Day 39: Heart, Head, Libido

"On My Way to Somewhere" is what I'm calling this outfit. It really doesn't matter where you wear it; you're going to look cool. I am told that nude footwear is all the rage this season, but my personal inspiration is Angelina Jolie. I like the dark outfit (at least jeans here) paired with barely there shoes. I also love the vest/tank combo, which I of course didn't invent, but which I haven't really seen explored yet. I think it's a great way to take casual to a whole new level of chic.

The girls participate in the age old debate about whether it's better to use one's heart or head when making big love decisions. Big hunts down Carrie like a mountain lion stalking its prey. When they meet at Aidan's furniture showcase, Big tells Carrie he's leaving his wife. He proceeds to confess his feelings for Carrie, who finally succumbs to his advances by going to bed with him. Charlotte yearns for the perfect proposal from Trey. When it doesn't come, she blurts out that maybe they should get married. When Trey says okay and seals the engagement, she despairs over how unromantic the whole thing was and makes up an alternative story to tell people. Miranda and Steve continue living together after breaking up. Miranda realizes it's finally over when Steve sleeps over at another woman's house. Samantha dates a guy with foul-tasting stuff. No need to say more.

What is it about cheating? That's the question I couldn't stop thinking about after watching this episode. Sure, the heart versus head debate is interesting, and I certainly don't have any answer. (As you probably can guess by now, I think the truth is somewhere in between--a mix of emotions and rationality.) Personally, I think I have always followed my heart, but sometimes I'm not sure if I was really listening to my true emotions regarding the person or the emotions that stemmed from thinking rationally about the relationship. Complicated.

But the cheating thing eats at my mind. The question I specifically couldn't ignore was this: are we all, as a species, inclined to want to cheat, whether we do or not?

Cheating (which we'll define as not being faithful to one mate) takes place in all cultures. In some, like in France or Peru (the only two I know of for sure at this moment) it's accepted as a part of life. In the latter country, there are actually a whole chain of hostels/hotels that cater solely to business men and their mistresses. I think you might actually be considered weird as a man if you're faithful to your wife. In other cultures, cheating in a way is even legally encouraged via polygamy. It's seen as a viable way to increase the number of offspring.

In most cultures, however, monogamy reigns, which is why it's so outrageous when cheating does happen. Watching Carrie and Big, I felt dirty by association. It seemed so wrong, especially with their partners waiting naively at home for them. But it also seemed predictable. Affairs happen in millions of marriages and relationships every day. Even if you never cheat or never want to, you still have to deal with the idea of cheating. You notice a girl or guy is good looking (an initiator for sex, biologically speaking, which can happen daily), but you're married. So the idea either grows--maybe so much so that it leads to cheating--or dies, depending upon you, your situation, and maybe a bit on imagination. But the original idea was still there, no matter how much you may not want it to be.

Of course, SATC would have us believe that Carrie and Big cheated because there is some important relationship between them that cannot be denied. And maybe that's true. Maybe when things are meant to be (the "heart" connection between two people), forces will always be pushing for that connection to be completed--even if both people in question are in relationships with other people. But my head tells me that that's probably not the case most of the time. Most of the time, it's likely plain old sexual attraction to other people that gets in the way of commitment--sexual attraction and circumstance. It seems scarily simple and scarily common.

The other component of this mental mess is this: when a person cheats once, is he or she more prone to cheating again, even in a new relationship? Statistically, the answer is probably yes. There's that old psychology saying, "The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior." But that's not always the case. Arnold (first fiance) told me that his father cheated so much on his mother during Arnold's childhood, that it was a constant problem for the entire family. The husband of one of his father's mistresses even came close to hiring an assassin to get Arnold's father out of the picture. However, when Arnold's parents got divorced, his father married another of his mistresses who gave him this ultimatum: you ever cheat on me, and you're gone. To everyone's knowledge, he never has, and they are very happy after 20 years of marriage.

Who knows the origins of cheating. I have cheated and been cheated on, many times. I hope I never have to deal with it again. In the end, whether a person cheats or not seems to me to be a matter more of choice than desires. You choose not to hurt the person you're with, the person you love. If you don't love the person enough not to cheat on them, you probably shouldn't be with him or her. But that's just me. And that's if you're in a relationship for love and not other benefits like money or status (which applies to probably more marriages than I care to imagine). Anyway, I can only come up with one definitive truth, after hours of passively and actively thinking about this: the human psyche is a strange and powerful thing.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 38: A Day Late...or a Dollar Short?

This outfit is great for a post-workout lunch, when you don't have time to shower and get done up, but you still want to look cute. Just throw off that sweaty shirt and throw on this versatile jumper (which I've used in a night-out look before). Voila! Classiness achieved. We'll call it "Run and Dine" (as opposed to Dine and Run...).

So much for writing every day. A series of unfortunate and unpredictable events met with Hank and me in the past couple of days and prevented me from writing. After that, I figured what was the use...like breaking a diet or something. We went out to eat at a horrible restaurant, Casa Bonita, which I'm naming here in the hopes of saving future diners from two days of puking and diarrhea. Don't let the touristy hype or South Park parody fool you into thinking you have to try it for yourself. Yes, there is a live diver and a 20-ft waterfall. Yes, it looks like Disney Land. But I have talked with two people who had relatives also get food poisoning. It may be quirky and fun, but the food is lethal. If you have to go, eat before. Please. So that is my excuse. Also, yesterday was my birthday. Yeah! And who wants to do extra work (in any form, fun or not) on her birthday?

