Babes in Toyland

Back in November it felt like I was invited to one of those at-home jewelry parties every two weeks. I think I was invited to four or five in total, including an at-home clothing party.

I sipped my wine. "To get back at y'all for this, I should have an adult toy party," I quipped.

"I would go to that," Katie quickly said.

"I would go only if you threw it," laughed Harvey.

The timing never felt right, however. I put it off for a few months. Then my lady contacted me and told me she was having a special for Valentine's Day. Everything just fell into place.

Everybody RSVP'd: Harvey, Katie, Jenna and a few other girls from our group. I was shocked. There were married girls and single girls and girls with boyfriends. There were girls who had never even used lube and girls who owned collections.

I followed our normal party rules: half the food, twice the booze. It was the booze that united us and helped everyone to relax.

My lady turned my coffee table into a fake-penis emporium. The front of the table was decorated in tubes of perfume and body butter. The middle of the table had your typical bullets, and the back had the big boys. She even suction cupped a fake penis to my TV.

To my surprise, everyone was pretty interested throughout the presentation. We laughed and asked lots and lots of questions. It turned out my asexual group was not so asexual. We went through four bottles of wine as we licked and sniffed and touched.

The angle of the company isn't kinky pleasure; it's female knowledge and empowerment. I was surprised we actually bonded with each other over the experience. The party included only close girlfriends and not acquaintances, so everyone felt comfortable and open. We were able to laugh at the things that stretched our comfort zones.

The lady went back into my bedroom to wait for girls to order in private. We sat around with our catalogs and our pens.

"Does anyone want to split the triple pack?" someone asked.

"I do!" said Jenna and Harvey in unison.

"What do y'all think about this?" I said as I pointed to a page.

"Ooh, I forgot about that," replied Jenna.

"Can I borrow someone's phone?" a girl asked. "I need to ask my husband if we can buy the bondage kit."

We dropped our pens and our mouths. This girl, this is the nice, quiet, good girl. It's always the quiet ones.

Each girl went back into my bedroom to order. I was shocked at the size of the bag each girl left with. We started a contest of weighing each bag to see whose was heaviest, but then every girl dumped her bag in front of her. Seeing the piles spread in front of each girl reminded me of Halloween when my brother and I would dump our bags of candy in front of us and proudly display our spoils.

Because I hosted the party, I ordered last. Just like the jewelry and clothing parties, I received credit for each of my girls' purchases. And because I was the last to go, all the girls brought their wine glasses and goody bags and piled on my bed with me while I ordered.

I had almost $100 in free credit and I managed to spend almost another $100. I looked at the other items I had starred. I sighed. "I guess I'll have to order those next time. Someone else will have to throw a party."

"Mine's in March," Harvey winked.

Bust a gut

"You is kind. 

You is smart. 

You is important."

--Kathryn Stockett, The Help

Somewhere between 29 and 30, I grew pretty. I don't think my appearance changed at all, although I did drop some a few pounds last year through running. I had already stopped coloring my hair blond. I had the same simple haircut (No, stylist, I know you think layers are cute, but I don't like them). I was still me. The only thing that changed was my acceptance of me.

I stopped hating my appearance. I still don't have a love affair with the mirror, but I've accepted it. I'm comfortable enough in my body to play up the good parts and downplay the bad parts. Somewhere between 29 and 30, I found my style.

In the winter of my 30th year, I opened my closet door and frowned. Nothing in my wardrobe reflected my style. I opened drawers full of Old Navy fleeces and Abercrombie & Fitch sweaters dating back to high school—clothes I wouldn't even wear around the apartment if I were alone. They weren't me anymore. I was a girl with a closest full of clothes and nothing to wear.

I unstuffed my closet, spilling old sweaters into bags to donate. Then I hopped online and spent money I didn't have to update my wardrobe. I didn't do a piece at a time; I did it all at once until boxes on top of boxes appeared on my doorstep. I ordered by instinct: rapidly scrolling through photos and adding to cart anytime I saw something that stirred me.

It's gotten easier to listen to my gut. I know. Deep down, I know. I know ahead of time whether a decision was a smart one. To get to this point has been nothing short of an accomplishment. After S, that was the part of me left destroyed. It took a year of working with a therapist to learn to trust my gut again. It's taken many more to learn exactly what that feeling is and how to respond to it.

The result was amazing. I was thrilled with every item that arrived. Leather boots that strangers stop to compliment me on. Dresses that girls in bars fingered and asked in hushed tones where I got them. One acquaintance at a party even asked if she could go shopping with me because she admired me so much.

Listening to your gut doesn’t have to manifest in significant ways. It’s not always about life and death. It really could be as simple as which dress looks more flattering. It’s about doing what’s best for you. All it takes is a little trust. In yourself.

