Say it With Me, "I'm Not the Exception..."

Last night, I finally saw He's Just Not That Into You. Loved. Loved. Loved.

Before disclosing why, first, let just me say that I have always made fun of the book on which the movie is based. I've said it's for women who are a little dense. (Like I've written countless times, if you think you need to purchase or read that book, you already know he's not into you, come on now.) The reality is, I didn't want to believe that I too am a little dense. We all know the answer. You know, to that nagging question this book and movie asks again and again:"Does the guy who kinda-sorta treats me like his girlfriend or something but I'm not sure if I really am, actually like me?" The answer, of course, is always, and will always be, one simple word. No. No. He's clearly just not that into you. We've all asked ourselves this question. I did so pretty much daily while I was in college. And, similar to my perspective on the book itself, if you have to even ask yourself that question, you know the answer.

I'll say it again: No.

For some reason we do need a book to tell us this. To put a mirror up to those tendencies women have, which are often ridiculous and unfounded in reality, and reinforce yet another thing we already know, that we're crazy. As the movie showed, our girlfriends are often no help. We don't have the heart to tell each other the truth. Sorry, honey, he's not into you. So we make excuses--maybe he was just tired, maybe his phone died, maybe he is going to call you after he gets home from work. Maybe he really likes you, he's just scared to show you. Maybe he's waiting for the perfect moment to ask you to be his girlfriend/propose/take you on that vacation.

Men don't plot the way we do. As Jerry Seinfeld said in one of his stand-up shows, here is what men are really thinking about: "Nothing." If they aren't seeming interested, they certainly aren't strategizing the best way to win us over. The movie offered one critical piece of advice (which may or may not be in the book, I haven't read it.) None of us are the exception. There is no maybe, no excuse. There are a couple simple truths:

1. If a guy wants to see you, he will find a way to make it happen.

2. If he's treating you like you're not important to him, you're not important to him.

3. If he says he doesn't want to be in a relationship, he does not want to be in a relationship.

and, just to say it:
4. If he doesn't seem like he is that into you, he's just not that into you.

We don't want to believe these things because they are hurtful. So, instead, our minds work against rational thought. In addition to our girlfriends helplessly supplying us with hope (can you blame them?) we tell ourselves all kinds of lies. We build up false expectations, we fantasize, we turn men into gods. Very unhealthy. When I lived in New York, my boyfriend at the time was filming a documentary all over the country. Valentine's Day weekend he was slated to be in Utah. He called me from the set that day. But a little part of me hoped, dreamed, yes, even believed, that maybe he wasn't really out in the snow with a camera slung over his shoulder. Maybe he was at JFK, right then, about to jump into a cab to surprise me. This is what I call the "rose on the doorstep" fantasy. That one day, I'll come home and find something waiting there. Or that some kind of unprompted, surprise romantic gesture will seismically occur. It's completely irrational and unfounded in any sort of reality. A gal can dream, right?

In the movie, such an event takes place and surprise, surprise, it was my favorite part and I almost cried. (If you've seen the movie, it was the part where Ben Affleck magically appears in the kitchen. If you haven't, go see it.) I loved this part because it was a rose on the doorstep. It was one of those situations you dream about but don't tell anyone. It was one of those situations you dream about that never happens.

I don't want to stop dreaming. I don't want to crush the part of me that's a hopeless romantic. But I have to remember, I am not the exception. I am the rule.

Of course, this movie (and the book) is not the gospel. I'm sure there are exceptions. But I think this bold, straight-forward perspective is important to remember. There is nothing wrong with hoping, as long as it is somewhat rooted in reality. If anything, the film is a good reminder to not just say what our girlfriends want to hear and to be honest (and gentle, of course), when they ask our advice. Most importantly, we need to be honest with ourselves.

MORE Job Search Gems

Here are the jobs I could have applied for this week:

#1: MYSTERY SHOPPER!!! Hidden shopper jobs available. Serious applicants only. Contact Monica for more information.

What is this?! Hidden shopper? I kinda wanna email Monica and get some details. I love both secrets and shopping.

#2: Preschool Bathroom Attendant (Manhattan Bch): A large preschool in Manhattan Beach that serves children ages 2-9 seeks two part time people to work primarily outside to supervise children at the bathroom.