This posting will be quick. We're having a party in...well...2.5 hours. I am neither showered nor have any of the drinks made. Since it's a cocktail party (yippee!), I also have to get dolled up. And since it will involve about 20 people in our house, I have to actually clean a bit and move some furniture. So...

Today's episode is about the timing of life (speaking of birthdays, especially when they approach 30). Big meets Carrie at a social function and confesses that he misses her and can't stop thinking about her. Carrie kicks him out, but wonders why he couldn't have said those words to her a year earlier. Samantha misses a period and fears she's headed for menopause. In desperation, she dates an old-timer in her apartment complex. When the period finally comes, she rejoices at the thought of many more years of sexual exploration. Charlotte and Trey are getting very serious, but Charlotte refuses to sleep with him, wanting to save it for the right time. Finally, Miranda and Steve go through a rough patch, and Steve suggests they have a baby. Miranda, up for partner at her firm, can't fathom it and feels she already mothers Steve. During a fight, she breaks up with him.

Timing is interesting, that's for sure. You would never meet certain people without certain timing. Relationships would probably never happen if the two people weren't single at the same time and open to starting something. However, timing isn't everything. Sometimes, "bad timing" is just an excuse for why an ill-fated union just doesn't work.

One of my friends is trying out online dating. The other day she read me the email correspondence she was having with four of her perspective males. It was so funny and varied, that I was silent for almost the entire hour she was reading and only broke my silence with bouts of uncontrollable laughter. It is amazing what people will say. However, her latest update was that her computer broke down for five days, during which time (however short), one of her interests dropped off the face of the planet. He now won't return her emails, though he was apparently dying to meet her earlier. She said she couldn't believe that five days was all it took. She hadn't realized online dating was so time sensitive. I told her it just wasn't meant to be. After all, if she was important to him, he would have waited.

Or would he have? It is strange to think how different our lives would be if we were born just one year later, for example, or went to a different college. Is there such thing as fate? If we are meant to do certain things or meet certain people, will we? Is there a cosmic force at play much stronger than chance and our personal decisions and whims? Or is timing really everything? If we met people a year before we did, would the relationship progress in the same way?

The logical part of me can't help but think that timing really does matter--during which life stages two people meet and where, when you decide to move to a new city and what jobs happen to be available to you at that time, etc. So much of it seems driven by chance. But the romantic in me wants to believe in the idea of "meant to be"--in that quote about being able to look back on your life and see that everything really did happen at the right time and for the right reasons. There may actually be plan that we don't know about.

Only one of my relationships actually ended because of supposed bad timing--the one with Brad. He had just ended a seven-year engagement and said he couldn't handle getting serious with anyone. I suppose you could say the teacher was a timing issue too. After all, who knows what would have happened if he hadn't gotten married before us meeting? But I still think that with Brad, something deeper was wrong--for both us us most likely. I didn't trust him, and he didn't feel the depth of love for me that he though he should. That's not timing. That's just people. With the teacher, I never could have handled him in a relationship. It was nice to fantasize about at the time, and it was nice to feel that connection. But we would have butted heads too much. His wife is probably the best person for him. Plus, in getting to know what he was like married (flirted with his students), I could see exactly what I wasn't missing. Again, people, not timing.

Hank was timing. It was also people. We met because of great timing. We stayed together because of who we are. Both matter. So, here's to good timing, including preparing for a party that will now start in less than two hours. Wish me luck.

Hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 37: Sugar and Spice

Love, love, love everything about this outfit. The bag makes me drool, and the trench is on my next-to-buy list. I have multiple lists, if you're wondering, only one of which--the "need" list--Hank knows about and approves of--until now, that is. He said to me the other day, "You simply can't buy more clothes, because there's nowhere to put them." Men are so naive. We can ALWAYS make room. Speaking of shopping, this would be a great ensemble to do it in--everything is easy to take off (sexual pun intended). For that reason I'm calling it, "Sale!"

"And then I realized it. What was wrong was, for the first time in my life, I was in a relationship where absolutely nothing was wrong." Carrie

Well, this episode is a doosy. I don't think anyone actually says that anymore, but I'm taking a chance. The big question is: Is there such thing as a relationship being too easy? Do we need drama to stay interested? Do we prefer men to be unavailable?

Carrie is getting in deep with Aidan, and things are smooth sailing. However, she finds herself getting antsy. When Aidan asks her to meet his parents, she freaks out and accuses him of being too available. Over the next few days, when Aidan doesn't return her messages and Carrie spots Big and Natasha at the opera, Carrie realizes what a great guy Aidan is and vows to let him know...starting off with meeting his parents. Charlotte decides to approach dating like business, so she starts networking, asking her married friends to hook her up with eligible bachelors. In a twist of fate, a friend's husband declares his love for her, totally throwing her off. She runs from the bar and right in front of a cab carrying Trey, who she begins to date. Miranda loves living with Steve and the intimacy they've developed. She even enjoys doing his laundry--until she sees stains in his underwear. Just as she starts to wonder if their romance is dying and things are becoming monotonous, Steve shakes it up in the bedroom. Samantha dates a doctor who takes Viagra recreationally, and she decides to try it. After she becomes addicted, the doctor cuts her off from the sex, but writes her a prescription for the medicine.