Kid Gloves

"Am I going to see you this weekend?" I asked. I was lying in Abraham's bed in the early morning hours. We were awoken by the morning commuting sounds: a garbage truck picking up its load, a Mustang's high horse-powered engine idling while the condensation was being chipped off the windshield. It was unusually cold, and I tugged his comforter over my shoulder.

Abraham inhaled through his teeth. "It's not a good weekend," he began. He has a friend staying with him from out of town, and it's her birthday, and he promised to be DD all weekend.

"What about Sunday?"

"Noooo. Sunday is NFL semi-finals."

I slowly exhaled. I pursed my lips together and expelled the air like a broken whistle. Serenity now. The breathing exercise helped, but it didn't alleviate my stress.

"We didn't see each other last weekend," I said.

"You're right," he acknowledged.

This is an exercise in being easygoing. It's not a big deal. I know it's not a big deal, but it feels like a big deal. Abraham, one of his many strengths is that he always makes time for me. Sometimes it's three times a week, and sometimes it's one time a week, but he always makes time.

I wish stuff like this didn't creep up and bother me, but it does. I wish I was the perfect girlfriend, the kind that guys sit in bars and brag about to their friends. I’m worried that if I’m not Super Awesome All The Time, he’ll want to upgrade for someone who is.

I felt my throat tighten and tears prick the corner of my eyes. I was driving myself crazy just thinking about it. My choices were either to speak up and say something or probably cry on my drive home to get ready for work.

I haven't broken this barrier yet. I haven't acknowledged that something bothers me in a I-need-to-talk-about-my-feelings way. I felt like if I did, if I acknowledged there was a problem, then the floodgates would open, and then we'll be constantly fighting and bickering over nothing. I still wanted the façade, even if I knew that's all it was. I wanted to be good to him.

Abraham made a sexy morning move toward me.

"I'm feeling anxious," I said weakly. It wasn’t even a choice; the words just escaped my mouth. I felt myself become a puddle in his worn sheets.

He stopped. Instead he wrapped his arms around me. I pressed my face into his chest. Poor Abraham must be so confused.

"Is it the sound of the garbage trucks?" he asked after a moment.

"No. It's this weekend." I pulled away and looked at him. "Do you not want to see me, or do you just not care?"

"It's not either one of those things," he said slowly. He met my eyes. I believed him, but he misunderstood me.

"Let me explain: do you not care because you know you'll just see me another time?"

"Oh, yeah. That's basically it."

"I figured that's what it was. That's the guy's way of thinking." I rolled and laid on my back with my arm draped behind my head.  "I wish I could think like that, but I don’t. I wish I could just high five you and say, 'No problem, bro. See you another time.'"

"You can," he offered.

"It's my New Year's Resolution."

"To high five more?"

"No, to chill out."

"I think that's a fine New Year's Resolution for you."

"I'm trying, but it's exhausting. In order to be easygoing, I have to first fight my natural instinct to fight you for my way. I know this weekend isn't a big deal, but I find myself getting worked up about it," I said as I curled up into his chest again. "At least I know I'm being nonsensical."

"Yeah." He patted my back. "I'll do my best this weekend, okay?"

"Okay."

I immediately felt better. Just acknowledging my feelings helped me to exorcise them. And maybe it helped to receive confirmation that he is so comfortable in our relationship that he didn't feel the need to treat it with kid gloves. Kind of like how I was.

Fired Up

It was 6 a.m. I shot up in bed screaming. The fire alarm was going off. I don't know about other buildings—this is the only building I've lived in with this set up—but every bedroom is equipped with a fire horn. When the fire alarm is set off for the entire building, the horns blow in the bedrooms. It's loud and piercing and painful.

"Ahhh!" I screamed. The building shuddered as the fire-resistant doors held open by magnets collectively slammed shut.

"What's going on?" asked Abraham.

I knocked over a glass of water while fumbling for a saucer my nightstand. "Fire alarm."

I found what I was looking for. I climbed on top of Abraham and inserted my earplugs into Abraham's ears. "Don't you think we should get up and go outside? Is this safe?" he shouted, very concerned.

I laid on his chest and covered my head with a pillow. "It happens." I had to shout over the earplugs and pillows and screeching fire horn.

"Do you seriously keep earplugs on your nightstand to block out the fire alarm?"

"Yes!"

"Are you sure we shouldn't get up?" he shouted.

"The fire department isn't far."

“How does this happen?”

“Someone probably pulled the alarm, thinking it was funny. I’ve set off the fire alarm in my apartment cooking, and it doesn’t set off the whole building like that.”

“I have to go to the bathroom!” he shouted.

“Your funeral! You have to pass by the horn to get there!”

