Unplugged

Well, no internet for the past few days. Makes blogging difficult. Now blogging at work. Immoral. And no fun fashion photos, because my wardrobe resides on my laptop. For those of you still following this adventure, who may find it fun to read my ramblings while eating obsene amounts of holiday treats, will rest assured that I have not dissappeared. Just taking a little break. Gotta earn dough (and eat it too). I'll be back in full disclosure mode when the electronic gods decide to shine upon me favorably. Until then...hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 17: Funereal Thoughts, Oh Boy!

"Pink Rules, Boys Drool (No Offense Boys)" is today's ensemble. I actually would have bought these shoes from Nine West, but they only had a size ten left. It's funny, because in debating the footwear choices for today, I narrowed it down to two pairs. This one was $48, and the other one was $380 (and that was half price...eek), and they served the same purpose. The point is that you can find good substitutes for expensive items--to a point. If the materials are good, and the brand's construction is reputable enough (which Nine West's is), then I really don't get what big bucks get you, if not just a designer name and crocodile skin (neither of which I deem necessary). If you have to buy a unique pair for its intricate detailing, then by all means don't let me stand in your way. But unless you have thousands of dollars at your disposal for luxury shoes, rest assured that no one is likely to notice your shoe's designer, especially when the name is hidden away inside of the shoe.

"You know what my version of hell is? Wearing two-toned shoes." Mr. Big, at a bowling alley

Yes, funerals. That's the cheery subject of today's episode. Actually, that's a bit of an overstatement. But it does all start with a funeral. The gals go to the graveside service of a well-known fashion designer. There, Charlotte meets a man who has recently lost his wife and is distraught with grief. Charlotte, sensitive and marriage-obsessed, decides to revive him and push him toward wanting to commit again. But, alas, she finds out he has been simultaneously milking the sympathies of five other women, sleeping with all of them, of course. Samantha dies a small social death by messing with a wealthy, married man, but she regains her status by networking. Miranda suffers a panic attack that stems from a fear of dying alone and being eaten by her cats. She recovers when Carrie revives her faith in Mr. Right being out there (something Carrie doesn't even know if she herself believes). Inspired by the feeling to live while you can, Carrie calls Big and sets up a date, then doubts the healthfulness of this. They go out, sparks fly, and the relationship rekindles.

It's strange how the thought of death makes us embrace life. From that perspective, it's a good thing we know we will die at some point. Otherwise, we may just go through life not really experiencing anything.

I always thought my parents, being doctors, were immune to death and therefore quite morbid. My mom would talk of a friend's health condition by saying things like, "Well, she won't be around much longer. You had better visit her." This was when the person had years left to live. I always thought it was insensitive. Shouldn't you wait to talk about a person's death until they've actually died or only have a few weeks left? But her comments always got me to visit or call. In that way, she was onto something. She realized, perhaps better than anyone else because of her profession, that we were all here for such a short time. And time doesn't wait for any of us.

As is evidenced by my previous post, I've been wondering lately about my priorities in life. With my ten-year high school reunion rapidly approaching, I've been thinking about what I've done with my life, what I'm doing, and what I want to do. The other day I realized two very scary things. One, I'm nearly 28 and have no career. To me, that's a lot freakier than having no man. You can meet the right man in a day. You can work years for the right career. And I'm running out of years. Two, I want kids, preferably lots of them, adopted and biological. Now, maybe you're seeing my dilemma. If you don't, I'll just tell you to be glad you don't have doctors for parents who remind you yearly that your fertility is plummeting.

But it's true that I need to start sooner rather than later. My mom started having kids at 30, and she was considered old. Not only that, but she knew she only wanted three, all two years apart, so that she would be done by age 34, the age when your eggs really start going downhill, or so I'm told. I think I want four or five. While I want to adopt, I don't want to have to adopt. I want to have the option of taking our time.

But that's the thing. None of us has time. I know that some women have healthy babies at 40. I think that's great. I wish it was the norm. I feel like I'm only now maturing enough to bring a semi-emotionally healthy child into this world. It would be wonderful to have ten years to focus on forming a career that I love and then be stable enough (financially, etc) to have a big family. But, alas, ten free years are not being inserted into my life. So, I'm faced with plan B, which is dealing with the life I have, not a day more.

