you ever been really pumped about a voicemail message you left?)

The next day, I got a message back: He really loved my message (?) and it made total sense, but that it deserved more than phone/text conversation, and to let him get through his rough weekend, then we'd go out to dinner and talk about it.

I took this as two good signs: He loved my message, and if he were only interested in fucking around, he would not want that message at all. Second, what kind of fuckwit would make a girl wait for days to take her out for dinner and dump her?

The weekend came and went. Then Monday. Then Tuesday. Then Wednesday.... Then Thursday morning, I was doing my morning facebook check, when I saw his status: (he NEVER has a status) He had lost his phone several days ago, and thus all his numbers. Seriously?! So that explains why he never called, but in this day and age, there are 8,000 ways of contacting a person, and a phone isn't necessary.

So I sent him a slightly angry facebook message. I told him I didn't know if he was a fuckwit, or just an idiot, and that if he had lost his phone, there were other ways of contacting me without using his phone, kind of like how I was contacting him right now without my phone, and that if he wasn't interested he could have just told me that last week when I gave him a golden opportunity to do so. Then I felt bad about being mean.

Surprisingly, he responded to this. He said while I was a bit harsh, he knew that "from the outside" his behavior would be taken as inconsiderate, and that he really wanted to speak face to face, so I should send him my number so he could call to arrange that.

From the outside? Ok, so like an idiot, I sent him my number. He still didn't call. But he has sent several facebook messages apologizing for his absence and explaining how he is in and out of town, but really mostly out of town. It doesn't make any sense that he can't just call and explain things to me on the "outside." I can't really believe I've let him string me along this long. And why can't he at least give some indication about what it is he wants to talk about face to face? I don't need this. If I were interested in someone so good at disappearing acts, I'd date a magician. And I don't want to date a magician. I don't even really like magic shows that much. I think they're kind of weird and I hate the lovely assistant. It's sexist.

No. I'm not responding to Luigi's latest facebook message, telling me that he appreciates me in someway bearing with him. I'm not bearing with him. Instead, I'm going to let the cute boy teach me how to play pool. He's been offering....