This posting sounds like a trap. Not to be pessimistic or anything (though, it is my job), but I can't imagine anyone applying for this job. Except pedophiles. Oh yes, I said it.

#3: REPUTABLE DOWNTOWN NIGHTCLUB SEEKING MALE GO-GO DANCERS (Downtown LA)
Straight nightclub in Downtown LA seeks male dancers for Friday night gig. Large, busy club, well-established clientele, safe environment. You must be:, TONED!, tall (no shorter than 5'8" please!), able to dance to house, hip hop, rock, latin pop, rock, etc.

I'm only missing two things, four inches in height and a penis.

#4: Looking for Pasta Cook: Pasta cook at a casual Italian restaurant for the lunch hours in downtown Los Angeles in the fashion district.

I make a mean spaghetti. And I like to eat pasta. Totally qualified.

My other option this week: Egg donation. Lots of postings for that. Pays well (sometimes $10K). Really, my only aversion is the physical pain part of it and the weird hormones I'd have to take. "Having a kid out there" doesn't really bother me, the way it seems to irk most men when they contemplate donating sperm. I figure if someone wants a kid, and can't have one, and I have some good eggs, why not? But, right now, I'm too much of a baby to handle the invasive surgery part. We'll see if that changes when I am jobless in two months...

When Harry Met Sally

God I love this movie.

I have to watch movies on fast-forward for Janet's class (to understand the rhythm and variation of scenes) but I knew if I put this one on I would actually watch it and I'm glad I did.

Interestingly, I never thought my state of relationship would affect the way I watch romantic comedies. I don't think I've seen this movie without having a serious boyfriend or being in an officially-determined relationship. Watching it this morning made me both deliriously happy and sad simultaneously.

Harry and Sally fall in love over a period of a decade, which sounds like a lifetime to me, but this aspect of their courtship actually fills me with complete and utter hope. I like the idea of taking my time. Conversely, on the way there, both characters go through moments of despair, embarrassment, and confusion, reinforcing what I already know, that interacting with the opposite sex is full of those difficult moments, hard-to-read signals, game-playing, withheld feelings, lies, fights, and other completely awful things. I mean, Harry compares Sally to a dog at one point.

In a relationship, those not-so-fun aspects of love are dealt with together. You can, for example, easily call your boyfriend and find out exactly what he meant by some comment he made. He's obligated to listen. When one of you hangs up on the other person, you don't feel weird calling back. You, presumably, love each other. You have a safety net.

In the purgatorial waters of dating, that security doesn't exist. Watching the movie, I saw Sally going to her girlfriends for dissection and interpretation (which is almost always a bad idea, I've discovered). She's scared. And so am I. Scared of getting hurt, saying or doing the wrong thing, completely embarrassing myself (which I've learned at this point in my life is unavoidable so I just have to live with the fact that, yes, I will live in a perpetual state of mild humiliation).

Anyway, it was cathartic to watch the characters suffer and struggle. And it was purely delightful to get to the end and see Harry and Sally finally happy with themselves and each other. Life doesn't work so perfectly, of course, but I can't help but wish for the day when a man I love says to me something along the lines of that speech Billy Crystal delivers towards the end of the film:

I've been doing a lot of thinking and the thing is...I love you...I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

*Sigh*

Now that's worth waiting ten years for, in my opinion.

My Next Job

Well, I have a little less than six months before I am both devoid of health insurance and needing to pay back my student loans. As a precautionary measure, I started my job-search early. Here are my best bets:

1. Weed Abatement Compliance Work Needed: I have THOUSANDS of acres in different areas of Palmdale and Lancaster requiring weed abatement compliance work. If you are not familiar with the term, it is the clearing of brush and weeds on a certain amount of feet/yards around the properties to comply with the City's regulations for fire safety. Time is of the essence for this work, it needs to start and be completed as soon as possible.

Okay, good start. I used to weed with my dad in the backyard every weekend as a kid. Definitely don't mind getting my hands dirty.


2. Indoor Playground Attendant: Must like children and have own car. No experience necessary, will train.

Again, very good. Not sure why I need a car, but hey, can't complain about an indoor playground. Makes the little brats highly more tolerable. (I'm kidding, I love kids. And actually, this job would not be that bad...)


3. Singing Teacher: Prestigious acting school seeks teacher for Broadway Songs.

Awesome! This is what I'm talking about. Now, do I need to actually be able to sing? Or just know all the words? The students are supposed to do the singing, right?


