The Follow-Up

My ex is dating a cocktail waitress. (Insert smarmy, judgmental, unsuccessfully-stifled laugh here.) O.M.G. Seriously? Seriously. Dude.

I hadn't heard anything about my ex's dating life, or lack-of, since we broke up. Naturally, I worried I would hear news of his next girlfriend or that he was seeing someone and then feel like breaking up was a huge mistake and want him back for the first time since we ended things nearly 11 months ago. So worried was I that I made sure to tell my best friend that, if she were to hear anything through the grapevine of our intertwined connections, she should please keep it away from my so-moving-on self.

Not being in this I-broke-up-with-the-guy-I-once-thought-I'd-marry position before, I figured I should safeguard my fragile little feelings by doing the following: 1) Date someone new as soon as possible. Check, 2) Avoid places he may be likely to go. Check, 3) Think about him only in negative/humiliating lights. Check, and check. And, perhaps the most important act of all ... 4) Resist inquisitions about ex's personal life. Check.

Until today when I got wind of a little gem of information. The cocktail waitress. Dumbfounded, giggly, and a feeling a little sad for my ex, I knew my so-moving-on self had indeed moved on. Yet, a question lingered: a cocktail waitress? That's my follow-up? Really? There is nothing wrong with cocktail waitresses, of course. I have a great deal of respect for these fine purveyors of delicious libations. Especially when I am at a bar and want another margarita. (The humor in all of this also lies in the fact that my ex doesn't--or at least didn't--drink. Never had, in fact. Irony? I think yes.)

Well, if anything I'm glad he's moved on. Maybe she's a cocktail-waitress-slash-actress. Or a cocktail-waitress-slash-scientist. I'm also glad that I am anything but sad. Life, with it's continuous tests...well, I passed this one. Whew.

Ugh. Wedding Pictures. Gross. (Sorry.)

This is a terrible thing to say but some people's wedding photos on Facebook make me want to vomit. I know, I know, maybe I shouldn't look at them if I'm going to be a total bitch and say terrible things like that. Unfortunately Facebook wedding albums are inexplicably fascinating to me and therefore, I cannot help but gawk and let the inevitable nausea seep in.

Confession. I used to be horrifically jealous upon seeing such photos. You know, when I was with the ex and miserable and I thought that marrying the guy would surely cure our relationship's blatant demons. I'd wish that it were me donning the pearl-encrusted up-do, smushing cake into my boyfriend's--no, husband's--face, reveling in the congratulatory aura reflected off my ginormous diamond ring. I wanted my relationship to have the sparkle of fiance, the security of husband. Because, when you're unhappy, wanting to get married is of course totally rational. I was an idiot, what can I say?

To anyone who actually reads this blog and is married and posted their photos on Facebook, I apologize if I'm about to offend you. But, while I love Facebook--the site is the crack-cocaine of the perpetually calculating, and I its faithful junkie--I don't like your wedding photos. (Julie and Rocio, you are exempt from this over-generalization. Probably because I actually like you.) And maybe it's not the wedding photos themsevles, but the fact that people post them the day after their weddings or while they are supposedly on their honeymoons. I get that people (not me) want to see your photos, but come on.

Or maybe I'm just terribly bitter. Perhaps I've heard too many girls substitute "I just want to get married" for "I'm so in love with my boyfriend." Maybe I've heard too many guys talk about girlfriends' ultimatums, about Tiffany catalogues with rings circled left on night-stands for them to find.

Don't get me wrong--I am all for marriage. I'm not, however, for the circus that weddings have become or the fact that things--Tiffany rings for one--have come to symbolize something they are not: love and commitment. Yeah, remember those things? You don't need a $20,000 ring to prove a guy's feelings for you. And if you do you're stupid. Maybe the real problem I have with these wedding photos is the sheer amount of stuff in them: six-tiered cakes, silver place-card holders, hundreds of roses placed in the middle of linened tables. I'm getting a little self-righteous here but I can't imagine wanting that. Anymore.

Yes, I was the girl who imagined myself in a poufy dress, maybe even a tiara, surrounded by 500 of my closest friends (Facebook would help with this), family members, and people I'd invited just to make them jealous. (And yes, this was back when I was miserable and planning a wedding to a guy I knew I couldn't marry became a form of sick escapism.)

My mom would disagree with this plan, with me being the only daughter and all, but, listen: get me a ring under $500 (I'm guessing that's as cheap as they get), let's go to city hall, or the beach, or another place that's basically free, say some vows that we actually mean, and forget all the other crap. Because, really, while I'm sure it's nice to have a big party with fancy stuff, the most valuable part of a wedding is not the things that you buy to make it look pretty, but the love you have for the person you're marrying. (Cheeseball!)

