So Long! Farewell!

Well, avid fans (also known as the one or two people who still check this blog from time to time), I have some news. After regurgitating details of my "love" life for the past year, many of which I probably should have just kept to myself, I somehow accomplished my life goal. The telling of these mundane details likely has little to do with achieving said goal, but I like to believe that life is a series of accidents that somehow add up to the current moment, so why not give this collection of ramblings its due?

So, the news: I got a job. Like a real one. The kind I will be going into an office for, where I shall sit at a desk from 9-6. I'm not sure how I did it exactly, but I managed to never get a real job (as in full-time working hours) for the three years and eight months I've been out of college (shit, I'm old) and yet I somehow landed not just any job, but THE job. My dream job. (Also, I annoyingly have a super-hot *and* nice *and* intelligent boyfriend. And I can finally afford my own one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica. Yeah. How's your 2010 going so far, huh? Don't worry, I'm sure something bad will happen to me soon.)

Anyway. Come Monday, I will officially be the Relationships Editor of a new women's lifestyle website (the name of which I cannot tell you because I signed a don't-tell-anyone-yet contract).

In light of this fucking awesome life-development I've decided that my time on here has come to an end so I can fully devote the genius that is my relationship-obsessed mind to this new position, which will pay me much much more than this blog every could. (Especially since Google AdSense canceled my account long ago ... right when I was about to receive my first check. Hmm ...)

Thank you to everyone who read this site--I plan to send out mass emails/Facebook status-thingys when the e-zine I'll be working for goes live and I hope that you'll find me there.

Love you all to pieces. All two of you, that is.

Wishing You a Magical Holiday Season with Rainbows and Wishes and Vomit

There is only one thing I hate about the holidays--other than the creepy jingle "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"--and it is picking out Christmas cards.

I was in Vons this morning sifting through the meager selection of holiday greetings and found myself audibly expressing my disgust over the course of the 30 minutes I spent standing there praying to find something that was somewhat okay. If the cards weren't over-the-top, barf-in-my-mouth sappy ("May the spirit of Christmas and the magical joys of the season burn brightly in your heart"), they were just plain dumb ("Ho-Ho-Hope you have a Merry Christmas!"). Then there were the ones that looked somewhat okay from the outside, then, upon opening, surprised me with some god-awful pun about eggnog, or farts, or both.

Who writes these cards? Who get PAID to write these cards? I would like to know. And I would like to shake these people and ask them what horrific event happened in their lives that must have poisoned their minds in order to write the dumbest shit I have ever read in my life, slap it together with some stereotypical images of fireplaces and snow falling, and stick it on the grocery store shelves so well-intentioned people (like me) want to murder someone because we can't find a Christmas card that isn't completely asinine?

Anyway. I hate them.

One-a Those Days ...

Do you ever have those days where you just want to lay in bed?
And you know you should be doing something, so you kinda troll around on the Internet purposelessly, all the while hating yourself for not actually being productive?
When you know you should be writing but nothing sounds like less fun than actually thinking?
When your friends call and see if you want to hang out but you can't convince yourself to peel back the covers?
And instead you eat left-over pasta feeling like a total fat-ass but you just can't stop eating crap so you fall into the eat, self-loathe, eat-more cycle?
But then you have moment of clarity and think, 'hey I should join a gym'?
And so you check to see if there is a 24-Hour Fitness near you and you discover that there are two, and decide, why not sign up for a whole year without even going in to check the facilities out first?
Because the one nearest you has a steamroom and you really like those?
And then you realize you just spent $250 to go to a place that people have reviewed online as 'disgusting'?
So you have to force yourself out of bed, put on workout clothes and drive over there?
And the first thing you think when you go inside is how you've fallen very far since your Equinox Pasadena days?
But then you justify your hesitation by noticing how nice the guy at the counter is?
Except that he doesn't offer to give you a tour (like the woman at Equinox did ...)?
And when you get into the locker room you almost smack right into a butt-naked woman?
And then you go on the elliptical for 30 minutes and feel like you're going to go into cardiac arrest the entire time?
And you really wanted to use the steamroom but you're too tired to even find it, and too lazy to ask, so you leave feeling like this whole gym idea was a waste of time?
And then you get home, shower, and put yourself right back under those covers?
And then you negate your 30 minute workout by eating Cheetos?
And then you try to write a blog post in second person questions?