4. I need models for events: Age range from 21-30. Very good looking, latin american appearance, however. blondes also. event is pay $25 per hr and modeling job like photos shoot is pay over $300 per day. i have big event every week, i really need models girls.

This post does not apply to me in any way. (Well, besides the "very good looking" part.) But I like the idea of just hanging out and getting $300. And I like the way this posting is worded--"latin american appearance, however." Not sure what this is insinuating. We know she is not going to get natural blondes.


5. Work Your Own Hours Selling Adult DVD: We provide the product, we ship the product, and we provide leads that have bought. Be your own boss, make $100 a day and go home or make $300 to $500 in a day by working hard. I need people that want to make money. If you want to work out of the house this is not for you. I move product like water and everyday something new comes in. Call Richard for an appointment. Don't email... I'm busy...

This is both depressing and awesome. One hundred bucks a day? Or $500 if I "work hard." I like Richard. "I'm busy." He's tough. He does not take your shit--or your emails. And he talks in both third AND first person.

And...I'm officially depressed. Time to go back to writing my memoir of the good ol' days of sorority invites, Theta lasagna, frat boys who never called, and making an idiot of myself. Please someone buy my book. Or be my agent. Or give me lots of money for no good reason. (Though, if you need a reason, I am very creative. We can work something out. And no, it will not involve lewd acts such as the one's on Richard's DVDs.)

Please, don't make me get a real job. Please let me write.

Good. Scary Good.

So...we got our writing notebooks in Janet Fitch's fiction class last night. I gave a brief overview of these notebooks last week, but basically our job in her class is to smell, taste, touch, see, and hear basically everything, describe it without cliche, and then describe it through other senses (as in, "What does that grilled pumpkin chillin in the warmer at Whole Foods sound like?), and THEN go from there to memories about whatever it is we are describing, and THEN maybe fiction. The process takes hours. But it makes me feel like a real writer.

Anyway. We type all of this stuff, print it, and put it in a notebooks for Janet's perusal. After class last night, she handed them back, with comments. When I got back to my place, M and I hunched over our notebooks at the kitchen table and read through, gaping at the pages.

Then, I saw it. Them. Two words: "scary good." OMG. OMG!!!!!!!!!

Those two words were better than any sex I've ever had (or witnessed in a movie--even the Titanic car scene with the slightly-awkward sweaty hand).* They were better than the chocolate souffle my mom made when I was eight. They were better than my dad's steak. Better than the sunset I saw last week, better than walking through the gates at Disneyland, better than turning on the radio and hearing the song that had been stuck in my head.

Because not only do I finally feel like a real writer, but I feel like a real writer thinks I might be a real writer too. I've not only chosen my vocation, I've been validated that I've made the right choice.

Scary good. Damn straight. And I'm totally not trying to brag here. I'm just really, really, REALLY excited about this. And the comment doesn't mean I'm the best writer ever or anything, it just makes me want to keep writing. Which, as my fellow writers know, can be a daily struggle in itself. Now whenever I want to throw my MacBook against our sliding-glass door, or cry, or send my whole book to the Recycle Bin, or do all three in sequence, I will remember two words: "scary good."

On a related note...who's coming with me to Squaw Valley this summer?

*Note: This comment should not insinuate that I haven't had good sex. So before ya'll comment, "oh, well, you must not know good sex, blah blah," let me clarify. What I'm saying is, the great sex I have had still does not compare to Janet's comments. It doesn't negate the sex, ok?

On repeat today:
"One Moment in Time" by Whitney Houston (yes, you are free to make fun of me.)
"Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money (to counteract current 80s power-ballad addiction.)

Focus.

It just kind of hit me this morning that I am in my last semester of grad school. I mean, I've been saying to people, "Wow, this is my last semester of grad school," for a couple weeks now, but the finality of the words smacked me in the face when I woke up this morning.

My thesis--a book--needs to be finished by July. I want this book to be good, not just acceptable, considering I've been working on it for two years. This weekend, I realized that more than anything in the world, I want this book published. If I never get married, but I have this book sitting on a shelf in Barnes and Noble, I will be completely satisfied in life. Which is ironic (I think) because the book is about young women wanting to get married, me specifically, which I why I started writing it. Apparently, I learned something in these two years. I'm still learning.