Seriously though. If I have to see another father/daughter first-dance or garter-toss pic in my News Feed, Facebook is going to have to add a "Barf" button.

Celebratory Self-Promotion

So...another one of my posts made it up on Media Bistro. While I am pretty sure just about anyone can post on there, I am still excited. To read a re-vamped version of me not being able to open my manuscript, click here.

"Editing"

I cracked open my manuscript. Finally.

Not sure what kind of reaction I would have to reading my thesis/book (yes, we're back to calling it that, as opposed to just "book"), I was surprised when, part-way through, I kinda felt like crying. And not just because my prose was getting self-righteous and full of itself and down-right clunky in some place.

So I get that I probably haven't changed all that much since I "finished" writing the thing in July. (Ugh. I hate myself, by the way, for using air-quotes--twice now--but I can't figure out another way to convey my "sarcasm".) Still, as I read about my life from even just a four-months-ago perceptive, I couldn't believe how naive and stupid I've been. I mean, I could believe it, but I was saddened by the realization anyway.

Am I being too vague? I think so. Maybe this will help: Do you ever look back at people you've "loved" and realize that you couldn't possibly have really loved them? Because your perception of a certain person has completely changed and you realized he was a huge asshole to you and others? And then you feel, on the one hand, deceived by your own past feelings for that person, yet, on the other, immeasurably grateful for the life you have now (in which that person has no part)?

Well that's kinda like what reading my manuscript was like, to put it dramatically. I'm not trying to feel sorry for myself nor am I steeping in regret--I swear--I was just surprised at my reaction. And now, onto reading the second half...

The Definition of Crazypants

God or god or evolution or whatever-higher-power gave women three gifts:

1. Childbirth. (Can't wait!)
2. Periods. (Thanks!)
3. Insanity. (Awesome!)

This morning I decided I needed some Whitney Houston in my life as I drove to campus. I'd recently acquired a CD of hers from my grandma's collection and recognized most of the songs--or so I thought. Upon putting on the track "Saving All My Love For You", (a song I'd heard before, at least in part), I was somewhat horrified that this reminiscently awesome love song was really about some asshole married dude. So, in my utter coolness, I found myself talking back at Whitney as she sang. Look at the lyrics:

A few stolen moments is all that we share
You've got your family, and they need you there
Though I've tried to resist, being last on your list
But no other man's gonna do
So I'm saving all my love for you
(Why? I'm not following...)

It's not very easy, living all alone
My friends try and tell me, find a man of my own
But each time I try, I just break down and cry
Cause I'd rather be home feeling blue
So I'm saving all my love for you
(Wait. Okay he's married. And she's still saving all her love for him. This is a bad plan.)

You used to tell me we'd run away together
Love gives you the right to be free
You said be patient, just wait a little longer
But that's just an old fantasy
(Hold up, Whitney. No, no, no. He's not leaving his wife. He's using you. Red. Flag.)

Still, I'm saving all my love for you.
(Noooooooooo. Bad call.)

Someone-really-smart-who's-name-I-can't-remember said something like, "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome." By that distinction, Whitney is freakin' crazypants. But, perhaps we (woman, me) are all crazypants. My roommate Meagan and I were talking about--what else?--boys last Friday, and from that conversation, I came to some conclusions (or temporary musings, I can't think the same thing about anything longer than about ten minutes before deciding it's probably bullshit or me just being overly dramatic--shocker, I know):

First of all, happiness is terrifying. Because you just never know when it's going to end. I'm a little suspicious of happiness, in fact, and feel the need to analyze it. How happy am I? Have I ever been this happy? What kind of happiness is this? Where--exactly--is it coming from?

Second, and I'm pretty sure this is related to the first, I think it's almost natural for us (women, me) to gravitate toward people (men) and situations (relationships) we know won't make us happy. Maybe it's the drama or the challenge we enjoy, or maybe it's that being unhappy is somewhat easier. We know what to expect. We know how to cope. We know exactly how we will feel tomorrow, next week, etc. (Like shit.) There is a certain comfort in dissatisfaction because it's familiar. (Or at least has been for me.) Which is, yes, crazypants.