This kind of episode makes me almost uncomfortable, I can relate so much. I know what it's like to feel like something is wrong because nothing is wrong. I know what it's like to want to chase the only man in the room who doesn't seem interested in you. Does everyone? Hank says that good guys know the following truth: when they're too nice, the woman becomes disinterested and leaves them for a bad boy. Maybe there's something in all of us that yearns for challenge and problem solving. And you can't solve problems that aren't there.

When I was with stable men (and I can literally divide most of the men I've dated into two categories: stable and unstable), I was often restless. Like Carrie, I wondered if there wasn't something wrong, something we weren't seeing that would cause us to be incompatible in the end. In two of those stable relationships, I eventually left the men. One I even left for a bad boy, just like Hank's theory, and before I left, I had been fantasizing about another bad man. I just figured I wanted things to be romantic, and romance meant drama.

However, when I was in the relationships with the unstable dudes, I always felt horrid. I never knew what they were thinking, how they felt, or what was going to happen. Sometimes I didn't even know if the guy was going to come home that night. I took anti-anxiety meds at one point to be able to sleep and felt like killing myself a couple of times.

Last year, tired of my relationship cycles (bad man leads to rebound good man, which leads to boredom and another bad man), I decided to figure out what was going on. I felt crazy and terrified that I was going to be going through this pattern for the rest of my life (bad marriage leads to rebound good marriage, etc).

First, I went to a psychiatrist, who told me I had ADHD. I knew that wasn't right, as I exhibited only 15% or so of the signs, and no one had ever told me I had a problem with attention. Then, I went to a psychologist, who let me cry in her office twice a week. It was wonderful, but I didn't know where it was going. I wanted serious answers. As a last resort, I started seeing a neurologist, who got me into "neurofeedback" therapy, or training your brain.

Before starting, I took a long test, which included an IQ test and other measures of problem solving abilities and creativity. I discovered that I am part of a very small percentage of people who have highly developed problem solving skills--yeah, yeah, you may say, but bear with me. According to this doctor, one of the characteristics of these people is a tendency towards boredom--in every facet of life. They often switch majors (had three before deciding on history), careers (have never been able to decide), partners (nuff said), and location (Do you know anyone who went to five undergraduate schools? Really?) like clothes (which I also switch a lot). And they are so analytical that anxiety--read: over-thinking and over-worrying even when it's clearly not necessary, just to keep the brain busy--is a close friend. In fact, it often seems these people have a personality disorder, even though they don't (so there). The trick is getting the mind to focus and stay with one thing at a time until completion, even if it's something really boring, and to keep anxiety (the same anxiety that fuels a sudden "Switch!") at bay. That's where the therapy comes into play.

When I heard this, I started bawling. I had never had someone sum up my entire life history in 15 minutes. I hadn't even told him anything, just taken the test. After 30 sessions of playing games while hooked up to electrodes (it's not as strange as it sounds; believe me I was worried more than anyone), I started to notice some very minor changes. When I sat down to practice the piano, I didn't have five conversations going on in my mind. I could have just the one--about how I was playing the measures I was playing in that moment. It felt nice.

What does this have to do with relationships? Maybe nothing. Even before therapy, I always chose the stable men in the end. I was never okay with the hard-to-get guys for long, and I think if I were really a drama addict, I would have put up with more than I did. I almost seemed to push them away in an effort to save myself. But I'll never forget what the doctor told me in his office that first day after I took my test. When I recounted the history of my love life, he mentioned the importance of keeping a committed relationship interesting. He said, "If you start to get bored, tell your partner. Then, you can spice things up." It was so refreshing. For the first time in my life, I thought, "Maybe I really can have it both ways."

I think what he said holds true for everyone. Nobody's relationship is interesting all of the time. If it was, we would all be exhausted from the drama and unable to drive or type up a spreadsheet for work, much less be socially stable human beings. But a little spice never hurt anyone. In fact, spice is nice. Really nice. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have that combination (even though I complain to Hank that we bicker too much). Too perfect is boring. Too complicated is tiring. But right in the middle? That's a little slice of coupledom heaven.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 36: What's in a Number?

Speaking of numbers, the number of pieces in this ensemble is lower than usual. The dress makes such a statement that it doesn't need much. Even without the necklace, the accessories would be sufficient, but I like to add a little pendant necklace to every v-neck. That's just me. Because it's safari-inspired, we'll call it "Chillin' Outback."