I groaned and rolled over in bed. I pressed one ear against the mattress and plugged my finger in the other ear. I felt Abraham return to bed. Then I felt him hover over me as he removed one of his earplugs and stuffed it in my ear. I selflessly gave Abraham my earplugs so he wouldn't be in pain, and he selflessly gave it back to me.

I smiled, despite it being 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning and I was so tired that my eyes burned. Despite the fire horn blaring and the approaching siren of the firetruck. I was reminded of "The Gift of the Magi," not for the use of irony, but for the sacrificial gifts. Sacrificing your own comfort for someone else's.

I'm not used to this. I don't know if Abraham is simply decent like the majority of the population, or if he is especially thoughtful. Compared to my past experiences, he's different. In my world he's the most thoughtful man I know.

Just having one earplug inserted helped. We heard one firetruck approach, then two, then three. Three wailing sirens, the fire horn and the fire alarm in the building hallway: it’s enough to drive someone insane. Then it was silent.

Abraham shifted in bed and spooned me. “There’s something I feel the need to tell you, though,” I admitted.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“When the alarm goes off, it usually happens in twos.”

On cue, the fire horn resumed blaring.

As far as I could throw him

It was the early September. I had just gotten off the boat from Mexico. Abraham was still only sending me witty text messages and not meeting up with me in person. Schmoozer called.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Cleaning my apartment."

"Can I come over?"

I sighed. I didn't want to entertain. "I'm cleaning my apartment, and then I'm meeting up with friends to watch football."

"I'm in the city. I want to come over."

"You would literally be sitting on my couch while I clean my apartment," I tried.

"That's okay!"

"Fine," I huffed.

"Okay, so Guy and I will be there in a few minutes," he said quickly.

"Wait a minute!" I cut him off. "You didn't say anything about Guy."

"Well, we're out drinking together."

Guy was one of Schmoozer's co-workers that I met when Schmoozer's BF and I tried to pick him up from Guy Night. Guy was the reason I left abruptly. He kept asking me if I had a drug connection and what kind of drugs I could get him. He first asked me for weed. When I said I didn't do drugs, he responded, "Well what about Oxycontin then?" Who makes the leap from weed to oxy? They are nowhere near the same class of drugs. It unsettled me further.

"No way," I said. "I don't like Guy. He makes me uncomfortable, and I don't want him in my home."

"He'll be good. I'll talk to him."

"No," I said. Since S, I have very strong feelings of feeling safe in my home. Guy does not make me feel safe. He makes me feel the opposite.

It was the first time I had ever stuck up for myself in that capacity. Putting my emotional needs in front of my need to be accommodating.

I said no. Schmoozer pushed. Schmoozer told me I was making too much of a deal of not liking his friend. He told me to lighten up. He pushed and pushed my boundaries until I relented. Until I doubted myself. How bad could this guy really be? Maybe I was being sensitive.

I called Schmoozer's BF and told him what happened. He said that Guy is "a royal dickhead," but he's not a harmful person. He said if anything happened to call him and he would come over.

Schmoozer and Guy appeared at my front door. By the look on Guy's face, I could tell that Schmoozer told him I didn't like him, which really made me feel worse.

I tried to regale the boys with stories from my cruise, but they were too drunk to follow along. Schmoozer, with his position at work becoming an uncertainty, had been drinking a lot lately. And when I say someone is drinking a lot, it means he was drinking to the point of passing out in bars multiple times a week. Schmoozer's BF and I had been having concerned conversations about Schmoozer's drinking.

The time had come for me to leave to go meet up with my friends to watch the football game. I changed into my football jersey and a skirt. The boys said they would come with me. We stepped into my parking garage. I immediately began walking toward my car.

"No, let's take my car," said Guy.

"I live in the city. How am I going to get home if I go in your car?" I asked.

"I'll make sure you get home," Guy said.

"I think we should take my car. I'm driving," I reiterated.

"No, I really want to take my car."

Once again, I was uneasy. Guy was drunk, and he'd only get drunker as the afternoon turned into night. If I took them in my car, they could return to my building and get their car at the end of the night. But once again I was pushed and I relented.

Halfway to the bar Guy wanted to stop and buy cigarettes. I would miss kickoff, but I stopped. As he ran into the store, I picked up my phone and saw a message from Lawyered. The original bar we were going to was so full that it couldn't seat us for an hour and a half. He changed the location to a smaller bar.

Guy returned to the car. "Change of plans," I said. "We're going to another bar now."

"No," said Guy. "I want to go to the original bar."

I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot and started driving down the road. "Okay, just let me get to where I am going and you can take the car to the original bar."

"No. Either you drive to the original bar or I want my keys back now."

"Just let me get to where my friends are, and you can do whatever you want," I pleaded.

