Business time

Do real-life women actually lounge around in men's dress shirts? And if so, is it actually sexy? I have to admit I've never tried it, but I do own a couple sets of flannel button-down pajamas, and my husband is not so much a fan of those.

On TV women are always sashaying out of the bedroom with smug looks on their faces, like they just KNOW how adorably sexy they look. This is the first red flag for me. It's been my personal experience that whenever I think I look adorably sexy, I actually look atrocious. This is why I now avoid bar bathroom mirrors at all costs.

My second issue is that business casual garb does not put me in a sexy mood. Quite the opposite, it puts me in a depressive mood, as it conjures up visions of TPS reports and lines of drones waiting to heat up smelly Lean Cuisines in the communal microwave. If pocket protectors and security badges aren't considered sexy, I don't understand why the shirts that hold them are.

Perhaps before this look became a cliche, it was sexy because it wasn't sexy. But at this point it somehow comes across as both lazy and trying too hard... If you're looking to switch it up, I suggest a birthday suit and business socks.

How to break up with somebody you wish you used to know

I love Gotye's "Somebody That I Used to Know," but I think he is mistaken about the heartlessness of his ex(es). In fact, the song could be a tutorial on how to successfully break up with someone as painlessly as possible.

But you didn't have to cut me off (You do. It's for his own good.)
Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing (Get out of your pajama pants and move on.)
And I don't even need your love (That's the spirit!)
But you treat me like a stranger and I feel so rough (Avoid relapsing.)
And you didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records and then change your number (Might be going a little too far, but perhaps necessary if dealing with a stalker.)
I guess that I don't need that though (Correct! Number should have already been deleted.)
Now you're just somebody that I used to know (Mission move on accomplished.)

Isn't somebody that you used to know better than a girl who may or may not be your ex, who still texts you at 3 a.m., borrows your car (something I may or may not have done to someone I used to know...) and messes up any chance you have of having a healthy relationship with someone else? Isn't being cut off better than being strung along?

Apparently the song refers to a composite of past relationships, which makes sense because no mere mortal can have the self-restraining power to execute such a clean break. But that doesn't stop me from respecting the fictitious ex-girlfriend for her efficient, lukewarm heart, and for inspiring an awesome song.

Engagement marketing?

It started when I came back from a trip with my boyfriend to the Virgin Islands. With suggestive eyebrows working overtime, my most nosy co-worker asked me how it was, and if I had any news to share. Um, no...

Apparently he and my manager had a bet going on me coming back engaged. Engaged to be married, apparently. The thought had not occurred to me - I was just enjoying a lovely vacation. But then when my boyfriend told me he got similar questions at his work, I started to get agitated. Why weren't we engaged?? Wheels started spinning... on a crazy train headed toward my unsuspecting relationship.

Coincidentally, I did get a call from one of my college roommates while on the O'Hare runway with that very same news - she had just gotten engaged! When I was G-chatting with another roommate (who had been engaged for a few months) about my trip a couple days later, she politely asked how it was and then plunged right in: So, are you engaged too?? Um, no... What is wrong with you people? Must EVERYONE be engaged? And P.S. I would tell you, and probably not over G-chat.

THEN today I get this e-mail from a romantical fondue restaurant we went to a month or so ago:



WTF?? Well, maybe the message had something to do with me checking the "engagement" box as my reason for celebrating (and getting a coupon) when signing up for Geja's e-mail list. I thought it would be funny to mess with my boyfriend...

Unlaid Plans

I figured out why it’s so irritating that (some) men have an aversion to planning. It’s not because it can be construed as inconsiderate, or because it might be a sign of commitment issues, or even because it makes dressing oneself appropriately more difficult … No, it’s because it stunts conversation.

Think about an average exchange between a couple who has been together for a while:

“Have I ever told you the story about that one party in college -”

“Yes.”

“Oh, but did I tell you the part where I fell -”

“Yes.”

“Oh, and then that other time I drank too much -”

“I was there.”