(On top of this, I discovered only have 11 weeks of formal writing classes left. I only have 11 more weeks of teaching, a fact that really depressed me as I typed those words. Truthfully, I have no idea what my life is going to be like come May 15, when I graduate. Job? Who knows. Agent? Hopefully, but we all know that's a big if. Sanity? I'll let you know. Anxiety? For sure.)

So, I've decided there is only one thing to do--embark on the course I thought I had set for myself when I became "single" in December. If this book is more important than anything else, why aren't I putting it first? I'm tightening the lens so there is only one person in the frame: me. I'm the person who will be depressed if my book doesn't turn out the way I dreamed it would. I'm the one who will stress if I can't find a job. If I don't invest in myself now, I'm the one who will be disappointed.

New plan: start depending on the only person I can ever truly count on, myself. And focus, focus, focus.

On my iPod today:

"Suddenly I See" by KT Tunstall
"Listen" by Beyonce (Dreamgirls soundtrack)
"The Sign" by Ace of Base
"Stronger" by Britney Spears

and...to torture myself..."With You" by Chris Brown

Deep Thoughts: Sunset Edition

For Janet Fitch's "Techniques of Fiction" class, we have to describe things like weather and textures and smells and then relate them to the psychological. Sometimes, I feel like I may have come up with something kinda smart. Here it is:


Whenever I see a sunset I wish there was someone with me. Pink-tinted butter cream frosting clouds spread over a clear blue sky. The sun is hidden, concealed by a carpet of gray. I know it is there from the color of the sky and the faint bars of rays ejecting underneath. Then the sun breaks like an egg yolk spreading over a hot pan, sprinkling the sea caps with light, transforming the sheen of the water to that of an 80s style taffeta prom dress.

The pinks radiates brighter as the sun goes down, maturing electric and vivid, while the blue fades paler. Soon the blue holds steady as a tinge and the pink is reduced to grayish fibers. The sky steeps to the color of iced tea and clouds shimmer like little smudgy islands, stacked on top of each other, layered like a cotton ball collage. My hands tingle slightly in the wind as I try to steady my pen.

I'm freezing, realizing it is way too cold to even consider walking to the beach at sunset in January. My towel, which I expected to sit on, is swathed around me. I had to turn it upside-down and face away from the beach in order to catch the right wind and quickly wrap it over my head and shoulders. Cold injects my ears, inciting a swift headache. I sit on the damp sand, my ears throbbing with coldness, I can’t think about anything, not even what this sunset is supposed to be or look like.

A Coldplay song sticks in my head. “No one ever said it was easy, no one said it would be this hard. I’ll take it back to the start.” When I look at the weather, especially a sunset, I feel so small. This is a good thing. When I sit on the beach, I am just a shortish girl huddled under an orange towel, cheeks whipped by a cold wind I can’t turn off or control. In our society we have weather channels, weather people, meteorologists, but one of our famous catchphrases is, “you can’t predict the weather.” We can’t predict anything. I spend a lot of time making predictions. Making big things out of nothing, finding the metaphor, even when “what is” is so simple I don’t need to search for some deeper meaning. I feel like everything does have meaning. Or that it should.

Maybe a sunset is like the Aristotelian triangle of rising action, climax, and then denouement. How about a love story in which two people are too anxious to get to a sunset's glowing pinks, forgetting they will no doubt fade into that iced tea tinge? What is the tinge of a relationship? It’s the stormy waters of having to have talks and discussions about feelings, which I always dread because I can never seem to say my feelings out loud, I can only feel them. Sometimes I can write them out, but after I do so, I want to go back and edit and explain and retract.

Maybe our purpose should be to just enjoy those deep, glowing pinks and end the loop in our heads warning us that the tinge is inevitable. Like love, sunsets are inherently complicated and miraculous and natural. They’re passionate and deep and changing. They can barely be described. You just look into them, humbled and awestruck, happy to have witnessed the shifting colors and textures of the sky.

They way two people feel about each other is always shifting and changing. Maybe those feelings don’t need to be dissected and autopsied. I certainly spend a great deal of time listening to my girlfriends trying to figure out why so-and-so called or didn't, what the time he called meant, if they will see these guys again. I spend a lot of time talking to my girlfriends, not about the specifics of what a guy says and does, but how I feel about him and what it means.