"No," Guy spoke sternly. "I want my keys now."

And this is the thing: I was driving Guy's car at his request. Legally, I couldn't take him anywhere in his car against his will. It's called kidnapping, although it would have been highly unprosecutable. But Guy was drunk and belligerent. He wanted possession of his car, and I didn't know what he was capable of.

I pulled over to the side of the road and left the keys in the ignition. I wasn't going to get back in the car with him though. He was too drunk to drive. Hell, he was drinking while driving.

Guy left me on the side of the road.

I called Lawyered and told him my location. He dispatched his friend to come and get me. I began walking back to the grocery store.

I began to cry. I didn't want this. I didn't want any of it. I didn't want Schmoozer to come to my place, and I let him after he pushed. And then he sprung Guy on me, which he did manipulatively because he knew I didn't like Guy, and I relented again when I was pushed. I wanted to drive my own car to ensure my safety, and I relented when I was pushed. I did my best to be accommodating, and I was left on the side of the road.

Guy's car reappeared. Schmoozer got out of the car. "Don't be mad, Sarah," he slurred. I was fuming. He grabbed my arms. "I like you, Sarah," he paused. "Not like that, but I like you as a person. I came back for you. You can't be mad." Schmoozer was falling over himself.

"Congratulations on not being the worst person in the world," I spat at him.

He kept grabbing at my arms, and I kept shrugging him off and walking to the grocery store. I was so angry that I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want to look at him in his stupid, drunk face. For the first time I wanted the safety of my kickball friends. Through tears I sorted through my phone to see when my friend would arrive. Schmoozer grabbed a hold of me and told me I was "ruining [his] night with [my] emotions."

I was livid. I went out of my way all day for him and he had the gall to say that to me.

Lawyered's BF pulled up, and I got into the car. Schmoozer climbed in the back seat. "I was going to pull up to you on the side of the road and ask how much, but I didn't know you were this upset," Lawyered's BF said when he saw my tear-stained face. We drove to the bar in silence.

Schmoozer got in trouble for trying to bring a beer into the bar. Then he sat down at the table and tried to tease Lawyered's fiancée. She shot him down hard. Lawyered warned Schmoozer to cool it. Schmoozer then fell asleep at the table.

I was embarrassed that Schmoozer followed me to the bar. I wished he would have stayed with Guy. I was ashamed that people had to leave the bar and come get me on the side of the road. I was ashamed that I had a puffy face from crying at a bar during football season. Per the norm, Lawyered and his friend teased me. They referred to me as "Drama."

We lost the football game.

Lawyered's BF drove me home. "I'm not full of drama," I said quietly.

***

The next day my mother called and asked how my night was. I burst into tears and told her everything.

"I'm so ashamed of myself," I bawled. "I didn't learn anything from S. I knew I wasn't comfortable having this guy in my home, and I went along with it. Look what happened! It was the first test and I failed!" I sobbed into the phone.

I cried hard. I thought I was fixed. I got out of the relationship and did a year of therapy and moved on. I was supposed to be all better, not repeating the same mistakes. I had broken my own heart by allowing that to happen to me.

My mother tried to calm me down. "The only thing you did wrong was letting them talk you into not taking your car," she said.

She said I shouldn't be so hard on myself. She said me knowing this guy was not a safe person was proof that I had grown and learned from S. She said I had grown in that I knew for certainty that this wouldn't happen again.

***

I put serious distance between myself and Schmoozer after that night. Schmoozer has always been a dominant personality, but this was too much. I told him that his friend made me uncomfortable, and he pushed me until he got his way. That is not the behavior of a safe person. And maybe it was an off night for Schmoozer, justifiable by being blackout drunk, but I've already lived through that story with S.

Schmoozer was supposed to be my friend. I trusted him, and he took advantage of that. Between this incident and me finding out that he lied and purposefully told me his friends weren't attracted to me, the trust was now broken.

He continued to hang out with Guy and drink until he was passing out in bars. I spent more and more time with Schmoozer's BF instead. And then Abraham properly appeared.

That's why I don't write about Schmoozer much anymore.

Male Delivery: Dr. Kodiak A'd Your Q's

When you sit in a chair, where do your balls go?

Depends on the guy. A friend of mine with a 3-year old swears up and down that letting his balls sit "under" his legs has saved him from the kid stepping on them many times. He has skinny legs. I have giant legs. There is literally no room for anything directly between (or under) my legs when I sit comfortably (when sexing, I make room *winky face*). So when I sit, my balls sit kind of on-top of my legs. If I was sitting casually, and you walked up and punched me where you thought my balls would be, you'd hit me exactly in them. So please don't.


I've got a lot of guy friends. And that's great. Except I think that in being the girl that guys are friends with, I've somehow lost the ability to be the girl guys are interested in. What does a girl do to be the girlfriend instead of the girl friend?