This is particularly pressing now, because I'm thinking of going back to school for fashion design. I'm scared to death. It's three years of studying, a shit load of money, and even more years of forging my way in the fashion career world. Thing is, I don't know if I'm up for it. I would never have said that before this year. But we're looking at at least four or five years to be in a position to get a good job and start paying off my debt. That would make me 32, a little late to start having those five kids. And when I start having them, will I even have much time for the career I worked so hard to get? I want to be there for my kids, and I have a feeling that that will become more important to me than anything. After all, I've already decided I will never choose my career over my family and friends....

But I also know there may not be another time to follow my passions. It's shit or get off the pot time for me. Or rather, pick a career or don't time. I don't have forever. Neither do any of us. That reality sure adds a hell of a lot of urgency to the whole deal. My mom's solution is that Hank and I just start having babies, and I throw away the whole idea of an important career all together. I guess if a big career was my goal in life, I would have pursued it by now. But the idea of never having one to call my own and to be really good at makes me cringe, despite my feelings about family.

So those are my thoughts. I don't know what I'll do. I keep waiting for an answer that I know will come only when I decide something. Decisions aren't hard; it's the preparing for them that's the bitch.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 16: Time Out for Fashion

Okay, this one is taking the name of the entry's title: "Time Out for Fashion," first because it's a little wacky (though I still love it) and second, because I don't have time to think of anything else that may be better (the whole suck at titles thing). Layer the necklaces, folks.

I don't even have time to shower much these days, much less walk, or eat a healthy meal, or write.

But I'm here.

See, I have a job.

And it's important.

And it involves hours and hours of organizing other people's accumulated stuff. And I'm okay with it, because I'm employed and it keeps me off the streets. I'm shacked up in my parents' guesthouse and helping my mom move out of her old office and into another one. And actually there are no streets, per say, 5 miles from a town of 5000 people, precisely where I am. But there are dirt roads. So my job keeps me off of those. Because they're so tempting in the dead of winter. Out here, it seems like I'm a million fashionable miles away from the world of Sex and the City, and maybe that's okay. It's just me and the wind.

Since I'm tired, you won't get any long, heavy thing likely until after the new year starts. Maybe that's for the best. But I did watch an episode. Well, four episodes, actually, with my sister and mom. What can I say? We just couldn't stop; it was so addicting, and my sister was baking cookies.

The episode of this post centered on an important topic: whether "faking" that a bad relationship is good is better or worse than being single. The girls of course decide that flying solo wins, which is how it should be. But I know I've done some faking in my day (hell, at least I didn't marry either of the two guys), and I understand why--or rather how--it can happen. More than tired of being alone, I was tired of being disappointed--tired of looking for what I was looking for. So I pretended I had found it. And it's as simple as that. I didn't really know I was pretending at the time. I just thought I would grow to have the feelings that weren't initially there. But in those cases, I always knew I didn't love him. I knew that in my heart, as do most people when it comes to such a gut emotion like love. It's just a matter of listening to that and owning up to it. I didn't want to. Until I did.

That's all I've got for today. I'm sorry. But I can barely see what I'm typing. While it feels REALLY good to work again and see a paycheck, I have also learned some very important things over the past few days from observing what I don't want to be.

1. I will never be devoted to my career at the expense of my family and friends. While the former is important, the latter make life a joy and are absolutely indispensable.

2. I will never have a career that requires me to take sleeping pills or uppers. If you think I'm joking, read up on the number one group of people who abuses drugs. Yep. Good ol' doctors. (Nothing like making enemies with both of your parents and significant other in less than fifty words.)

3. I will always make time for exercise (even if it's just walking the dog) and eating a good meal that I cooked.

That's all for now, but those are biggies. Maybe there will be more. They say never to say never or always, so maybe I'll regret doing it. But how could I regret those statements?

Good night. Hope you'll be back. I will. (Maybe with a better outfit, a few more hours of sleep, and a little more of interest to say.)

Day 15: Freaks Non-Annonymous

"Smokin Through 9 to 5" is my ode to the typical workday and the name for this getup. If this look seems familiar to you, it's because black tights with black booties are all the rage now. For a traditional work ensemble, fashion critics would suggest a more structured silhouette on top, say a plain sheath dress (in a neutral color) or black pencil skirt with a fitted blouse or sweater. These would be great, albeit rather boring, options. But in the name of feeling sexy (and being able to breathe and move freely) while you're typing or taking a conference call or grading papers--whatever it is you do (and remember, I do none of these--ha ha--though I also have been buying groceries with the credit card all month)--let's hear it for the drapey dress. And you just gotta love those shoes.