But what are we really talking about? Feelings with no names, manifestations of past expectations that weren't met, our fears? My mom says that young people today do too much talking about our feelings. That we should just feel them and get on with it. I am starting to agree.

I'm not sure if I'm doing this assignment correctly, but thanks, sunset, for sharing.

Think Again

Sometimes words and phrases are so ingrained into our culture that we don't realize how weird they are. Like, when I was a kid, I used to drink chocolate SlimFasts for breakfast. No, my mom didn't tell me I was fat and I didn't have a complex about my weight (I mean, not til high school like every other normal female, duh). I drank one with a balanced breakfast--it was just chocolate milk with lots of vitamins. Then, one day, I thought about the actual name--slim fast. Named as such because that's the goal of the drink. Wow, was I slow, or what?

This happened to me a lot as a kid. I would take a proper name at face value and not really think too much about where it came from or why something had that particular name. But it happens to me in adulthood as well. For example, yesterday, I spent a good five minutes pondering the following phrase, "Can you smell what The Rock is cooking?" I'm no wrestling fan, but, come on, no one got through middle school without hearing this in some form. I accepted it, both that boys my age couldn't resist bleating it on the playground, and the words themselves. But, for a popular catchphrase, it really doesn't make any sense. Rocks can't cook. I mean, if the phrase was, "Can you smell what The Chef is cooking?," that would be much more believable.

Some of these easily acceptable titles and phrases are just plain odd. The song, "It's Raining Men," for example. Would I really want men falling from the sky? Wouldn't they just splat on the ground? Am I taking this too literally?

Anyway, I guess there is no real point to this post, except to ask: has anyone else had this experience where you just accept something and then think about it later and realize how obvious that literal meaning you missed was?

Red Flags

We were supposed to be looking at each other in the light and touching each others hair (and of course writing about it for a grade, love love LOVE grad school!) but somehow conversation broke out among Meagan, Molly and I (weird, I know) and steered swiftly towards girl talk. Crazy how this happens.

Recently, conversations with my girlfriends have centered around how generally ignorant men are, so I decided to make a little list of red flags, culling from these talks. I'm doing this mainly because I don't want the Valentine's Day post to be the most recent one on here. (It's getting close to the actual day and I am feeling a little dumb for writing it, even more dumb for admitting that I actually like the holiday. Vulnerability is not my strong suit. But that's a whole other story...)

So here it goes--highlights from lowlifes. (Just FYI, none of these are my stories/anecdotes--I have borrowed and stolen them from others. And some are kinda "racy" so if you aren't into that, skip this one.)

A couple of these have questions attached. If anyone has insight, answers, further questions, feel free to share.

1. "It's cool if I rail other chicks right?" This was said mid-sex. I know...douchebag award of the century.

2. When you have a party and the dude you're dating spends the whole night talking to a total slut-bag (and ignoring you) and then expects you to come home with him. And then doesn't call you the next day. Is this a punishment for not sleeping over? Is he embarrassed because he spent so much time talking to a woman the rest of us couldn't take for more than two minutes?

3. "Spit on the cock!" These words should not be uttered. Especially when the guy is giving himself a hand-job.

4. When a dude asks you to bite his nipples and then calls you nasty. (On a side note, nipple-biting should be invite-only right? We aren't expected to just, like, go there, are we?)

5. A guy who calls on Sunday night at 10:30 p.m. after a Thursday night date. And then in the message he doesn't even inquire about when he gets to see you--because yes it is a privileged--he just stutters on about nothing for 30 seconds. Do guys wait this long because they think they have to? And then do they leave weird messages because they are afraid to show us they like us? Or is the call obligatory? Is he--dare I say it?--just not that into you?

6. "I'm not going to stay the night tonight. No, you're perfect. Nothing's wrong. I just want to slow things down. I'll stay over next week." We still have no idea what happened here. Clearly the dude never called.

7. "I'm going to Japan. Give you a call when I get back." Somehow this happened to one of my friends three times. Two of the times the guy did not call back. Japan-Guy number three is jetting off on Thursday, so we'll see if third time's the charm.

8. A guy asks you out to a party. The party is that night. You say no, you're busy. Then he calls the next day and leaves an obnoxious voicemail about how you, "soooooooo missed out." What about this makes you want to call him ever again?