“Oh yeah ... So, um, what should we do for New Year’s?”

“I don’t know what’s going on yet. We’ll figure it out later.”

Silence.

There comes a time when there are no stories left to tell, and at that time, wouldn’t it be great if you could fill the void by making plans that might produce new stories? Apparently not.

Double your fun, or halve it

Apparently I need not apologize for the frat-tastic double TV situation I was talked into... a similar set-up was actually stylish enough to gain a win for team Tori, Dan and Antonio on last night's Design Star!

If this turns out to be the beginning of a new trend in heterohabitation, I'd like to document that the first romantic night of Real Housewives alongside muted sports occurred in my living room:


Class, class, class.

(First photo courtesy of HGTV.com)

Cohabitation E-Cards!

SSB

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about SSB (secret single behavior), coined, I believe, by Sex and the City, episode 13, season four. When Aidan moves in with Carrie, she complains to her friends that she can no longer engage in SSB—which for her, is standing in her kitchen and eating a stack of saltines and jelly while reading fashion magazines. Charlotte empathizes and reveals that her SSB, before Trey, was studying her pores for an hour every night. Miranda’s is conditioning her hands in Vaseline while watching infomercials. Samantha of course has no SSB because she has no shame, which isn’t such a bad thing.

So I’ve been thinking about my SSB (unfortunately more disturbing than the SATC girls’) because after living alone for two years, I’ll soon be cohabitating in a new apartment with my guy. (Yay!) Some of my SSBs, like eating an entire tub of Merkts sharp cheddar while watching episode upon episode of The Hills, I’m sort of looking forward to having a reason to kick. But others... I’m afraid I won’t be able to suppress.

Which got me wondering: What if bringing our SSB out of the closet is just the next step in the relationship spectrum, phase two of the big reveal? Phase one, I believe, is unleashing the crazy. In the beginning it’s relatively easy to act out near-perfection—but as lunch becomes brunch and dates turn into weekends, it becomes virtually impossible to keep unruly emotions in check, especially when alcohol is involved. But if the other is in fact significant, they actually find your “quirkiness” rather adorable—and any insanity that ensues after a fifth glass of wine mostly bearable, at least forgivable.

So then after the crazy comes the weird, phase two—which is where SSB comes in. While the former reveals your emotional issues, the latter brings your habitual oddities to light. That would mean you don’t have to give up your SSB completely—only in the sense that it can’t really be a secret anymore. That’s probably the symbolism of the end of the episode, when Carrie opens the curtains she had closed between her and Aidan, after he agrees to be quiet and let her be weird by herself on the other side. But then again, Carrie completely freaks out and breaks up with Aidan before the season’s even over, much to this dismay and tears of viewers across America.

I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see how well my theory pans out in real life... Because, as people keep reminding me, Carrie is a fictional character, and SATC is just a show. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing either.

Naked Sundays?

My boyfriend just IMed me this link to a story about Christina Aguilera’s naked Sunday tradition … While he thinks it’s a great idea, I’m not so sure this layperson could swing the lifestyle.

What I found most odd was Christina’s use of the word “cozy” (although it’s spelled with an “s” in the blog … British? Spanish? Jeez that post is old…). She’s quoted: “When it comes to things like our cosy naked Sundays I think it’s important for Jordan and I not to lose ourselves … We have to be the cosiest couple around…” Hm. Am I a puritan or does “cozy” not make you think of old college hoodies and giant pajama pants, pretty much the opposite of bare ass on, say, a leather couch? Then I thought maybe naked Sundays, especially if adapted during a frigid Chicago winter, could include blankets. But that might get annoying … enter the Snuggie! A naked Sunday example would certainly spice up the infamous infomercial. But I’m afraid Snuggies would probably defeat the purpose of naked Sundays. I certainly don’t think the artist formerly known as Xtina would approve.