I think I have an ulcer, because my stomach has been on fire for a good three days now. In fact, I didn't really get up much today but to eat the occasional Salteen and soup. Apparently, my addictions to Starbucks, Siracha, and stress have all conspired against me. It didn't help that we had spaghetti two nights in a row. Tomatoes are notorious for tearing your stomach up. So now, I am lying down as I write (talk about commitment), trying to take deep breaths and focus on the classical music playing in the background (Thanks, Hank). I am not allowed to have citrus, alcohol, caffeine, spice, and cheese for a few days, doctor's orders (which would also be my mother's orders). This is incredibly bad timing, as we have good friends coming to dinner tomorrow, one of whom is a sommelier and promises to bring amazing wine. Damn. Also, Friday is my birthday, and we're planning to eat at a Brazilian steakhouse (incomplete without wine) that night and have a dessert and wine party on Saturday. Triple damn.

Today's episode examines the idea of slutdom, specifically asking, "When it comes to sex, how many partners is too many?" Carrie's new boyfriend says he wants to wait a while before hopping into bed, which makes Carrie worry that he isn't into her. After four or so more dates, they sleep together, which dispels her worries and makes the waiting worthwhile. Miranda discovers she has an STD and has to write down and call all her past partners, all 42 of them. Steve then gets tested. His results are negative, remarkable considering his "number" is over 60. Samantha has a 2 am caller, who accidentally lets a robber into her high-security building. The other residents blame the resulting robbery on Samantha, since she's always buzzing in different men late at night. Rather than stay and take the flack, Samantha moves to a part of town where she'll never be criticized for her lifestyle. Charlotte dates a man who unknowingly screams out during sex that she's a whore. For a brief moment she wonders if he's right, but the two ultimately decide it's he who needs sexual reformation.

I have thought a lot about what the number of people we sleep with says about us. Some of my friends have never slept with anyone. One friend has only slept with her husband. Some have made it a point to sleep with as many men as possible before marriage, reasoning that if men can do this, why can't they. Most of the women I know are somewhere in between.

I don't have a real feeling one way or the other about what's the best way to go. Part of me is jealous of the intimacy my friend who was abstinent until marriage must have with her husband. Part of me wishes my number was lower, even though it's not very high (and, no, I'm not telling it here). But the bigger part of me knows I couldn't have done that if I had tried (which I didn't). I was always too curious, too rebellious, and too romantic. That said, most of the sex I've had has been in relationships--or in the hopes of having a relationship. I never really understood the concept of trying to establish good sexual technique with someone you know you'll never see again. And if it's not going to be good sex, why bother at all? That's my argument for having wise sex--sex that hopefully has some emotional fulfillment beyond the two hours in bed one night. Without this guideline for myself, I think I would have become jaded long ago.

But if I were single living in a big city like New York, where relationships are the exception not the rule, would I be able to have casual sex in order to have sex at all? Does a woman have to be okay with casual sex to have a social life in today's society? Sex seems like part of the dating process these days. Let's face it: you are considered prudish if you won't sleep with a man by date 3 or so. And that means, if you don't want to rack up your number, you had better know pretty soon on whether it's serious or not. That's hard to do, especially in places where the options for partners are infinite and no one wants to settle. Even if the guy wants to wait--like Aidan in the episode--how do you decide when is too early? Is there such thing as too late? If you're waiting to have sex until you know a person really well, could you be waiting forever?

I think of Arnold, the first man I was engaged to. He wanted to wait until marriage. We fooled around, but we didn't have sex for an entire year, even when we were living together with his mother. By that time, I had lost interest. Plus, he had asked me to marry him a month into our relationship, as if that would make the waiting easier to take. It just made me neurotic and sex deprived. When I broke up with him the first time, I immediately went out with a Russian guy who was in one of my classes at school. He had a you-know-what the size of my pinky finger--I kid you not--but at that point I didn't care. After that affair fizzled out, Arnold wanted to get back together. When we did, we decided to have sex. I just couldn't take what felt like living a lie (there was no "saving myself" going on anymore, that I knew). The sex was terrible, and I wished I would have found that out a hell of a lot sooner. Besides, I nearly hated him by this point, which I'm sure didn't help matters.

My point is not to not wait. But if you're in a healthy relationship, I think part of the healthfulness is being free to be sexually expressive. Even if you're just sleeping around casually, I'm not sure there is much correlation between whether or not the relationship works out and whether or not you wait to have sex. Either the pair works or it doesn't, and I'm not sure having sex early on makes much of a difference. Many couples I know (including the one I'm in) slept together on their first date, and things have worked out well for them (and us). Maybe waiting works for some people, but waiting too long just seems like a waste of time and good, healthy sexual energy. Again, that's just me.

So, maybe the sex goes somewhere. Maybe it doesn't. However you roll, does the number matter? I think it only matters to the person who has it, meaning each person is having the amount of sex that is right for them, in the way that's right for them. For some that may mean waiting for marriage. For me, that means sex with the potential for a relationship. I don't really care how many partners that ends up being. For others, it may mean sex with the potential for orgasm, and that's cool too. Anyway, who's counting? Seriously.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 35: Deal or No Deal

I'm not crazy about this outfit. I love certain things about it--both the shoes and the bag are now on my lust list (of course I have one)--but the ensemble is pretty conservative and not that interesting. It's not supposed to be. Since I'm starting a new job soon (training begins next week), I need to start focussing my clothing combining (and shopping) efforts on work-appropriate staples. For a person who lives primarily in jeans, you can imagine the stress this is causing. Anyway, this fits the bill, while still allowing for some personality. Wear the top and buttons of the cardigan open, and belt it. Because four of the pieces are from J. Crew, and because I'm feeling a little feisty, I'm calling it "Oh yeah? J. Crew You."