9. Pulling the "Here he, Here he." When a guy writes an email giving you the details of his whole day...without asking about yours, "So I went for a run and then I wrote for five hours and then I studied the chakras, and now I'm going to check out this trendy Asian fusion restaurant." Did I ask? Do I need to know you're every move?

10. Here's a text: "If you were into me, you'd be the perfect women for me." And another, three months later: "I'm a little drunk, I wish we had tried to date." He tried. She did not. There was no we.

Hopefully this post doesn't come off as mean. I like men. I LOVE men. But some of them are really kinda dumb. Or they just don't listen to us. Or they're delusional. Or scared. I get that. We're scared too. But I think women maybe try harder? We care more about men's feelings, we put them before our own. Maybe this makes us dumb...

Or as a guy friend of mine said, "The problem is that men have to try hard while trying even harder to look like they're NOT trying hard." Maybe if we all tried a little harder to be ourselves, and better yet, to accept other people for who they are without all this stupid game-playing-waiting-three-days-to-call crap, we would all be better off...

V-DAY.

Of course I have to do a post on Valentine's Day, as a young woman navigating new territory in life and love (how brave and adventuresome of me). So, here it goes.

I have spent significant time complaining about this holiday. That it's too commercialized. That it's the commodification of love and romance. Come on, gooey chocolates and red roses don't symbolize love. Neither do diamonds. We don't profit, the chocolate, rose, and diamond companies do. So do the ones that make those too-squishy teddy bears with red bows sold at places like WalMart and RiteAid. In fact, on a more sociological level, the holiday's only purpose is to encourage women to create high expectations and for men to feel obligated to reach them. Poor men, I would say, who are burdened with not knowing how much they should do (or not) for the women in their lives. So terrible that they have to put themselves out there and define their relationships by purchasing the aforementioned goodies. Forget the whole thing. Too much pressure.

But these lamentations are lies, all lies. The truth is, I love Valentine's Day. Not as much as my birthday, or Halloween, but I think it's great. The truth is (and this may be getting a little personal, therapy-session-y, but oh well), that I am too scared a guy won't do anything for me that I've either learned to expect nothing or asked to not celebrate at all. Or requested that I do something for him instead. Because there is nothing worse than hoping for something and being disappointed. Especially when everyone will inevitably ask you the next day what your boyfriend/guy-in-your-life-who-could-be-your-boyfriend-but-you-aren't-really-sure did for you. Better to say, "Oh, I decorated his apartment," or "We decided not to celebrate this year," than be faced with the potential alternative of, "Nothing."

I recently realized how I've been hardened, pessimistic-ized. It likely stems from past disappointment. I haven't dated since mid-college so I'm used to that minimal effort, frat guy behavior. I've resorted to trashing the one holiday I'm supposed to let a guy show his true feelings for me, because, frankly, I'm too scared he doesn't really have any. How's that for completely warped? What does it mean? That I don't expect guys to treat me nicely? Or I don't think I'm lovable? This mid-twenties time of learning new awesome facts about myself is certainly enlightening.

Now that Valentine's Day is getting closer (less than two weeks!), women without definitive plans are poking their heads around looking for reinforcement. Like eels emerging from craggy rocks, we slowly peer at each other hoping we won't have to spend that day alone. We'll gather in groups, reserve each other. If anyone asks, we've got plans, thankyouverymuch. We're excited to spend the day/night with "just the gals."

More lies. It's a known fact that no girl wants to spend Valentine's Day with her girlfriends. I've done it. I know. Sure, it was fun to go to the tapas place with Jordann, Jules, and Doreen for V-Day 2003, but I would have preferred the company of the guy I was maybe-sorta-dating at the time (who, by the way, might have been the catalyst for the heart-hardening since he decide to pretend Valentine's Day didn't exist even though we had gone to each others respective frat/sorority dances that month). But, hello...no one really wants to spend the night trashing men. No one really hates flowers and candy. No one really wants to single-handedly polish off a two-pound box of See's Candy purchased by Mom (oh, V-DAY 2003, good times).

Because, if you do get a date, you are fully entitled to blow off your friends. That goes without saying. The friends are a placeholder. A just in case. A safety net. Sure, we'd feel sorry for the friends we leave behind, but not that bad. If given a chance, we'll take the prix fix meal, the roses, a Whitman Sampler, or even simply one of those perforated cardboard cards. We'll take anything.

I, for one, have just been too terrified to admit it.