So maybe Whitney's plight in that song isn't so abnormal. Maybe I kinda get it. Maybe it's easier for her to save all her love for some douche who's cheating on his wife with her and making all sorts of promises he can't keep. Maybe she doesn't really expect him to get divorced and whisk her away. Maybe it would be more terrifying to imagine her life without him, no matter how difficult the situation is, because it's at least predictable.

And, clearly, I am not at all crazy for reading way too into some 90s power-ballad and thinking it may have some kind of deeper meaning.

Shameless Plug

I randomly decided to submit two of my blogposts about writing to Media Bistro's We The 'Bistro blog and one of them posted this week. Hollllaaaaaa. To check it out and make me feel special by commenting, click here.

Wha-chu Say About Los Angeles?

...still the only place for me.

Thus begins Tupac Shakur's "Live and Die in L.A.," a song which seems to be my anthem, aside from all the fuss about race relations, considering I currently reside here, and, since I do like it an awful lot, chances are I will perish in this city as well.

But, you know what I don't like? People who complain. Specifically, people who complain about my city. And even more specifically, people who complain about my city even though they choose to live here and can totally leave if it sucks so bad. (Yeah, you think about it.)

What do people often say about Los Angeles and those of us who actually enjoy residing here? For one, that we can't drive in the rain. Did you know, lame-people-who-say-this, that the reason we freak out when it rains is because we know the roads are slicker when it hasn't rained in a long time? So when the first rainy day happens, we are more cautious, perhaps nervous that our shiny cars might get into accidents. Also, with the continuous sunshine, we forget what to do when it rains. Plus, you suck at driving, so shut-up. Yeah.

Oh, how about the "everyone's so fake" complaint? Ever heard of getting new friends? The only fake people you know are the people you know. Weird. And I can't forget the more nuanced complaint: all the girls here are so fake. If by fake you mean skinny and cute, I'm sorry, maybe try dieting and not eating so much cake. Or maybe get yourself a kick-ass metabolism that allows you to not diet and eat copious amounts of cake. Or just get some self-esteem.

I am not getting defensive at all here. By the way.

When I hear people bitch about L.A., I get mad. I don't even know why. I agree that we drive terribly in the rain (though, I believe that most people, no matter where they live, drive terribly in the rain, so that's not much of a concession). I agree that a lot of people here suck. Perhaps no more than other cities, but I'll admit that we do have a lot of actor-wannabes, movie-director-wannabes, and plain old wannabe-wannabes (these being the worst type, of course). And, sure, there's no reliable or preferable public transportation, our bars close at 1:30, and everything is so damn spread out that I could go months, maybe even years, without seeing close friends (thank you Facebook for allowing me to feel less guilty about this).

But this is Los Angeles. People fly from Germany and Japan and Australia and lots of other cool (and far-away) places to visit. And not just for one of our glorious 'hoods, but for Hollywood and Santa Monica and Beverly Hills and Pasadena. We've got the Walk of Fame, Blue Boy by Gainsborough, Muscle Beach, Venice Beach, the Queen Mary, Michael Jackson's grave, the Oscar red-carpet, sunsets in Malibu, emo-hipsters in Silverlake, celebrities in Bel Air, the La Brea Tar-pits, Griffith Observatory, a kick-ass basketball team, a pretty good baseball team, two sweet universities (That's only counting USC and, begrudgingly, UCLA), and--hello?--Disneyland.

So next time you want to complain, just think about that. Okay?

Save Me From Writing Hell

So, this might sound a little ridiculous...but here goes:

I'm scared to read my thesis/book. Not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because I'm scared I will re-read it after 2.5 months and realize it totally sucks and there is no way I will ever get it (or anything) published and I've talked a big game about being some Writer-with-a-capital-W, but maybe that was totally a load of crap, and now I'm going to have to get a real job, which will be difficult because I'm no longer even qualified to get a 9-5 (at least in the editorial world) because I haven't had a real full-time job since summer 2006, so, what will probably end up happening is I'll have to move back in with my parents and then I'll never see my friends anymore because Pasadena is really far away (practically another country) and I'll spend my nights watching Tivo in bed with my Mom wondering what ever happened to those pipe dreams of mine.

The thesis/book is sitting right here next to me as I sit at the new Novel Cafe on Lincoln, which has become my new writing (or, let's be honest, Facebooking) spot. I can't even turn the first page. Once I do, I'm pretty sure everything will be okay and my brain will kick in and I'll plunge into that editing euphoria I love so much. But what if it doesn't? Then I'd be royally screwed, wouldn't I?