Moving on. Episode three, season two. For a tale about freaks, it's sure un-freaky. Synopsis: Carrie and the girls think all single men over thirty must have serious problems, deciding the proof is in their latest dating experiences. First, there's "Mr. Pussy," the man who can't hold a normal conversation but can't wait to go down on women (and is very good at it...from lots of practice). Then, there's the dude who wants to talk dirty in bed (oh my God, that is SOOOO freaky). Finally, there's the guy who's into tantric sex and whips and all that black (the color, I mean) stuff. Carrie dates a guy who seems so remarkably normal (and super dull) that she can't believe he's not hiding something. Naturally, she tears apart his apartment on their second day searching for his secret neurosis. He's clean, but he catches her snooping and dumps her on the spot. A "freaked"-out Carrie thus realizes we're all freaks in our our own ways.

Okay, so it's not the most interesting revelation. But there is something about us each owning up to our own freakiness that's appealing. One of my favorite movie lines is from The Family Stone, when Luke Wilson's character says to Meredith (coincidently SJP), "You have a freak flag. You just need to wave it." That's right, owning up to your weirdness isn't even enough. You gotta shove it out there for the world to see. Like Beethoven with his legless pianos and Linus with his blanket. Something like that.

It's true, though. We all have our idiosyncrasies and traits that make us unique. So often, we're pressured into smothering them. When I was twelve, my hair morphed from being long, blonde and perfectly wavy to being a frizz heap in what seemed like two months. Most days, I looked like I had just stuck my finger in an electrical outlet. Being twelve, I had no idea how to manage naturally curly hair. Being the 80s, it didn't really matter, but I didn't realize that then. I was embarrassed. Every girl I knew had straight hair, and those were the girls who got the boys. So, I fought the curls like the plague. On the twenty-minute bus ride to school, I sat with my head smashed against the school bus seat in the hopes that the puffiness would go away. If someone talked to me, I literally did not turn my head. I just knew I could make it straight if I pressed hard enough. Talk about a freak.

Jump ahead fifteen years (and about 400 curl products) later, and I am still trying to 'tame the waves.' But I'm also slowly coming to accept, even appreciate, them. After going through high school and most of college with an arsenal of straight and curl irons and without hardly anyone knowing I was a closet curly girl, I am finally starting to wave my freaky hair flag (thanks, in part, to Hank, since he's always telling me how sexy the curls are). Because the strands are so fine and voluminous, they're like a blank canvas that I can mold into anything I want without much effort at all. Hypothetically, I could wear a completely different hairstyle every day for a month. For someone who gets bored easily, that really is a blessing. But the coolest thing? When I curl a piece of my hair around my finger, it stays.

Hair is my small "freaky" trait. There are larger ones. Somewhere along the line we all have to accept what makes us stand out. And maybe partnering is more about aligning our freakiness than anything else. After all, experts on marriage (unmarried, of course) say that one of the most important things in picking a partner is simply whether you "get" each other. They describe "getting" as that thing you can't force and can't fake--the thing that makes you laugh uncontrollably at the joke your partner makes, even if you've heard it a hundred times. Yeah, I get that. And I think it's related to freak-alignment, though I don't really have a good argument for that at this time.

SATC says we're all freaks. And that's supposed to be a scary thing, because people might not want to date us. Pshaw. I say it's a grand thing. After all, where would the world be without freaks? Our freakiness makes us who we are and allows others to be who they are. It leads us to invent things. It makes the world an interesting place.

So, in conclusion, get your freak on.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 14: Here's to Hope

A version of this outfit, which I'm calling "A Weekend Away," is pretty much what I wear everyday. I am a jeans girl. I love them. If I had twenty days to live, I'd spend them all in jeans. Actually, I have pretty much been doing just that, considering this is the fifth day IN A ROW that I have worn my Lucky skinny jeans. Eek. I think they're actually starting to smell. What can I say? The dryer in our apartment complex has been broken for a week, and they're my best (relatively) clean pair.