...I assume you to mean that your normal group of friends to hang out with is like, 5 guys and you. And what you have is a slippery slope. If you started dating one of the guys in the group, it could go well, and everyone could be happy for you! Or, (More likely) it could cause the "why him and not me?" path to the destruction of the group via guy-fight. If you're serious about dating one of them, you have to be absolutely ok with losing the rest of them. If you're ok with that, you need to do something to remind the guy of your affection that despite being a cool like a boy, you're even cooler in some boycuts! (bad analogy). Start doing things to let him know you're interested--initiate physical contact, start doing things with him that you don't do with the others. But like I said, if the group is tight, you risk breaking it up.


I have been with the same man for 8 years. When we first started dating, we would hang out with his best friend. I would engage in conversation with his friend, and always would include my boyfriend. He would get furious that I talked to his friend. For Christ sakes, we are all sitting at the same table in a bar. No, he does not beat me, or is abusive. Just extremely jealous. So, today, I went to Applebees (yes, I have high brow tastes, mostly, I like their skinny bee drinks) ordered lunch, and as I was sipping my drink, and reading a book on my kindle his best friend walked up to my table to say hi to me and to introduce his girlfriend. They invited us to come to a party tonight at their home. I asked the friend where they lived. He looked at me and asked “Are you serious”. I said yes I was, and had no idea. He told me where he and his girlfriend lives, and it is less than a mile from us. I said, “Well, tell my boyfriend, and we will come” He said, “I already did”.

So, I called the boyfriend on my cell as I was doing some grocery shopping. I told him that I ran into his best friend and his new girlfriend. He said something like “Oh, really?” and got all shitty on me.

Before today, I had not seen his friend in three years. And by saying seeing, just running into around town.

I am not attracted to his best friend, never have been. I am no sex goddess, so I do not understand why he is so jealous over his best friend. My theory is that this friend may have encroached on his territory before, so he does not trust him. Or, maybe he does not trust me….But I have never cheated or given him a reason to doubt me.

...I beg to differ with the big about "No he does not beat me, or is abusive". Extreme jealousy can be abusive, when it leads to isolation and him controlling who you are friends with. Having said that, there might be something to justify this behaviour. Maybe he dated a Sheila who cheated on him with said friend. Maybe he really doesn't like the guy and is trying to slowly cut him out of his life. Or maybe your boyfriend of 8 years is the worst kind of asshole. The fact that you haven't just asked him about it, straight out tells me he's probably just an asshole, and you're scared of the response you'll get. If you were one of my friends ('were' in the past tense, because I doubt this guy would let you be friends with guys he doesn't know, either), I'd have long ago told you to dump the prick. Harsh?


How do you know if a man likes you or is just being polite? There are three men I currently know who are giving me what I think are "vibes" but I honestly have no way of knowing if they're being nice, or they like me; a fourth one, I met at a party for my brother. He made a point of sitting next to me at the party, and when we were all leaving, he was standing behind me faintly stroking the back of my arm. Why would he do that? Does he like me?

...while guys can be accused of sending fake signals (or being jerks and sending legit ones they don't mean), I don't know any guy who would feintly stroke the arm of a girl they weren't interested in. As for WHAT he's interested, I cannot tell you. You'll have to chase that beagle on your own. Therein lies the fun of dating!

How do I let someone know I like them back without being weird about it?

...just be upfront! Ask them if they'd like to go for a drink/coffee some time, while out there, steer the conversation in that direction. Some will say there's less magic that way, but look at it like "there will be less wondering/drama/bullshit" and it seems like a better idea.


What are characteristic that led one to become a one night stand versus forever///Is a girls reputation a determine factor when moving forward even if she fabulous otherwise.....Do men not commit because they ultimately feel the grass is greener on the other side...like why pick meatloaf when filet migon make walk around the corner??

..I'm a big fan of Meatloaf, both the dish and the Rock God. So don't think Meatloaf is a something to be slandered! Reputations last a long time, but they're only really awful when they're accurate. When they're old and no longer accurate, they tend to shrink away. The key is confidence: if you're a confident woman who respects herself and knows her worth, others will reciprocate. While a guy might go out with a girl who has an 'easy' reputation, there are things you can do to prevent a 'hit it and quit it' situation: for one, if you suspect he's just out with you for easy sex, don't have sex on the first date. Or the second date. Make him earn it. We really don't mind. I, for one, would rather earn it.

While there are guys who are always looking for the next hot thing to come along, they're ultimately the losers who end up waiting for the party that never happens. Cut your losses, move on.


*Dr. Kodiak is not a real doctor, but he will play doctor with you. Send your anonymous questions to desperatesarah@gmail.com.