I have been out of town for two days. That's no excuse for not writing, since I have also been back in town now for two days. Because my posts are getting more sporadic, and I am thus getting a little scared about making the deadline, I'm going to be posting daily for a while. That's good news for those of you who read religiously and bad news for the rest of you schmucks.

“He raped my face. I’m never seeing him again.” Charlotte

Deal breakers. That's today's subject. Charlotte dates a bad kisser and dumps him after failing to teach him a better smooching style. Carrie develops a crush on Aidan, an up-and-coming furniture designer. Their first date goes great, until he tells her he can’t date a smoker. She decides it’s time to quit. Miranda comes face to face with Steve’s other love: basketball. He gets picked to shoot a half-court shot for $1 million bucks and doesn’t appreciate Miranda’s lack of excitement. He says he needs her to believe in him more—and them in general--if it’s going to work. To voice her support, Miranda shows up for his practice and cheers him on. Samantha dates a black guy whose sister doesn’t approve. After he refuses to stand up to his sister, Samantha decides her deal breaker is backing down to bullying family members.

After watching this episode, I tried to make a mental list of my big no-nos. I don’t think I’ve been picky enough in my life, because I couldn’t think of many. Being an alcoholic, treating your family like shit, and being in a cult-like organization should be reasons to leave someone. Unfortunately, they've never been for me. I guess my biggest criteria was always that the guy be smart and nice, and I was pretty liberal with those label. I've also probably given up on truly nice men for stupid reasons, like he was obsessed with the state of Hawaii (true story) or I had to correct his grammar.

But even beyond the little stuff, though, before Hank, something always made me leave. Here's my attempted breakdown of the WHYs. This is as much for me as it is for you. Actually, it's not for you at all. I'm sorry about that.

John: First real boyfriend. High school. Although he drank too much, chewed, and made occasional derogatory remarks about womens’ abilities, the reason I dumped him was a combination of the following factors: he cheated on me, I wanted more romantic experiences, and I decided there was no way I was going to a state school for college (famous last words). But the deal breaker was the cheating.

Brad (the first time): He cheated, and I cheated. As if one deal breaker weren't enough.

Arnold: It wasn’t the puss-exuding acne. It wasn’t that he was terminally ill, unemployed, obsessed with Korean yoga, or lived with his mother (who hated me). It wasn't that he wanted me to skip out of my semester abroad in Vienna (which I will never forgive him for) and quit school to go to doctor's appointments with him "if I really loved him." It wasn't even that he asked me to marry him within a month and wanted to wait until marriage to sleep together (eek). Neither was it that he immediately postponed the wedding, because he said he eventually wanted to experience a same-sex relationship. No, it was none of these. It was all of these. Deal breaker: self-centeredness (though bad acne doesn't help).

Travis: This one is harder. I cheated. Though that wasn’t a deal breaker for him, it was for me. I figured if I wasn't excited enough to be with him--if I didn't really fear losing him--than it wasn't worth trying to build back the trust. In fact, sometimes I think I cheated just as a way to end things. I couldn't find a reason to let go otherwise. He was smart, committed, respected his family, and was cute in a Charlie Brown kind of way. He didn’t have any glaring issues. We had similar interests, and we got along well. But I didn't love him, at least not enough. I didn’t want to plan my life with him. I didn't even like when he held my hand. Deal breaker: not being in love (and you know when you are). To me, it may just be the most important thing—the thing that makes all the crap of relationships worth it.

Dr. H: I haven't mentioned him before. He was my second piano professor in college. What started as a very benign, working friendship grew into something much more. During lessons, he would tell me how wonderful I was and that he loved me, all while blushing. He talked to me about his personal life and asked for my advice. When I realized I was falling for him, I told him my feelings (to which he said, "I hear ya.") and that I had to leave. I stopped lessons with him and started with another professor, but those feelings remained for a while. Eventually I came to see that he had violated professional boundaries. In fact, he was really just a sleezeball with a charming and sensitive side and had played on my vulnerability and adoration. But none of that mattered anymore. It wasn't why I didn't pursue him at the time. It also wasn't because he was a professor. Deal breaker: he was married.

Bobby: He smoked. He was an alcoholic and spent much of our money on vodka. He occasionally did cocaine. When we fought, he would criticize my fashion sense (the nerve) and tell me I wasn’t that pretty. He was a jerk to his family. Though he broke up with me first (to this day, I think I was under a black magic spell), he later begged me to get back together. I said no. Why? He was willing to let me go the first time, and I had met someone else. He had also come to my house one week earlier, knife in hand, to drop off pictures of us that he had smashed, threatening to kill the other guy if he saw him. It made the choice between them really easy. Deal breaker: Violence.