And another quote that caught my eye: “We don’t need to go anywhere, we’re just with each other. We do everything naked. We cook naked…” Cooking naked? Sounds potentially painful. While celebs probably don’t fry everything they eat in olive oil, and therefore suffer from popping grease attacks, I do … and bacon, which has the same effect on my stovetop, is definitely a non-negotiable Sunday breakfast component. Again, the Snuggie comes to mind as a possible solution (maybe it can be useful!), but I need to accept the fact that it’s not an acceptable option for the endeavor in question, and that I am officially lame.

With no feasible solution found and no real excuse other than lameness to use, for a second, I feared there was no pleasant way out. But then I saw a light in the most unlikely of places: I simply asked, “But aren’t Sundays for watching football with your boys?” Crisis averted.

What came first—the crazy or the Carrie?

I like to watch the Sex and the City series (and now movie!) in chronological order, over and over, and I’m currently on the first season again... originally with the intent to watch with my boyfriend because he hasn’t seen it (shocking!), although last night he slept through episodes 10 and 11 (but somehow magically awakened, just for a minute, in time to see ex-city girl Laney flash Samantha’s party). Oh, how I wish I could sleep through Family Guy, but I think the sound of Lois’ voice would make that impossible...

Anyway, I think it was during the very first episode, when the girls are discussing women having sex like men, i.e. “feeling nothing,” and the BF wasn’t exactly official yet so he was still paying attention, when he said something along the lines of, “Oh boy, this show is a bad influence on you.” At the time, I laughed it off, saying if that were the case, I’d obviously be way past the point of no return—10 years deep into SATC fanaticism. But as we’re getting further into Carrie and Big’s Season One dysfunction, I’ve been thinking more and more about that comment.

This time through the early episodes, Carrie’s crazy behavior is making me cringe even more—and I think it’s because I see myself in her (not her career, or her clothes, or her social life, of course—just in her ridiculousness). Episode 11, “The Drought,” hit way too close to home.

After she accidentally lets one rip in bed with her new boyfriend, Carrie proceeds to OBSESS to all of her friends—convinced that the fart is to blame for her tapering sex life. Three friends. The same conversation. Four times. I too enjoy having the same conversation multiple times—as long as it’s all about me. Sometimes when I’m rambling on and on, saying the same things over and over, telling a never-ending story in excruciating detail, I actually feel my sanity float out of my body before it looks down in disgust and screams, “SHUT UP! No one cares! You’re lucky these people even want to hang out with you!” Yes, that’s right, I’m aware. But I can’t stop. Because. I’m. Crazy.

Toward the end of her obsessing, Carrie decides to take matters into her own hands and visit Big. Unfortunately, he isn’t expecting her and is more interested in watching some pay-per-view fight (also, he’s just kind of an ass), so she ends up making a complete fool of herself and then storming out—(mistakenly) expecting him to follow. While I usually don’t leave in a big huff, I do like to make a dramatic exit when I’m feeling ignored—by sneaking away. Once I wandered off into the North Woods while I was staying at my high school boyfriend’s family cabin. Nothing says love like a search party, apparently. Carrie’s response to Big’s eventual, “What was that all about?” was, “That was me, having a meltdown.” That’s a good one—vodka is another useful scapegoat.

After trying unsuccessfully to confront the problem, in her own special way, Carrie obsesses some more and then assumes the relationship is over, a defense mechanism with which I’m very familiar. I lost count of how many times I jumped the break-up gun by deleting my college boyfriend’s number, sans discussion. We dated for three years.

Eek. That’s some pretty disturbing herstory. But maybe it’s not all my fault—maybe I’m just the victim of a dangerous role model... I wonder: Did my inherent insanity attract me to Carrie, or did all these years of hanging on every cosmo turn me into the near nutjob I am today?

What came first—the nut or the flake?

In partaking in and observing many relationships (not all… wouldn’t want to make any rash generalizations…), I have to wonder: Did the crazy girlfriend beget the unreliable boyfriend, or was it the other way around? It’s a difficult process to deconstruct, as each party tends to hide unattractive tendencies in the early courtship stages.