I'm all for seriousness, but for the last post, I think I actually got into some zen state where I was trying to connect to the breakup girl inside of me. I don't recommend doing that often. It's not a happy place. I was also (surprise) alone in the house and feeling a little broodish, so I'm going to try keep this one a bit lighter. It's always a tough thing to balance for me.

Episode two of season two centers around the following question: Are there some things that shouldn't be said in a relationship? After just witnessing a vicious fight between her friend, Sharon, and Sharon's husband, Carrie tells her to leave the bastard. Much to Carrie's surprise, Sharon follows the advice, only to crash on Carrie's couch and talk constantly about how the guy really has a sweet side. Carrie and the ladies decide on one thing a person should never say to a friend: "Leave your partner." If the friend leaves, she will be miserable and blame you. If she stays, she will know you disapprove and never want to talk to you again. Only Charlotte strays from the idea that some things should remain unspoken. She thinks honesty's the best policy, always. Good ol' Charlotte.

Hmmm....

Fine lines, folks. In the case of relationship advice for friends, if the friend's partner is abusive, I think you HAVE to say something. Otherwise, what the hell are friends for? But beyond that, Carrie, Miranda, and Samantha are probably right. People need to decide for themselves, and no one but the couple really knows what's going on in the relationship--and thus whether it needs to end. Lord knows, I've always had enough trouble deciding if my own relationships are worth staying in, much less other peoples'.

At the end of the episode, in an impulsive phone call, Carrie invites Big to her birthday party. He had sent her flowers (actually his secretary had sent them, perhaps by accident, we'll never really know) and she wanted to say thank you. Yeah, yeah, whatever, Carrie. Big hits the party...and stays...too long for the gals' liking. Carrie and Big then proceed to have an awkward walk from the restaurant, where little of importance is said. Carrie decides the one thing she can't tell him is that she still cares for him. So, they say goodbye, who knows for how long. On the cheery side, at least Carrie didn't end the night in tears.

Frustrating. This is where a part of me is a little tired of romantic comedies. Many of them, SATC included, have one dramatic element in common: a bunch of moments where both lovers want to say or do something but just don't--a situation the romantic viewer can't get enough of. I used to be a romantic, and I think I still am. So why do I have the urge to say, "Come on, people, aren't relationships hard enough without open communication? Maybe I just think honestly is romantic.

As a child, I was taught--not just by movies and books but by my parents as well--the conservative, stoic approach to relationships. The lesson (unspoken, of course)? Some things are better left unsaid. You don't have to tell your partner what you're thinking, and not everything has to be talked about--actually it's preferable if it isn't. Consequently, I have been living this theory most of my life. If the sex was subpar in a relationship, I said nothing. If I was upset, I tried to keep it in. Even if I was worried about whether the person was cheating on me or not, I just tried to not make a big deal about it. Then, as I slowly blossomed into the big-mouthed, opinionated gal I am today, I decided that keeping things in is a monumental waste of time. I mean, if I'm not going to tell my partner my inner life, who the hell am I going to tell? Then the flood gates opened.....

Now I think I may be bordering on 'too much information.' When Hank asks about an ex, I go into complete disclosure mode, like I'm overcompensating for all of the clamming up I've done. If he wants to know what I dreamed about, and it happened to involve a tall, dark, handsome stranger and passionate kissing, I tell him. After countless discussions about what it all means and feeling extremely guilty for days, I am starting to re-think the wisdom of this. I'm beginning to wonder if a little secrecy now and then ever really hurt anyone. I mean I could just say I don't remember. That's a pretty good conversation stopper. That would keep Hank from experiencing jealousy and me from enduring unnecessary questioning. But Hank says he wants to know, even now. What's a girl to do? So I tell him. Who knows if that's a good thing or not. Sometimes I can hear my mother's advice ("Just keep your mouth shut!") ringing in my ears....

In job news, I had a great interview the other day with a company I would really like to work for. It was for a stylist position centered around helping brides pick out their wedding dresses. The position would have involved fashion decisions AND blogging! Woo-hoo! I say "would have," because I didn't get it. But I refuse to get down about this. I am choosing to renew my belief in hope as a powerful tool of fortune. My Dad thinks I should just work construction. I am not joking. So here's to hope.

I'm keeping this post short (and yes, this is short), to compensate for my marathon one from the other day.