Jorge: He was quiet, sensitive, caring, and was fluent in three languages. We laughed a lot together. He loved his family and let them know. We liked similar movies, music, and books. He was a genuinely "nice" person. But I wasn't that attracted to him. He had long hair that got greasy sometimes, and he didn't floss, which consequently made his mouth a valley of cavities. He didn't see a problem with it. I hated that I did. He also didn't really like having sex. He said he just wasn't sexual. I was, but found myself backing away. Who knows what started it all. We kept fighting more and more, and neither of us wanted to move to each others' countries to make it work. He had his ambitions (to work in Argentina and later move to Canada), and I had mine (to finish school in Montana). We were always more like brother and sister--or just friends--and that's not good enough. I loved him as a person, but it wasn't enough. Deal breaker: lack of sexual attraction.

And that's it. Of course, there are a million little deal breakers I'm sure I have and don't even know it. The biggest thing this all shows me? That old saying is true: "If you don't love someone, the way he holds his fork will drive you crazy. If you love him, he could drop his spaghetti in your lap, and you wouldn't mind." And so it goes.

I hope you'll be back (tomorrow). I will.

Day 34: The Other Side

Black tunics are one of God's gifts to women. I bought one like this at a Christmas sale and have worn it on at least ten occasions since. Combining ease, flattery, and comfort, it's perfect for everything from running errands to doing laundry. It has become my go-to item when I'm faced with a quick decision of what to wear, especially around the house, where I've been a lot the past few months. The combo of the scarf and necklace is one of my current loves. I don't know if it conforms to fashion rules or not, but I don't care. I think it looks grand. For this reason, I'm calling this outfit, "To Scarf or Not to Scarf?" It applies to eating the flourless chocolate cake I made Hank for Valentine's Day, too.

It's funny what being newly employed can do to a person's psyche. This week feels like the week after college final exams: there's no longer any pressure, but there's also not much motivation to move my ass. The day after accepting the FT job offer from the department store, I basked in the glory of not having to feel guilty for the half of each day I was writing, "researching" (browsing online sites for photos), walking Bela, and going to lunch with friends. "Finally," I thought with delight, "I have a whole week to do what I want." I envisioned finishing my book, potting our plants, and taking old clothes to the thrift store. I imagined having time and energy to do my taxes for a whole day sans stress.

And what did I do this morning? I took a leisurely shower and cleaned the kitchen. When I finished, it was noon. Half of one of my days was gone and I hadn't accomplished anything on my list! It seems that having more time to do things isn't necessarily a good thing. But I'm resolved to kick myself into high gear this afternoon.

"I'm a tri-sexual. I'll try anything once." Samantha

"Jeez, Miranda, it's like you're the guy sometimes." Steve

Today's episode concerns bisexuality and gender. Carrie dates a younger guy who plays for both teams and introduces her to his equally liberal friends. They play spin the bottle at a party, and Carrie ends up kissing a girl. She leaves the group and her date after realizing she'll never fit in in Bi Land. Charlotte gets in touch with her inner masculinity when she poses as a man for a up-and-coming artist who believes gender is an illusion. Miranda and Steve run into problems when Steve suggests that he move in. Miranda feels suffocated and scared and wonders why. Carrie comes up with a theory that in every relationship, one person is the alpha dog, and Miranda's it. Unwilling to lose the man she loves, Miranda decides to accept her nature and move forward with Steve by having him move in. Samantha fights a gender battle with her new assistant, who seems to think he's boss. She fires him, and the two take their intensity to the bedroom.

Growing up in conservative, rural Montana, I was taught that there were gay people (who I had never seen) and normal people. The term "bisexual" wasn't even in my vocabulary. You were supposed to be nice to gay people (if you ever met them), but that didn't mean that you had to understand or agree with them. However, I also came from a household where the woman made almost as much money as the man (now she makes more), and the man wrote amazing poetry. After years of worldly experience, I have come to the grand and definitive conclusion that sexuality is not easily defined--perhaps not even definable at all--and that my childhood lessons were a bunch of crap. There's no normal. I have also developed a strong appreciation for powerful women and sensitive guys.

One summer during college, I lived with family friends, Bert and Gloria, in Seattle while I attended classes. Gloria had been in a relationship with a woman for eleven years before marrying Bert. They had one of the healthiest marriages I knew. One day, we got to talking about Gloria's history. They said they saw sexuality as a continuum, on which everyone falls somewhere--some maybe more homosexual, some more heterosexual, others more in the middle. Bert said that though he had only been with women, he had wondered at times what it would be like to be with a man.

Their theory blew my mind. Could it really be that there didn't have to be definite labels? Were some people simply more curious or sexual than others? Shortly after my discussion with Bert and Gloria, I met Arnold, now my ex-fiance, who said he had also always wanted to try same-sex sex, even though he didn't consider himself bisexual. Last year, a ex-coworker mentioned that she always had boyfriends and girlfriends at the same time, because they served different purposes. Uultimately, though, she wanted to marry a man. She didn't consider herself bisexual, either, just sexual.

Sexuality is complicated, whether we like it or not. Once, after drinking too much and getting high for the only time in my life, I kissed a gay male friend, and we both enjoyed it. He said he would probably even sleep with me (we didn't), even though he said he was definitely gay. How do you even try to explain that?

A friend recently told me that in Native American culture, there is such thing as a two-spirit person--a berdache--somebody who embodies both genders by choosing to be a "third gender." Historically, these people took on work and traits of both females and males, though they were physically either one or the other. Apparently, sometimes this included homosexuality, but not always.