The Big Chill

A Gchat conversation with Dr. Kodiak, my ask-anything male confidant:

me: I would love for someone to describe me that way. "She's pretty easygoing and just goes with it"
Dr. Kodiak: That's a pretty typical description of me...substituting "he" for "she"
me: Hahaha
Do you think its a he/she thing?
Dr. Kodiak: I think guys are more naturally suited to the position, we're constantly compromising but a fair number of girls are good at it
they're frequently married though
as that's a very wife-able trait
me: HAHAHA
I am historically not easygoing. We just solved the riddle
Dr. Kodiak: develop the trait, develop a husband?
me: Sounds easy to me

I imagine the easygoing girl would be dressed in boyfriend jeans, some funny hipster t-shirt and Chucks. She'd have her hair tied back in a messy knot, but it would be a pretty messy, not messy where you can tell what side of her head she slept on. She wears Cover Girl and it looks good!

I don't own boyfriend jeans. That doesn't mean I'm high maintenance; it's just I can be a little type A. I can be a little high strung and have problems with relaxing. Yoga helps. So does beer. So does sex.

I wish I was the girl that I described above. She sounds confident. There seems to be a correlation between easygoing and confidence. The easygoing girl doesn't care that plans change because she's confident she'll see the guy another time. She has trust in her heart.

I've spent some time mulling over what it means to be easygoing. It doesn't mean to ignore things you know you should ignore and suppress them and let them fester. It means truly letting go. That's why the easygoing girl doesn't have wrinkles. (Did I mention this? She has flawless, stress-free skin. That's why she wears the cheap Cover Girl stuff.)

Eleven years ago I was in my very first relationship with my very first boyfriend. He said something to me during an argument that I never forgot, "Just because you can get mad at me," he said, "Doesn't mean you have to get mad at me."

I never understood what this meant. A slight is a slight is a slight. As Dr. Phil says, perception is reality, and my perception was that my feelings were hurt. Therefore he had to deal with the consequences. To this day, I could still write pages upon pages of all the injustices that this boyfriend did. But with the easygoing perspective, about 95% of these arguments would be eliminated.

I know what he meant now. I don't know if it's due to maturity or my past experience with S. A man who cannot spend Sundays with you because he's watching football is not a bad man; a man who pushes you around is. A man who is sometimes late or forgetful is a not a bad man; a man who insults you is. Just because you may be warranted in getting angry doesn't mean you have to. Don't treat the good men as if they are the bad men.

I watched Desperate Housewives last weekend. Tom is estranged from Lynette. He moved out, got an apartment and began dating someone new. In a random act of kindness, he brought a pizza to Lynette's house. Lynette commented that the pizza wasn't thin crust.

Tom: "[New girlfriend] would never complain about the pizza crust. Was it necessary for you to complain about that pizza? You always nitpick me. Can't you just get over the little things?"

This is the man's perspective.

I've been more easygoing in recent months, but I'm not there yet. I think back something I once said to Abraham:

"I never do the girl thing, so let me do it now."

"I like you because you never do the girl thing," he responded.

He liked me because I was able to enjoy the moment and have a good time without serious discussions of where this is going. Here’s something I’ve learned: Men often don’t know where this is going, but they are happy in the here and now.

The other week we were getting ready to go somewhere, and he offered to let me pick out his shirt. Abraham is the very definition of easygoing: he doesn't care what he wears, and he knows it makes me happy to pick out his clothes. I flipped through the hangers and pulled out a t-shirt. It was a comic strip of two scenes. In the first scene, a girl stick figure is yelling at a boy stick figure. In the second scene the boy stick figure has his hand extended and the girl stick figure is falling out the comic-strip box. I think it reads, "Problem solved."

"This shirt," I said as I handed it to him. "It'll be funny when you are out with me."

"I like that you're cool enough to appreciate this shirt," he said as he pulled it over his head.

"I'll let you know when that shirt is no longer funny," I teased.

"This shirt will always be funny."

Even the t-shirt embodies the message: men don't want women who are uptight. The times I have been easygoing, I received very favorable responses. The times I have reverted back to being uptight, nothing was accomplished. I didn't even get my way.

This has become my New Year's Resolution, albeit a bit late. I am going to sweep my hair into a messy top knot. I am going to be that easy, breezy Cover Girl. I am going to forgive perceived slights, and then I am going to forgive them again for good measure. I am going to chill the fuck out. I'm interested to see what develops.

For You, Anonymous*.