P.S. I got black booties in the mail yesterday (the evil Cyber Monday purchase) and am breaking them in. If it works (and the rim stops digging into my shin), I will keep them and fight whoever tries to rip them from my hands. Just a head's up.

Day 13: Breakups. Period.

Before we get on to the serious subject of breakups, can I just ask, "Could a necklace possibly be any cuter?" I had to muster all of my willpower not to buy it. Again with this outfit, quite expensive shoes, but that's it. We can call it, "Oh How I Love Saturdays"--waking up late, grabbing bagels or brunch, browsing the farmer's market, shopping (!), seeing a movie...these activities are what the day was made for, and this ensemble would be the perfect compliment to a perfect day.

To note, I typed this entire blog entry last night, only to have it disappear when I pressed "Publish." I had a mild breakdown and then regathered my strength to deal with the inevitable electronic glitches of blogging. Here is version two....

"I forgot how hard it is." Miranda

I both love and hate the first episode of season two. I love it so much, I had to immediately re-watch it once it ended. I hate it, because it breaks my heart. Somehow, through all the glitz and glamour of SATC (and Hollywood in general), it captures the emotions of a breakup like nothing else I have ever seen does quite as accurately. Don't even get me started on the movie with Jennifer Anniston, and I find most shows or movies just flutter over the estrangement to get to the happy ending where the two characters reunite. Sure, they're sad for awhile, but it's only temporary. There's usually a montage of photos with introspective music--photos of the good ol' days or of the two people living their now-gloomy lives and missing the other. He goes to the store alone. She sees his favorite book on the book shelf and cries. And all the while, Jon Mayer plays in the background. Blah.

The girls deal with it head on. Carrie is a wreck--but not all of the time. Like nearly anybody after a split, she swings like a pendulum between okay and seriously not okay. You know the story: one minute you're fine, and the next minute you're crying in the soup isle of the grocery store. Like usual, the women have their differing theories of how to cope. Samantha, although she rarely breaks up with anyone (because she doesn't date them), resides in the camp of Don't Get Mad, Get Even. She tells Carrie to flaunt her stuff and make Big jealous of how well she can do without him. Miranda is tired of hearing about Big and suggests Carrie get back in the game asap. Date, sleep with other men, but just don't wallow in sadness. Charlotte provides the most romantic approach, a black-and-white timeline for grief. Specifically, grieve for half of the time you dated him, no more. Be patient and let yourself feel really, really sad, then be done--not unlike giving up something for Lent I suppose, especially if that thing is sugar or wine.

Amidst these opinions, Carrie creates her own rules, which are as follows:

1. Destroy any picture where he looks sexy and you look happy.

2. Lie about being okay, even though you're not.

3. Until emotionally stabilized, enter no stores. (Hear, hear!)

4. Never stop thinking about him, even for a moment, because that's the moment he'll appear.

5. No matter who broke your heart or how long it takes to heal, you'll never get through it without your friends.

I got to thinking about whether these are good rules and what I would add. Then I thought, Why is it that we always forget how hard it is, like Miranda says, so that we're unprepared for it the next time and not as sympathetic as we could be to our friends/family/etc when they go through it? Alternatively, do we ever forget completely?

Let me just say that by philosophy, I'm in the Charlotte camp. By practice, I'm with Miranda. While I have always thought a grieving period is in order for the newly dumped, I rarely ever had one. I was lucky if there were a few weeks between my relationships, whether I was the dumper or dumpee. At most, it was a few months, even after the two-plus-year ones. I could come up with theories about why--that I was usually the person to break things off and didn't love the person that much, that I'm an optimist at heart and feel that loves is perennial and thus don't wallow for too long when the other person leaves--but these aren't really accurate. Probably, I just like relationships, and I prefer them to being alone. That's me.

As for rules, I like Carrie's. I'm not sure I have rules. I would say don't sleep with the man who just broke up with you, but sometimes this can be good. It can show you that the connection you two had is no longer there, which makes it easier to say goodbye. Just tread lightly, and don't, I repeat, DON'T expect to get back together. I would say find a therapist--preferably of your same sex. It sure helped me. You never have to lie that you're okay, though you may just have to pay them a bit more to keep an extra-large stash of Kleenex. But therapy isn't for everyone, and in the end, the hard work lies with you and you alone. I would say exercise, but endorphins only last so long. I would suggest getting an animal that cuddles (Dogs are helpful, lizards are not, and I know), but then you create the potential to feel crappy about your potty training shortcomings, etc., when you should really just be feeling crappy about your failed relationship. Ultimately, it just takes time. Plain and simple. Until then, watch sad movies, cry into your pillow, have puffy eyes at work, who cares? Whatever it takes to make it through.