Consider early dates, for example. As they’re (still) usually initiated by the male, it’s up to him to make a decision, plan a date and actually follow through—this may actually involve such amazing feats as looking up movie times, making reservations and arriving on time. And these early dates are often punctuated with spontaneous lunches, pop-ins or meet-ups, which are whole-heartedly welcomed by the female—as a result of her initial excitement and interest outweighing her need for schedules and structure, as well as her desire to be seen as a “cool chick.”

After a certain amount of time, however, this blissful charade begins to unravel. But whose fault is it? Did he decide to watch hours upon hours upon days of football with his “buddies” and forget to call because she started a wine-induced fight over nothing the night before? Or did she start the wine-induced fight over nothing because he had blown off a dinner date the weekend before to extend a hometown visit? And why did he extend his trip? To escape his crazy girlfriend? Or was it his disregard for plans and lack of consideration that drove his girlfriend off the edge?

It’s a snowball of a situation that can only be treated with open and honest communication … text messages unfortunately tend to exacerbate the symptoms. And a cure? I don’t think they’ve found one yet. But as for the cause, perhaps “what came first” is a trick question. I think maybe the Goddess begot the nut and the flake at the same time for the same purpose—the fraternal twins were supposed to grow up and foster understanding, acceptance and respect for same-sex relationships. Leave it up to the hopeless heterosexuals to make the worst of good intentions.

“So, what’s going on between you two??”

If a tree falls in the forest, and there’s no one there to hear it, does it really make a sound? Well in my opinion, it should be up to the tree to decide. Isn’t the tree more aware of its own actions than any outsider? Do things not actually happen unless they’re recognized by others?

That certainly seems to be the case with relationships. Two people can’t simply enjoy each other’s company—after a while, the others start asking questions—and you’re forced to have The Talk. This usually happens after suffering through one too many awkward silences surrounding introductions to friends of friends, when some oblivious drunk jabs his finger at you and blurts out, “Is this your GIRLFRIEND?”

You’d think you could just introduce people by their names, but apparently you can only avoid the G and B labels for so long. The others must know your status! Ambiguity just won’t do! And if you dodge their questions for too long, refusing labels or playing too long in minor league labels, frustration will mount and pretty soon your relationship as you thought you knew it will cease to exist, either because you or your counterpart has caved, or because the others have given up and completely dismissed it.

Perhaps this is why weddings have turned into such a spectacle. They’re really not about the couple or love or commitment at all. They’re about public declaration. They’re about putting an end to answering nosy questions—so you have a big show of it and then you wear around a band of physical evidence so the others will no longer have to wonder. Of course then they will probably start asking you when you’re going to start procreating…

So if a relationship exists between two people, but their friends and family can’t label it, does it really count? Apparently not. And does a turn under the microscope keep you from grilling your loved ones the next time you’re on the other side? Not so much. We all need the entertainment.

The first and last supper

As I’ve mentioned once or twice before, I’m moving in a couple of weeks, and I’m getting a little sad about leaving my neighborhood. So I decided to plan a dinner with friends at one of my favorite neighborhood spots before I leave, but I had a hard time choosing the place—not necessarily because there are so many great places—but because a lot of my favorite restaurants have been spoiled by the memories of awkward and worthless dates.

As my list of possible venues dwindled, I started to wonder why dinner is such a popular first date activity. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. First, there’s choosing where to go. I am so tired of guys wanting to go out for sushi. I don’t know if they’re trying to show how hip and adventurous they are, but I think it’s safe to say sushi is officially mainstream these days. And with the likelihood of someone having subpar chopstick skills (okay, that’s always me) and trouble gracefully shoving a giant tuna roll into their mouth (me again…), I’d rather avoid that minefield.