I know men who like fashion even more than I do, who aren't gay. Well, that's not really true. But it could be. I also know women who have bad tempers (guilty), are afraid of commitment (guilty), suck at cooking (okay, not guilty), and cry less than their husbands (again, no, though I'm no sissy, either). And that is true.

For me, it's just easier to take a liberal stance that says each person has his or her own truth and experience of life, and this applies to both sexuality and gender. People express themselves differently, and while there may be some general scientific truths regarding gender and sexuality--women usually have more estrogen than men, and some children are attracted to the same sex at a very early age--much cannot be explained. I think accepting this is easier than trying to form a sexual philosophy that's not encompassing enough. What good would it do anyway?

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 33: Rock That Body, Baby

This dress is magical, really. Before coming up with this outfit, I paired the dress with four different sets of shoes, bags, and jewelry. All combinations looked fabulous, if I do say so myself. For a formal but not too formal affair--think brunch with the in-laws or a bridal shower--you could wear soft pink peep-toes with a simple coin purse in a similar color and a cream shawl. For a fancier event like a wedding, pair it with heeled, gold strappy sandals, a sparkly gold clutch, and a "fur" coat. The ensemble pictured here was the edgiest one I came up with. I love it, because it takes the red of the dress and runs with it. I'm calling it "Date Night Daring." You would never know there's a frilly, flowery, girly dress hiding behind all those Don't F*&^ With Me accessories.

I got a job. Just putting that out there right away. I don't know what it is yet, but I will know by tonight. After four months of searching, the employments gods are shining their weary faces upon me and giving me a chance to earn some dough--actually five chances. In the span of two days, I have encountered FIVE new job opportunities.

On Tuesday, I taught my first piano student (Job Opp. #1) after interviewing at a well known department store. On wednesday, I was offered the retail job (Opp. #2) and later met with a tutoring service to begin paperwork for a position helping college students with their ESL homework (Opp. #3). Today, I have an interview with a language school to be their primary administrative assistant. (I may or may not get offered a job. If I do, that's Opp. #4.) As I was preparing for this meeting this morning, a local wine and food emporium called, asking me to be their cashier--yes, that's the same position that I was overqualified for a week ago...What a difference a week makes (Opp. #5).

So. Hmm. I am thankful and overwhelmed. While waiting to make a decision feels stressful, no matter what happens, I will hopefully not be searching Craig's List for a long while. Thank God. Literally.

Miranda: "Do you have a rolling pin?"

Carrie: "On me?"

Miranda: "In your kitchen?"

Carrie: "Are you kidding me? I use my oven for storage."

Subject: women's self esteem and body issues. Today's episode might be the most relevant one out there. Carrie meets Big's new wife in a fitting room, coming face-to-face with Natasha's tall, slender figure. Carrie proceeds to develop an inferiority complex. Then, she gets a thank you note from Natasha for attending a luncheon in which the latter has spelled "there" as "their." Carrie revels in being better than Natasha at something. Miranda hires a conservative housekeeper who tries to rid the house of sin--subbing Miranda's tea for coffee, hiding her vibrator, etc. Eventually Miranda reads her the riot act, and the housekeeper makes an offering of peace--a plate full of condoms by the bed. Charlotte hates her thighs but forces herself to go naked in a women's sauna. She feels glorious when a woman compliments her for having perfect breasts. Samantha books a massage appointment with a guy she hears performs sexual favors. When he fails to deliver, Samantha makes a move. Faced with being banned from the spa, she rats him out, leading to his being fired and making her much hated among her fellow female spa-goers.

How any of the four characters can have body issues is beyond me, but I think the episode illustrates something powerful about the female experience. When it comes to women and their bodies, we're our worst critics. We may know that there is no perfect body out there, but it doesn't make swimsuit season any easier. Even though we realize that perfect is relative, we always find a way to focus on what could be better about ourselves--what's not right. Just last week I was reading Glamour, and SJP was talking about how she refuses to wear shorts and turtlenecks. I immediately thought, "Great. If she can't wear shorts, who can?"

Like many women, I've had body issues my entire life. I think I inherited them from my mother, who was always complaining about how fat she was and how much she needed to lose weight. It was kind of fun to be in her 'club,' talking about dieting and bodies. I started dieting with her when I was 13. (I do not recommend the grapefruit diet.) I didn't really even know why I hated my body, but I did.

While I've come to terms with my figure--I am an hourglass, and I will always have big hips, so I might as well take advantage of them--I still find myself fretting. Like Charlotte, I hate my thighs. When I look at my legs, I only see cellulite. For that reason, I will not wear skirts that hit mid-thigh. Ever. I wear shorts only around the house. On the rare past occasions that I wore something shorter out in public, I thought about my legs 40% of the time, which was no fun at all. So I quit.

That's why, when I first met Hank and he said he loved my legs, I thought "Ah, what a little love will do." I thought he couldn't possibly be serious. My butt? Maybe. My waist? Okay, it's a good feature. My feet and hands? Now, there are my four favorite body parts. But my legs?! No way.