All this said, it's easy to have ideas about breakups when you're happy and not going through one. You forget exactly what it's like, the depth of sadness. You remember it being hard, but you can't believe you once cried in the soup isle and spent night after night writing bad poetry about loss. You can't imagine a time when saying goodbye to someone made you feel so sad, especially since it ended up being for the best. But you didn't know that then. You had dreams and hopes invested. You had good times with the person that made you think that maybe, just maybe, he or she was the one; that all your searching for your true mate was over; that you would never have to suffer a breakup again. Then, the other person tosses you out to deal with your life alone, essentially saying that life is better without you, and it aches.

It's like we're all born with a piece missing, and we search (consciously or not) for the right person to fill it. When we date, the puzzle seems to be completed for awhile, and we long for permanence. When we break up, the piece goes missing again, and we become aware of an absence we may not have even realized was there.

I don't think we really forget a bad breakup. I think the pain gets smaller and smaller until we can push it into a teeny corner of our brains and ignore it, but we always know it's there. When we suffer loss again, the previous pain comes back in a giant grief wave. That may be why we can't be 100% at the personal disposal of friends who have just been dumped. We can listen, but we don't want to suffer with them, because that will bring up all of our own unresolved abandonment issues, or something like that. It's like a survival mechanism that we want to model for our grieving friend. "You have to be okay. Just be okay, or you won't survive. I've done it, and we all have to do it. Buck up." Of course we can't say that, because it would be cruel, but we hint at it. "It will be okay, just give it a little time," we say. "You'll find somebody better," we say. That's our job, and it was our friend's job when we went through it.

In shopping news, I was going to be very proud to write the following words: "I will no longer buy anything except for the bare necessities." Hank and I had a big fight the other evening. On Cyber Monday, I bought a pair of boots and a coat on super sale, and he was really disappointed that I had not saved that money (well, credit, let's be honest here) for groceries. He said when I had a job, I could shop. Until then, we should be saving every penny. After all, he reminded me, what had he bought for himself lately? I felt terrible. I was selfishly buying clothes for myself when I was barely contributing to rent. So I made a pact. NO. MORE. SHOPPING. Nothing, nada, even if it's on killer sale and I need it (in a relative sense, of course). That was my plan...until Hank came home last night. Inspired by near-zero temperatures, I had spent a few minutes looking for a parka online. Harmless browsing, you know. "I found the perfect one for $179 on sale," I told him apprehensively, "and I'm going to buy it with my first paycheck." I showed him the picture online. "Just buy it!" he said. What? He went on, "Who knows if it will be on sale after Christmas, and besides, there's free shipping!" Go figure. So...I bought it (of course).

Well, Merry Christmas to me.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 12: Endings and Beginnings

We'll call this one "Start With the Shoes, Baby" because that's just what I did. Sometimes all you need to feel glamourous and ready for anything is the perfect pair of heels. You could wear this ensemble almost anywhere after hours--club, bar, the theater, dinner, though probably not dinner with the in-laws. Mixing elements here--conservative and flashy, delicate and structured. I particularly love the black, sequin skirt that would otherwise be super racy. (That's not to say I would wear it under any circumstances. I was blessed with a lot of things, but legs for that thing wasn't one of them. But if you've got them, flaunt them.) Since it's paired with a more conservative suit jacket and traditional white button-up, it becomes a stand-in for a suit skirt--but with enough glimmer and edge, especially with the heels and accessories, to be fun not formal. And of course these are the Manolo Blahniks that Carrie made famous (yes they're pricey, but nothing else is too steep)...though I found out today that the designer has never even seen the show.

So, episode twelve ends season one, and it ends sadly. After Carrie deliberates about why Big won't say, "I love you," or introduce her to his mother, she decides she doesn't want to wait around to find out. She doesn't think she'll ever "get inside" his emotional barrier. Big has been around the Manhattan block (a few times), with a failed marriage and lots of bitter exes to show for it. He wants to take things slow. He wants to be sure. Carrie is in love and wants to know if she's the one--right now. Big can't do it. They say goodbye. Carrie is heart-broken, and Big takes a trip to the Caribbean alone. Poor guy. That is a joke.