So, write something new--that's a good solution, right? Wrong. Because I can't. I've managed a page. Which has one sorta-funny metaphor on it. (Which I came up with last week.) It's weird wanting something so badly (fame and fortune due to my prolific prose) but not being able to do the work to make it happen. Am I scared of failure? Of success? Of getting sucked into the black hole of writing and not being able to emerge? Likely it's a nice little cocktail of all three.

And it's just not going to happen today folks. Join me next week when I get my one free day at the coffee shop. Will I waste it away on trolling Craigslist for jobs, updating my writer website and looking at people's wedding photos on Facebook? Or will I indeed crack open that manuscript? Stay tuned...

And Now for Today's Lesson!

I try to get my students to love writing. Well, I try to get them to like it. Or just tolerate it. Over my lengthy teaching career (five semesters) I have cultivated the following metaphors to help my students understand that writing is indeed a process. Mainly they stare blankly at me and muster a couple pity laughs but, inside, I bet they're inspired:

Writing is like an oyster. You start with an irritating bit of sand and then slowly, slowly, and after a lot of time (and oyster spit) you create a beautiful, shiny pearl.

Writing is like power-barfing. Just throw-up everything inside you, then sift through the vomit to find some good chunks.

Writing is like sitting there wanting to shoot yourself in the face every five seconds. Well, it's not like that. It is that.

In short, I tell them that writing sucks. But! Because it sucks and takes forever and is boring and terrible, and all the other things my little ones (those precocious 18-24-year-olds) tell me writing is to them, when, after hours and hours of work, you manage to create one fitting metaphor or write the exact thing you mean, there is no better feeling in the world. I try to convince them that because it's so hard, the reward is huge.

I see the shimmer in their eyes that maybe, just maybe, they feel the magic too. And then there's two minutes left in class and I find myself talking over zippers and papers shuffling as they pack up their crap and begin gossiping about the frat party that night. As Cartman would say, How do I reeech these keeeds?

In a Relationship With

Oh Facebook, you wonderous place of procrastination, you fabulous site for self-promotion...

Facebook allows us to post whatever aspects of ourselves we want others to see, and, in turn, judge us by. If your social network is anything like mine, you may be noticing the rate at which your friends seem to be going from "In a Relationship" to "Engaged" and from "Engaged to Married." Or maybe I'm the only one who keeps tabs on this stuff because I'm a huge stalker. In any case, I look at one's relationship status (and declaration thereof) as just one of the many ways Facebook helps us show off a little bit. A girl I know's whole profile appears to be dedicated to: Hey look at my super-cute boyfriend I'm so totally in love with! OMG OMG! I prefer to post pictures of myself making pouty faces, which I guess promotes: Hey look how cute I look sometimes. To each her own.

A little over two years ago, I did a bunch of research for my then-thesis, which looked at a phenomenon I called post-college marriage mania. One of the questions I asked the 500+ women I surveyed was if they displayed their Facebook relationship statuses. While most girls who were attached proudly proclaimed they were "In a Relationship" less than half of those who were "Single" declared themselves as such.

Of course, I could argue that singles decided not to broadcast their unattached-ness because they didn't want creepy stalkers. But judging from longer responses from women, there seemed to be a degree of social failure in admitting they were still single. Especially when some of them noted that if they had boyfriends they would certainly put up their statuses.

I used to be the girl who was blatantly (and braggingly) "In a Relationship with..." In fact, when The Ex and I broke up, I debated for a good hour whether or not I wanted our status to die quietly or become fodder for the News Feed. I must have changed my privacy settings two or three times, first to see if I wanted the news to appear on everyone's main page and then to see if I wanted my newly "Single" status to be noticed as well. I was a PR major for goodness sake--clearly my choice would affect the way others saw me, as well as draw attention for better or for worse. Decisions, decisions. For the thousandth time, I never said I was cool.

In the end, I settled for no status (after I let Natasha Burton is now listed as Single sit on the News Feed for five whole minutes). I wasn't ashamed to be single. I was however not exactly sure if I really was or not because I started semi-dating someone soon after The Ex and I broke up. Which was totally confusing because I didn't want to put that I was "Single" if I wasn't, but then I didn't want to not put that I was single and I thought way too much about it and worried and debated and drove myself--and likely others--absolutely fucking crazy. (I wrote a blogpost about it.)

Basically, I've come to the conclusion that displaying one's relationship on Facebook is kinda dumb (says the girl who doesn't display hers). If you're my friend-friend, and not just my Facebook friend, you'll know if I'm with someone or not. And, really, I don't necessarily want to be defined by whether or not I have a boyfriend, or am engaged, or married. There was way cooler things about me, like my Master's degree or my interest in sleepovers and cappuccino foam or those pouty-face pictures, by which I'd prefer to judged.