Four Score--Seasons--or One Year Ago

Since eighth grade, I've kept a diary fairly regularly. After I write down the super-intriguing details of my incredibly exciting existence I often enjoy flipping back to the same day the year before to see what I was up to. Usually, I rediscover how dumb I used to be. Looking back is something I do often, not just in my journal because I like to make myself feel better knowing I'm slightly less idiotic today than I was a year ago, but more due to the occupational hazard that memoir writing depends on my ability to go back to the past and try to make sense of it.

This fall, however, I've been watching the show Flash Forward (by myself, no one else I know tunes in), and I find it fascinating in how the show's main concept reverses my whole "looking back" thing. The basic premise is the world blacks out for a couple minutes, everyone sees where they will be in six months, and some of them freak out because they don't want these futures to come true. And in worrying, the characters change and in effect turn their visions into self-fulfilling prophecies. For example, we see one husband and wife begin to drift apart because of insecurities that develop within their relationship. The wife's vision? She was in bed with another man. Oooh ... drama ...

And, since I attempt to analyze anything and everything with little more than pop-cultural significance, I think it's interesting how the show relates to the principle of manifestation: if you believe you'll do or be something, your thoughts will inevitably influence your actions, putting you on a path toward whatever course your mind has set for you. While I do believe in the power of positive thinking and having a good attitude, catching a specific glimpse of what supposedly will be would totally throw me off. Like, if one year ago someone told me that, today, I would be living by the beach, surrounded by a great group of friends who live either in my apartment (roommate) or mere blocks away, and in love with an amazing guy--who I hadn't even met yet--I'm sure I would've called bullshit. Actually, knowing then that I would be so happy now probably would have terrified me because I'm cool like that.

If I'd been better at regularly journaling one year ago, I would look back to see that, at this time last year, I was supposedly celebrating my anniversary with the ex-boyfriend. I say supposedly because we had been fighting like crazy and deliberating our relationship for weeks--so much so I'd suggested we not make a big deal out of our four-year-milestone. And, had we stayed together, today would have made five. Back then I was so confused about what I wanted--about what I was supposed to want, really--and, frankly, I was miserable. And, true to form, when I look back at who I was 365 days ago, that version of me was sublimely idiotic. (Mainly because I was already infatuated with a new guy and thought embarking on a pseudo-relationship with him would make everything all better. Uh, nope.)

So here's to another lap around the sun, the imminent coming of the year two-thousand-ten. I expect to be much, much cooler by this time next year. (But happier? Not possible.)

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.

Pick Your Artist: Britney Spears

Tonight I am finally going to the Britney Spears concert at the fabulous Staples Center. When I say finally, I mean that I have been wanting to get tickets to her Circus tour for the past year and see her in concert for forever. However, tonight will be far more than just an outer-body experience of pop-music wonderment. Let me explain:

So, when I broke up with My Ex, his final stand to keep me in a relationship with him (or maybe it was just a really awesome last thing to say to me) was, "Well, I was going to get you tickets to Britney Spears." Oh, in that case, let's date a couple more weeks so you can buy those. Right.

Months later on the actual night of that concert I was with Transitional Guy (and we all know he was terrific) somewhere in Echo Park (I know, I know, I'm a Westsider...what was I thinking?). When I mentioned that the Britney show was that night, his response was that I should have gotten us tickets. Um, no. First of all, if I was going to get tickets, I would not have taken him anyway because he sucked. Second of all, if one of us was going to get tickets for the two of us, that person would have been him. Because sometimes when you are dating someone, you do nice things for that person, like go all the way to some random bakery in Glendale, in lunch-hour traffic, to get that person's favorite dessert from when he was a kid for his birthday. Right? Right???? (If I could go back five months and slap myself, I would, believe me.)