Carrie and Big seem like a good match, but things fizzle, they want different things, and they part ways. Man, we've all been there, or at least I have. The relationship seems good, but it just doesn't last. The two people are like planets moving in different directions. Someone once told me that the most important thing in determining whether a relationship will survive is timing. Timing. Not strength of love, not emotional connection, not religion or where you grew up, not what color hair he has or if he looks like your father (I never got that one, but the theory exists). Just plain and simple timing. According to this theory, the only question that matters is: Are you both equally ready to settle down?

But is timing really that important, or is it the person that matters? Or is it both? About a year ago, I started seeing Brad, a guy I had known and dated in high school. After ten years of not seeing each other, we hit it off again. He lived in a different town, but we started talking every other night. We made regular weekend trips to see each other and started thinking about future trips and plans. Things were great. About a month and a half into the relationship, I told him I thought I was falling in love with him. Silence. The next weekend I said it again. Nothing. Each time, I waited with that pitiful, questioning face, expecting him to say something, anything. He didn't. I should have taken this as a sign, but I thought it was just a matter of time before he would tell me that he loved me.

In fact, two weeks later he broke up with me via a drunken phone call. He said he was still shaken from his previous, seven-year relationship and that he wasn't ready for anything serious. He said he also didn't think he was totally in love with me. I spent a week analyzing what went wrong. Was it something I did? That time I mentioned being nervous to meet his mother? The fact that I didn't snowmobile or know much about sports? But he had said he liked all of those things. No, I decided, it was nothing--as in no one thing. It was everything, the whole package. And there was nothing either of us could have done. We were just being ourselves. It was bad timing, and it wasn't right.

Two weeks after Brad and I broke up, I met Hank. The timing couldn't have been worse. He was getting ready to move out-of-state for med school and wasn't looking to start a relationship. I was still depressed about what had happened with Brad. I wanted to be single for a long time, spend time alone, you know, to meditate or something--like that girl in Eat, Pray, Love. I wanted existential clarity. Sure, I wanted to meet someone eventually, but only the right one. I was too tired to deal with anything else. I was going to be very, very picky, and make sure it was right before jumping in--and that wasn't going to be for awhile. I told all of this to a friend who had known Hank since childhood and immediately demanded that I meet him. As luck would have it, Hank was in town just for that night. Under extreme protest, I went. We've been together since. As Hank says, "Maybe timing does matter, unless it's with the right person."

Maybe Carrie and Big were victims of bad timing. On the other hand, maybe something wasn't right. Big wasn't as head-over-heels as Carrie, though he cared for her. Of course, I know the ending to this story, as may most of you. It's Hollywood, after all. There are only a set number of people in the cast. Big has to return--he's called "Mr. Big" for a reason (and it's not for what's down there). But to keep a little suspense, I won't say another word. Just that there's more in store for these two.

Maybe timing does matter. Who knows if Hank and I would have hit it off five years ago or even two. Though it seemed like bad timing when we met, maybe it was perfect. Neither of us wanted to fuck around anymore. But maybe it's the right person, too. Even if the timing is ideal, if the depth of love isn't there (the attraction, the shared interests and goals, the respect, etc), there are no guarantees. Actually, the relationship probably won't last. Timing AND rightness. There has to be both. I have always said that true, committed love is a miracle.

In employment news, I received a phone call the other day with a job offer--from my mother. She is moving her medical practice back to Dillon, my hometown and the place where she and my dad live, and she needs serious help. She has two weeks to get everything to her new office and be ready to see patients. She wondered, since I haven't found a job yet, would be too much of an imposition to ask me to come back and save her? I asked if she was paying me. She said of course. I said she was saving me, too.

Come January 5th, I'm jobless again, but it's nice to have a little silver lining, especially around the holidays (and holiday sales). Meanwhile, I'll be submitting resumes for positions and hoping that the right one comes along. I've found that it (or he) usually does.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 11: Farting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Okay, so I lied about the under $200 thing...at least for this ensemble. Unfortunately, there is NOTHING cheap here. This is the definition of a dream outfit. The shoes are over $300, and the shirt (!) is even more...I think $350....good lord. But it's so freakin adorable! We'll call it "Dinner with the Boss," because I don't have a boss and think that's funny. It could also be "Take Me with You, Santa" for all those holiday parties (for people who have lots of parties to go to, that is).