And then there’s interacting with the waitress. I was a waitress in high school and college, so I’m hyperaware of any awkwardness—on either end. One guy I went to dinner with told me while we were looking at the menu that all he wanted was “a big bowl of fruit.” Excuse me? Why then, are we eating dinner at this great international fusion/South American restaurant—that you picked? Perhaps he was in the mood for international fruit? I thought it was a weird enough comment to make to me, but then he actually told the waitress that’s what he wanted, and obviously it wasn’t on the menu. She was visibly confused—and annoyed. And I hate being the annoying table. I literally feel the server’s pain. Another guy I went out with a few times was inexplicably disliked by every waitress we had. It was very odd. On the one hand, their rudeness gave us something to talk about, but that didn’t make up for the discomfort—especially when one purposely failed to help the poor guy out when he was obviously mistaking Pinot Grigio for a red. Of course I didn’t say anything either because—shocker—I felt too awkward. Then again, he ended up being an ass, so I suppose our servers just knew something it took me a little longer to figure out.

And then there’s the eating. There was an episode of My So-Called Life in which Angela sat at the dinner table with her family, horrified by the sight of all of them eating, and her voice-over said, “I cannot bring myself to eat a well-balanced meal in front of my mother. It just means too much to her. I mean, if you stop to think about, like, chewing—what it really is?—how people just do it, like, in public.” I think about that episode a lot. The act of consuming food is pretty disgusting. If doing it in front of your family is questionable, why would anyone ever think it would be a fun thing to do on a first date? (Ah, My So-Called Life…now I’m thinking how much I’d rather stay home and watch a marathon of Angela Chase’s awkwardness than get off of the couch and live out my own.) Anyway, spinach stuck in your teeth, red wine splashed on your favorite shirt, chewing with your mouth open, talking with your mouth full—the potential offenses are endless.

Why, why then is this what everyone wants to do on a first date? And it’s hard to say no because I really like going out to dinner…or at least the idea of going out to dinner. I guess maybe I’ll just have to keep moving to new neighborhoods to flee the memories of bad dates past. Although a major problem remains: I can keep switching restaurants or even activities, but my awkwardness seems to follow me regardless.

The big game

College Girls: Bluestockings, Sex Kittens, and Coeds, Then and Now, by Lynn Peril, is full of amusing excerpts from old-school prescriptive literature and magazine columns telling girls how to behave—mostly to succeed in the spheres of popularity and husband hunting. Sort of a pop culture history of women’s education in America, it also says a lot about how dating has changed through the years.

I just read a section entitled “‘More Rules Than a Prison’—Football for the Disinterested,” and found it particularly entertaining:

"For disinterested parties, sitting through a game could certainly seem as long as several life sentences. Articles in magazines like Co-ed and Mademoiselle explained the game of football ... to casual spectators who didn’t want to look like fools in front of dates. While spontaneous enjoyment might occur with knowledge of the rules, learning them was usually presented as a mere expedient to keeping one’s date happy.”

Peril’s references in this section are from the 196os, but it took me back a little less far, to my last relationship. In addition to being thankful that girls no longer have to do football homework to prepare for dates, I was thinking how thankful I am that I no longer have to spend Sundays pretending to watch Packer games and apologizing for being more interested in reading a book than discussing how long we will have to wait for Brett Favre to run for President.

But then I kept reading:

“If the game didn’t end the way a boy wanted it to, it was important for a girl to adjust her mood to his—he wouldn’t ‘appreciate [her] high spirits’ while he suffered the agony of defeat. In such situations, it was important to remember that football wasn’t just a game. To think otherwise might mean going dateless until after the play-offs.”

And that took me back even less far, to when Packer fans had high Super Bowl hopes this past season. I watched their last game with one of my best friends at a bar in Madison, Wis. I went for the beer and cheese curds—and because she had had a rough week and made me promise I wouldn’t give her a hard time about wanting to watch the game. Plus I thought it would be fun to bandwagon on the revelry if the Packers won, and I believe they were supposed to…

But as the game wore on and the Packers played worse and worse, it became apparent that they were going to lose, and I started praying that they would somehow pull it off, not because I like the Packers, but because my friend’s mood started to scare me and because I wanted the party to keep going after the game. But of course they lost. My friend popped out of her chair, threw her arms up, yelled “Where’s the waitress?? We need the check!!!!” and started putting on her jacket. I still had a third of a beer left.