Anyway. When I heard Britney was doing another show in L.A., I called my best friend and bought us two tickets in the nosebleed section and have been waiting anticipatorily every since. (Nope, that's not a real word.)

I saw this "Pick Your Artist" thing on someone's Facebook and always wanted to do it. Basically, there is a series of questions and you have to answer them using song titles from one musical artist. So, in honor of The Ex and Transitional Guy (who are thankfully out of my life), the incomparable Ms. Britney Spears, my BFF J. Jacobson, and of course, me, the coolest chick ever...here are my responses:

Are you a male or female? Brave New Girl

Describe yourself: Lucky

How do you feel? Stronger

Describe where you currently live: Circus

If you could go anywhere, where would you go? Freakshow

Your favorite form of transportation: Boys

Your best friend is: The Girl in the Mirror

You and your best friend are: Lace and Leather

What's the weather like? Hot as Ice

Favorite time of day: Early Mornin'

If your life was a TV show, what would it be called? Gimme More

What is life to you? Heaven on Earth

Your fear: Womanizer

What is the best advice you have to give? What U See (is What U Get)

How you would like to die? My Prerogative

Your soul's present condition: Anticipating

Your motto: Hit Me Baby One More Time

Your favorite color is: Autumn Goodbye

You know that: (I Got That) Boom Boom -and- I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

If you could change your name, what would it be? If You Seek Amy

Something you are looking forward to: One Kiss From You

Love Stinks. Yeahhh...Yeahhh

I got an email from one of my friends yesterday beginning with: You know all those love songs about how horrible it is to be heartbroken? They're TRUE. Naturally, I had the immediate urge to squeeze this person to death, as to hopefully alleviate the pain of love lost, or at least replace it with the crushing force of my roided-out biceps.

Breaking up suuuuucks....

After blasting "I Will Survive" (and pretending to be sooooo over it), there is perhaps nothing more depressingly awesome than being super sad and then finding (and downloading) the saddest possible songs I can think of, making a sad-song-mix CD and then driving around aimlessly, feeling terrifically sorry for myself and crying. I suggest this tactic to anyone wanting to get over (wallow in) heartbreak. (This and shopping.) In case you're not sure what songs should be on this sad-song mix, let me, good-music-aficionado-extraordinaire, assist you:


Step One: Imminent Torture, various artists
First things first. If the person you were with ever made you a mix CD, which you listened to on repeat for a good couple of months and therefore, because of this devoted listening, contains at least 15 songs which remind you exclusively of this person and the best part of your relationship together (the beginning--before the guy made you believe you will never (never!) love anyone else again your whole entire miserable life), you will probably want to pop that into your car's stereo. And, while you're at it, gather any of "your songs," as well as any song you might associate with the dude: the song playing over the credits of that movie you saw, the one playing in the background of the bar the night you were sure he was in love with you, his cell phone ring tone. And alarm jingle. Then, when you think you can't possibly sob anymore, continue to step two!

Step Two: I Don't Want to Live Without Your Love, Nothing Compares to You, I Was Born to Make You Happy, I'm Missing You, I'll Never Get Over You Getting Over Me, etc, etc
After repeated play of the mix CD, which likely spiraled you into a fury where you snapped said CD in half and almost shot a piece of plastic into your own eye (let this be a warning--CDs don't actually break neatly in half, especially when you're mad), gather some much-needed easy-listening, ultra-cheesy stuff. Because when you're depressed, you don't think about how lame these songs seem--in fact, they accurately depict exactly how you feel and you can't believe you ever thought they were lame in the first place. Yes, Sinead O'Connor. Yes.