We went on a date to my favorite restaurant that I had been telling him about for months. He let me pick out his shirt for our date. It was red, and I commented that red looked good on him. He pulled up to the restaurant and choked. He had been there before but didn't remember its name. He went there after a concert with his best friend who I had never heard of until a week or two ago. I ordered the chicken. So did he. Only he over-ranched his sandwich and got sauce everywhere. I thought that the pickle had a funny aftertaste, but Abraham disagreed. The service was sub-par. A girl at the next table loudly proclaimed that Kosher food tasted bad. We looked at each other and laughed. Our bill was $21.63. He paid. And then he came home and gave me 300 kisses.

Dinner was mundane and ordinary, just like the majority of dinners. I don't read a whole lot of blog posts about dinners unless something noteworthy happens like a celebrity sighting. There is a reason I don't share every detail. If you like, I can also share the time we went to Publix and bought fried chicken. Spoiler alert: I called him a breast man.


*For every Anonymous who seems hung up on what we do instead of why we do it.

The beginning, defined

My absolute favorite part of dating is reaching the stage where you become comfortable enough with the other person and your relationship that you can finally ask for his perspective on the beginning. When you can solve the little mysteries that once plagued you.

"I'm glad you kissed me that night at the bar," I said. "What were you thinking that night?"

"Honestly? I was trying to keep you away from my hips so you wouldn't feel me."

"Ha! I didn't notice anything."

"Then you deleted me," he remarked.

"I deleted the shit out of you! I kept putting myself out there and you kept rebuffing me."

"I did not!"

"I said, 'I want you good and rested and on your A game,' and you responded that you are never rested. That meant you would never go out with me."

"No, it meant I take a lot of naps. You know that.*" It's true though. Abraham perpetually has bags under his eyes.

"I didn't know you were a napper back then." I shifted and looked up at him. "Did you know I liked you? All those nights at the bar?"

"Yeah." I playfully slapped his chest. Abraham continued, "I'm the kind of guy that doesn't make a move until I'm 200% sure though.**"

"And our friends had to get involved and announce that the other person liked us, just like it was middle school. To think we may not have gotten together had they not intervened. I was out drinking with them last week. They were congratulating themselves on their victory."

"If I had gotten you to go home with me that first night," asked Abraham, "Do you think you still would have thrown up the next time?"

"No. I drank too much because I was nervous about seeing you. I don't think I would have been that nervous had I already spent the night," I admitted.

"Dammit!" He paused thoughtfully, "But I did get a bathmat out of it."

"It's a good bathmat."

"It is," he sighed.


*I know that the theory is that guys are simpler than we think they are, and this statement—his retort that his text saying he was tired meant exactly that—is a classic example of this. I am still blown away by this answer. I was asking him out saying I wanted him good and rested. He responded that he was never rested, ergo we would never go out. I can't believe he actually meant he was never rested independently of the context I sent. I can't believe there was another way of thinking. It was this response that made me delete him. If men really are that simple, my complex mind prevents me from empathizing.

**This destroys my theory that if a man likes a girl enough, he will ask her out. Sometimes girls do have to put themselves out there first. 

A Man of His Word

Mel starting dating a guy over the holiday break. They went out a couple of times and seemed to really like each other. Then he disappeared. Not in the traditional drop-off-the-face-of-the-earth, OMG-what-if he-was-disfigured-in-a-car-accident kind of way. He disappeared in the most annoying way possible: He'd make plans! But they were vague! And then he never followed through!

"So today he texts me and asks what my plans are this weekend, but then he never asked me out," Mel updated. "Why ask what I'm doing if you aren't going to make plans?"

I nodded in utter agreement. Yes, why? It's a mystery indeed. I've been on the receiving end of that behavior since I was 18.

Then I realized I could just ask a guy. A guy who is currently out there and dating. A guy who loves women and wants them to be healthy and happy. A guy I trusted.

Such a guy exists. I asked him, "Why do guys ask for your plans when they have no intention of asking you out?"

He responded:

a) If you're doing something awesome, we can invite ourselves along.
b) If you don't have plans, we can now plan something cool--no sense in planning something if you're busy.
c) Polite conversation

I frowned. That was the answer to the great mystery? Hmph! But that behavior is so annoying.

To narrow the options down, I provided him the details of Mel's scenario: This guy went out with her twice, seemed interested via text and makes plans (Let's get together Tuesday!) but then no calls/no shows to complete the plans. That's happened three times within the last week or so. She tried to correct the behavior by directing, "Next time we make plans and you are unable to make it, please let me know." But he did it again. She texted him and he never responded, but then he popped up the next morning like nothing happened.

My friend took in the information and advised, "He's only texting her because she's available. Don't make someone a priority when you're just an option to him."

I stopped. That was it. That was the answer. As soon as I read the words, I knew he was speaking the truth. The guy wasn't busy with work like I had hoped; Mel was simply available.

I sent the answer to Mel. She said it was what she needed to hear and she appreciated the honesty of the response. My confidant had saved Mel from spending a lot of time and energy on some guy who hadn't earned it.