Though--if you really must know--yes, I am once again "In a Relationship with..." But I'm not going to flaunt it, okay? That would just be tacky (and totally defeat the purpose of this post).

How Will I Know?

In the 80s, Whitney Houston asked us this ponderous question: How will I know if he really loves me? (I say a prayer with ev-ery heart-beat. I fall in love whenever we meee-eeet. I'm askin you, 'cause you know about these things. Love. It.) Here's how you know, Whitney, you ask him. I know. Weird, huh? I just learned that one in the past year. It totally works.

But how do you know if you really love him? Or like him? Or maybe wanna date him? A friend of mine who has been seeing this guy for a couple weeks now is mulling over this very question: How will she know if she really likes him?

I can get all existential (or something--confession, I don't think I know what existential means), and say something like: Do we ever really know anything? But that's kinda silly. I know many things for certain, such as, I don't like eggs, Britney Spears is awesome, tequila makes me crazy, and having a pillow-top mattress has significantly improved my life.

Because I was single for a whole seven months this year, I know a thing or two about knowing. Maybe. I know that if you have to ask yourself, How will I know? or Do I really like this person?, you probably have your answer. If you've been dating a guy and you're not quite sure how you feel about him or the situation, you're probably not that into him (another great question--how do you know if he's just not that into you? Um because you had to ask.) But I digress.

For me, I know right away whether or not I like someone. Of course that doesn't mean I haven't done my fair share of bargaining, contemplating, and convincing myself to feel something for a guy when I really wanted to like him but didn't. I get annoyed with girls who complain about how they want a boyfriend, attracted more to the idea of having one without an actual live man in mind, but I understand wanting to be love--both wanting to love someone and have someone love you back. There are many things in this world that are amazing: cupcakes, iPhones, adrenaline, rainbows, and really, really good steak, to name a few. But I have yet to see poetry about steak.

Love is a whole other beast. In Whitney's song, the back-up singers have some advice for her, as she asks how she will know. They say, "Don't trust a feeling--love can be deceiving." I'm not sure I agree with that. (Unless of course that feeling is actually just an unfounded desire to have sex with someone because that never works out well.) Still, I don't think love--the real kind--is deceiving. I think love makes people crazy and happy and miserable at times, but it doesn't lie. You either love someone or you don't. The complicated part is what happens next...

Being Not Awesome

So I sometimes write for this semi-cool website called The Little Black Blog of Big Red Flags. We just started posting flags about chicks and while we've long contended that guys are douchbags, girls are freakin' crazy.

And when I say girls, I mean myself included. I may be super awesome now, but there was a point in time when I wasn't. I know, I know, you may have to suspend reality for a second here to believe that. I am pretty sure I not only wasn't awesome but that I also did things that would land me into your-girlfriend-kinda-blows territory. Here is a short list of things I've done--things that I think (hope) most girls have done at some point--which made me really not awesome. Note to self, never do these things again:

1. Talk incessantly while you're with a bunch of dudes watching sports. If you want to watch the game, watch the f-in game. If not, go do something else or shut up. Seriously. This also goes for attending any social event just for the sake of going. If you don't want to go to his cousin's sister's wedding (and plan on complaining the whole time about it) just stay home.

2. Check your boyfriend's text messages after he leaves his cell phone on his nightstand when he gets up to use the bathroom. Then act all crazy when he gets back and ask him weird, leading questions without telling him you were snooping.

3. Stress over the girls who write on his Facebook wall. And then grill him about each one. (Extra-unawesomeness for passive-aggressively being a bitch to him because you suspect that the blond chick who asked about his trip to Europe is actually sleeping with him on nights you're not over at his place and inevitably will coerce him to dump you because she not only gives better blowjobs but is also thinner than you and can afford clothes from J.Crew).

4. Whine.

5. Adopt an exclusive costume of sweatpants and/or grandma pajamas.

6. Ask, "Are you mad at me?" He probably is. And if he wasn't, he should be now.

7. Refuse to have sex with him. Dude. Oh, you have a good excuse? Well, if there are circumstances which make you unable to muster any physical attraction toward him, it's time to break up. We aren't in a relationship because we're good at being friends.

8. Ask him to "check in" when he's out with the guys. Because it makes you look like an amazing girlfriend when you take your boyfriend away from his friends so you can ask him if he's having a good time. Um, he was--until you made him exclude himself so he could call you.