Now...you're probably wondering about the title. Well, the big question in relationships--and the one the girls address in episode 11--is not, "Do I marry him?" but "Should I fart in front of him?" This is serious stuff here, folks. All the women hit a dry spell, and Carrie blames hers on a fart she accidentally let rip in bed with Mr. Big. Mortified, she spends the entire episode analyzing whether or not the budding relationship is doomed or whether she can still muster enough sex appeal to keep Big interested. We'll get back to how ridiculous this is later, but first, the others....

Samantha goes on a sex fast after talking to her handsome, young, celibate yoga instructor who swears ongoing foreplay beats copulation any day. Miranda hasn't been laid in two months and is bitter. So bitter that she attacks a Latino (of course) construction worker who whistles at her as she is entering Blockbuster for the upteenth time. Charlotte thinks she's in love (surprise) and wants to consummate her relationship, but the guy isn't interested (what?). He has chosen Prozac over sex and is just fine with his inability to get it up.

Okay. Back to Carrie. Maybe if I lived in New York City and dated multiple people a week, I would be worried about a little fart early on in a relationship. But isn't real love a little deeper than that? Isn't it a really bad sign that a fart can scare a guy away (not to mention guys are generally more farty than us ladies and better not be pointing any fingers...or butts)? Besides any guy I know wouldn't leave a girl for a fart--especially if she was hot.

See, maybe some guys think they want a goddess who doesn't fart, shit, or clean out her earwax. But I've found out that most guys prefer comfortability. We're not talking peeing with the door open (Hank still gets mad at me for this--Hey! I've always lived alone, why close the door?) or having farting contests with your mate (even I don't want that--talk about killing the moment). But if a little poof sneaks out once in a while, it's not worth WEEKS of morbid analysis. The first time this happened with Hank, I admit I was embarrassed. We were walking to dinner, and I think I laughed and said, "Oops!" or something. Right away he just said, "What? Hm?" with a little smile. I knew he had heard and was just acting as if he hadn't. He's sweet like that.

So I'm at Starbucks today. I am about two blocks from the Panera that offered me a job last week. Yes, I got a job offer. I almost can't believe I turned down a position in this economy. Lord knows job searching sucks. But Hank, a certified math wiz, worked out that I couldn't afford to take the job. It didn't have any health insurance, almost no chance of promotion or mobility, and paid $8 an hour with virtually no tips. That's slave labor, in my humble opinion. My health insurance is over $200 a month, people, and there is no way I'm working an entire week for money I'll never even see. So, I'm back looking.

And shopping. Just a little. Well, what did you expect? It's Christmas. So, I've activated another credit card (oh, yes, I hope you're cringing right now, because I am) and have been using it frugally, but using it nonetheless. I used to (meaning yesterday) feel panicked about this, but I am consoling myself by thinking that not only am I stimulating the economy and raising my own spirits by buying presents for people (and myself), but I am probably not unlike most Americans. Sad but true.

Last night, I tried to imagine my life without any debt--the way it was a mere two years ago. Honestly, I felt pretty proud of myself then, but other than that, not much different than I do now. Debt doesn't cause you to suddenly loose all of your teeth and die of shame. I can now tell you that firsthand. Just like money doesn't make you happy. (Though, I wouldn't know. It just might.) No, debt only holds you by the neck until you pay it back. Actually it really blows. But we are all held by the neck by something financial, no? School loans? Mortgages? Children? Wait, those are investments....oops. (Well, children are debatable, and I can say that, because I am one and am not so sure I've been the best investment.) Anyway, I do have to watch it, or I'll probably end up being that person crying on national TV about how bankruptcy ruined my life, caused my mate to leave me, and put me on the streets. I'm convinced this is what would happen.

Well, this has been a coherent posting, right? I guess I blog like I order coffee drinks, according to coffee guy--just throw a bunch of crap together. (You know--like decaf and regular. OHHH, you devil!) Better go. Bela is home with his head cone on, because he has been licking his paws obsessively. I guess we all have our obsessions. He licks his feet, and I just buy cute shoes to put on mine--proof that dogs take after their owners or something like that. By the way, Happy December!

Hope you'll be back. I will.