I felt at peace over the situation. It felt so good to finally have an answer.

The next day South Carolina Bestie sent me a question to forward to my confidant. His good sense has developed quite a reputation among my friends. If only everyone had someone to explain baffling male behavior!

Then I had an idea. I asked my friend if he would answer questions from my blog readers, and he has agreed. If you could anonymously ask a guy any question, what would you like to know? I have a few questions: When you sit in a chair, where do your balls go? What's the personality difference between breast men and ass men? How unattractive is it really to yak in your crush's bathtub?

Send your anonymous questions to desperatesarah@gmail.com.

Breaking Silence

I farted.

Of man and woman, I did not think I was going to be the one to break the silence. I once pointed out to Abraham that he goes to the restroom a lot. He had to inform me that most of those times, he was just being polite.

"Oh, yes," I nodded. "We're not at that point yet."

We've talked about this, and yet I was the one. I'm not even a gassy person, but I farted.

I had spent the evening drinking beer at a brewery before heading to Abraham's house. Once there we split a pizza and another 6-pack of beer. I got silly. We went to bed and everything was fine.

Then it happened. I did it in my sleep, and it woke me up. My eyes flew open, not realizing what happened, only that something happened that shouldn't have. Slowly I pieced together that I was in Abraham's bed and therefore not alone.

My breathing stopped. I froze. My first priority was assessing whether Abraham heard. His breathing was shallow, but he didn't move. It would just be like Abraham to ignore this, the stupid gentleman that he is. He never tells me he notices the embarrassing things I do until I admit them to him first. But I farted! In front of him!

I shifted in bed. And then I had the most startling realization of all: Abraham was spooning me. I farted on him.

I died. Right there in his bed, I died. He still didn't move. Visions of Carrie Bradshaw farting in Mr. Big's bed ran through my head. Carrie dashed out of bed and ran into a wall while he laughed. Running into a wall would be more pleasurable than this moment.

Just to be safe, I detached from Abraham and retreated to my side of the bed. It was cold and lonely on my side of the bed. I had to put my hands between my knees for warmth.

In the early morning hours, Abraham got up and went into the bathroom. He returned and found me in bed.

"I have something awful to tell you," I whimpered.

"What?"

"I farted. On you. I was sleeping and it woke me up. I'm sorry."

Abraham laughed. It was a genuine, non-threatening laugh that conveyed he thought it was funny that I was so horrified. He laughed in a way that made it okay. "I'm sure worse things have been done to me," he said.

He laid in silence for a moment. "And to think I just wasted a good fart in the bathroom."

300 Kisses

"So what are your New Year's plans?" I asked Abraham.

"I've got a party," he explained. "You?"

"Me too. I have a party, but it's about two miles from your house. Want to meet up after?"

"Maybe, but it's unlikely. If I drink at all, I'm spending the night. I'm not risking anything with all the cops being out."

"But you're my New Year's kiss," I pouted.

"New Year's is overrated."

"It is." I sat for a minute. Then I picked up his iPhone and spoke to Siri. "Set a reminder, please."

"I can do that," Siri spoke. "What would you like to be reminded about?"

"Kiss Sarah."

Abraham snorted.

"When would you like this reminder?" asked Siri.

"January 1st at 12:00 a.m."

"Your reminder has been set," said Siri.

Abraham grabbed his phone from my hand. "Siri, set a reminder."

"I can do that. What would you like to be reminded about?"

"Tell Sarah she's right."

"When would you like this reminder?"

"All the time."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand, 'All the time.'"

We laughed. He set his phone back down and settled into his couch.

Abraham kissed me. "There's your New Year's kiss."

I frowned. "That was a stinky kiss. A New Year's kiss is better."

He kissed me again. "That one's your New Year's kiss."

I shook my head, "Nope."

He kissed again. "That one?"

"No. If you aren't going to kiss me on New Year's, then I want 300 kisses."

He immediately began kissing me and counting. "You're forgetting I count for a living," he explained.

We had forgotten about the Baylor football game playing in the background. At around 100 kisses, I realized how lucky I was that I had someone to kiss 100 times. The 100 kisses flew by quicker than I thought they would. I wondered how many nights we shared 100 kisses; this couldn't be the first.

Abraham kissed me all the way to 300. Three hundred kisses. Every kind of kiss imaginable. Chicken pecks. Open-mouthed kisses. Kisses with tongue. A kiss for every day I was single in the previous year. A kiss for every tear I shed. For every moment I sighed and felt lonely. Three hundred kisses. New Year's be damned—I got 300 kisses.

Abraham rolled over the next morning. "My lips are raw. They feel used."

"Not used," I corrected. "Loved."