I still don't really believe him. However, something strange recently happened. I was leafing through pictures the other day, and I came across one I sent him of me in a bathing suit and new high heels. Wait a minute. My legs looked good. The photo was taken when I was about seven pounds lighter than now (damn co-habitation) and was running every day. At that time, though, all I could see was what was wrong with them, just like I do now. Is it really like that Baz Lehrman saying that we can only see how fabulous we looked when we're looking back? Why is it so hard to accept our bodies the way they are right now?

Maybe the trick is to look at it like Carrie finally does, taking the focus away from the body and onto more lasting traits like intelligence and personality. Perhaps the goal is to see what unique things we each have to offer the world, not in comparison to what someone else offers, but just because we're being a friend to ourselves. Speaking of which, how about trying to see ourselves the way our friends do--see the traits other women admire most in us, including things about our bodies?

Like with a certain male body part, it's not about what you have but about how you use it. Besides, in fifty years we'll all only be able to see the good stuff. Why not start now?

I hope you'll be back. I will. With a job.

Day 32: The Politics of Love

There are a few things in fashion that no matter how hard I search for, I can't seem to find. For example, a little black dress. I have my go-to Susanna Monaco tube top I bought five years ago and still love. But besides that, the LBD department is hurting. I have searched for hours on the internet, browsed through hundreds of dresses, and that perfect one still proves elusive. The reasons are always changing. The skirt is too short. It looks cheap. It's perfect but too expensive. I am hoping to find one before I'm 60.

The simple, silk, slip dress has been equally difficult to hunt down but for an entirely different reason: there aren't any options. The perfect piece is a slip without all the lace and frills. It preferably comes in a color besides nude, black, and white (these just look like slips), and it has seemless/detail-free straps (again, adjustable straps give away that it's a slip). It also can't be too short.

After entering "slip dress" and "slips" on all my favorite shopping sites and then finally on google, I found a total of three candidates. Three! This one is from Avon. Avon! I would have bought it, but I'm not crazy about the color. Desperate, I found myself in Victoria's Secret the other day (the actual store for once), scouring the racks for a long slip I could get away with wearing out. Nope. So, if you find one, please save me from my fashion fixation. Until then, I'm calling this lovely evening outfit "Slip it to Me."

"(FDR was) so busy picking out a hat, he forgot to get in the war." Miranda, after Carrie remarks that all the best presidents wore hats

Carrie dates a minor political star and gets a first hand taste of political campaigning. (She also, for reasons I don't understand, feels the need to transform her entire wardrobe into Jackie-O-mania.) Things go well until Mr. Left-wing makes a sexual request: that Carrie pee on him in the shower. Gross. Needless to say, it doesn't last. Samantha dates a "very short person" (not a midget, mind you) and finds out that what he lacks in height he makes up for in the bedroom. Charlotte begins her Find a Husband campaign. She throws a party for girlfriends and the men they're no longer interested in, hoping to meet a great (second-hand) guy. She does, but his ex turns out to still be interested, too. Miranda can't decide if she wants to be exclusive with Steve and, in the name of being politically correct, decides to make a pro/con list of his traits. Her list and her doubts fly out the window when Steve says how much he loves her.

Maybe it's because America is at heart still a Puritan society, always concerned with political correctness, but as I watched this episode, I started thinking about all of the times in relationships when politics are involved. There are certain times and ways to say things--like "I love you" and "I need some space." There are certain things you can never say--like "I hate your mother." (Don't worry, sweetie, I don't.) Some things are better said right at the start, such as "I'm really not interested in peeing on you." Some things are better saved for the right moments: "Do you want to move in together?" There are rules we don't even realize exist; we just know when they've been broken. For example, there's the guy that confesses his love on the second date or the woman who just forgets to tell you she is seeing someone else.

Yes, navigating the potential political pitfalls can be difficult. For some reason I never realized this before. I always thought that, like with Miranda and Steve, if there was love between two people, all the faux-pas didn't matter. If the love wasn't there, one person could be as politically perfect as could be, and the other person wouldn't care. In essence, it was all about the love.

While I don't disagree with this now, I'm learning that even in the most love-filled unions, political correctness helps. For instance, if I tell Hank I hate his music, we have a bad night. If I tell him that I feel anxious with his music on in that moment, and can we please change the station to something we both will feel good about, and that it's completely my issue, I get a much better response. Politics, people. (You may just think it's politeness, but politeness and politics are are pretty damn similar in my book.)

Another example? Let's just hypothetically say that even though I want to meet Hank's extended family, I'm not ecstatic about attending his huge family reunion this summer. Will I go? Yes, of course. Why? Well, partly because I love him and want to make him happy, and partly because I'm asking him to go to a wedding with me in April. Really, how different is this from pleasing your constituents and making political alliances based on mutual benefits? (If you're wondering, I pulled those terms out of my ass. They're things my father is always saying. He would be proud.)

I'm not advocating dishonesty. Don't get me wrong, there's such thing as saying a bunch of words without saying anything. But being the straight-forward and intense (read: crass) person I am, I must say that even if the love is there, and you know the person would put up with you just the way you are (and he does 80% of the time), a little forethought about what you say goes a long way. Love is still the most important, but politics sure pays off.

I hope you'll be back. I will.