Step Three: Lady in Red, The Way You Look Tonight, You're the Inspiration, When You Really Love a Woman, I'll Never Break Your Heart, The Power of Love
Next, shift gears and go to songs that have nothing to do with heartbreak, but revolve around true love. True love you are certainly never going to find, so might as well feel even more sorry for yourself. This is typically the deluded stage where you re-imagine the now-disillusioned relationship, as if yours was a love as great as these songs depict. And then you cry sweet tears of remorse, trying to figure out what it was you did to prevent this great love from materializing. Maybe you should have been better about shaving your legs? Or let him pick the restaurant that one time? Damn you, stuffed animal collection. And nail-biting habit. If only, if only, if only...

Step Four: Man in the Mirror, One Moment in Time, The Greatest Love
The final step of this sad-song process requires you to shift gears a little. Instead of love songs about another person, choose love songs...about yourself. I mean, how did you get down this path of pain and destruction in the first place? Why didn't he love you the way you deserved? Because you didn't love...yourself.

I never claimed to be cool. Just F-Y-I.

Being the completely not-self-absorbed person I am, when I hear about someone breaking up, I think about myself. Being the pessimist I am, I think about how shitty it would be to break up anyway, even when I'm super-happy. Because someday, I probably won't be. (Great attitude, huh?) I mean, sure, I have a pretty tried-and-true game plan, but wouldn't it be nice to never have that gaping-hole-in-your-chest-that's-never-going-to-end feeling again?

Problem.

I've long teetered a fine line between bitter and idiotic, and so this blog was created so I might describe, delineate, explore, analyze, dissect, ponder, and otherwise publicly freak-out about my love/hate relationship with relationships. (Why I have no filter or shame or qualms about doing so is another issue entirely.) However, I no longer have a love/hate relationships with relationships. I'm deliciously, deliriously, disgustingly happy. Which means I'm having a hard time coming up with material. Which is really quite frustrating. Oh, wait. No it's not.

Sure, I could think of stuff to write about. How happy I am, for example. But who wants to hear about that? I certainly don't. I mean, it's a pretty terrible problem to have. Not being about to write about how confused, lost, wrong (or wronged) I am. Really sucks. Who wants to be happy anyway? (Have I mentioned how happy I am, yet? Oh, I did? Sorry.)

Oddly, when I'm happy, I tend to worry: When's this happiness stuff going to end? Can I anticipate every possible outcome so I don't get hurt? (I can. But for some reason I still end up getting hurt. Weird.)

But! I'm not worried. I'm just happy. And that's incredibly boring. Fabulously boring. Terrifically boring a.k.a. not boring at all because I'm so freakin' happy. (Please feel free to hate me. I almost do.)

You Know You're a Writer When...

...(or I should say, I Know I'm a Writer When...")

1. My student came in to talk about his paper and we ended up spending the majority of the time on his cover letter for getting into a fraternity. Or, I should say, I spent the majority of the time scribbling and crossing out words, explaining each mark with unrestrained enthusiasm. It was the best part of my day.

2. Hearing my boyfriend tell me he thinks I'm a good writer makes me inner-swoon as well as love him more and find him more attractive.

3. A perfect day consists of the following: me, a pot of coffee, my manuscript, and a pen.

4. When bad things happen in my life, I tend to shoo away the negativity and focus solely on whether or not I can use these events as material. And how! (Ugh.)

5. My students' disdain for writing kinda makes me wanna cry sometimes. Especially as I explain how fun it is to go over an essay draft ten times and they look at me like they a) think I'm crazy or b) want to kill me.

6. Reading a poorly-written book is personally offensive. It's like thanks dude for getting published while I sit here toiling away, and being way better at this than you are, while you get to snuggle with your pretty little hardcover and be awesome.

7. It takes me a good hour to think of a Facebook status update. I keep a mental bank of go-to's.

8. I'm pissed that my cousin took my grandfather's father's typewriter from my grandparents' house--so her four-year-old son could use it (hopefully later in life and not now). I am willing to make a child cry to get that sweet, sweet instrument into my clutches.

9. Days after I've written a blog-post, I go back and edit it. I change words around. I take stuff out. I add stuff. I find typos (humiliating.) I do this even though I am 99.9% sure no one is going to re-read it. Because I find it fun. Yes, fun.