I tried to be understanding of her feelings (even though I seriously just don’t get sports fanaticism), but at the same time tried to lift her spirits and somehow managed to convince her to stay out and go to our favorite bar with me. Because here in the 21^st century, that’s what good friendships are all about: compromise. And never going to the bar angry.

Rethinking technology

Being socially awkward and single, I’m a huge fan of text and instant messaging. The last time I was single, the thought of talking to prospects on the phone completely stressed me out – awkward silences, unsuccessful attempts to bring the conversation to a close – eh, not for me. So I was delighted to find this time around that nowadays you can get to know people without actually speaking to them. In fact, if I give someone my number and he actually calls me instead of texting, it tends to scare me off.

I’m starting to think, however, that all of this electronic communication might not be such a good thing. The impersonality of it gives people a precarious kind of confidence. I first saw the darker side of electronic courage when I met an avid text messager (I’ll call him TMer) last fall. A day of texting might have gone something like this:

TMer - 3:02 pm: wut u up 2?
Me – 3:10 pm: not much
TMer – 3:13 pm: jst back from workin out. want 2 hang out?
Me – 3:20 pm: no thanks, got some stuff to do
TMer – 4 pm: rock o luv marathon on, want 2 come over?
Me – 4: 25 pm: no thanks, busy
TMer – 7 pm: headin out 2nite?
TMer – 8:30 pm: headin to kincades, u?
TMer – 1:22 am: hope u had a good nite :)

This went on for weeks, possibly months. After I stopped responding entirely, I got “where u been hidin?” messages. I had to change my text message alert because I started to recoil in some kind of Pavlovian response to the sound.

But I wasn’t ready to break things off with my keypad. I just love the concept of talking to people without actually talking. So I continued to stand by electronic over personal communication. Until today, after I had an extremely unfortunate instant-message conversation with someone I’ll call IMer. Because I clicked the window closed in horror, I’m paraphrasing the following:

IMer: lunch today?
Me: brought lunch
IMer: you sure? i’ll pay
Me: got to eat my chili

(Later)

IMer: how was your chili?
Me: tasty
IMer: i’m glad
IMer: how’s your tummy?
Me: full
IMer: how are your bowels?
IMer: from your silence, i think i should retract that comment
Me: uh, yeah… was reading something
IMer: gotcha, i will let you work, i feel like i am the annoying guy you wish you’d never met
Me: don’t think i know you well enough for bathroom talk
IMer: i understand

And that’s the end of that. Just a wild guess, but I’m thinking had we been talking face-to-face, he wouldn’t have inquired about my BMs. Is electronic communication causing us to be too comfortable with relative strangers? I know I’ve sent a few alcohol-induced texts I’d like to take back. Or maybe this new technology is a good thing. Maybe it has allowed me to spot stalkers and number two fetishes before any real damage is done, i.e. before they know where I live…

Branding your next boyfriend

As I considered using up the last of a Starbucks gift card this morning, something occurred to me: The guy who gave it to me had already disappeared from my life. His gift card had actually outlived our relationship (for lack of a weaker word). Sure, the fact that he gave me a Starbucks card for my birthday was definitely a red flag, but this got me thinking—no wonder our society is so brand-obsessed—our relationships with corporations are perhaps more functional than our relationships with humans.

While romantic relationships get more and more disappointing and/or boring, brands keep delivering the warm and fuzzies, and even surprise us with new and exciting products. Monogamy appears to be difficult for us to practice with each other, but we’re loyal to corporations, despite having the freedom to stray.

So maybe we’re going about the whole dating and marriage thing wrong. Rather than studying The Rules and playing hard to get, perhaps a branding campaign would be more effective. It’s the anti-game—it’s all about consistent messaging.

It would really just be a matter of bringing mating up to speed with branding. Both have similarly primitive origins. (The term “brand” comes from hot-iron branding livestock to mark ownership; mating for our ancestors consisted of man clubbing woman over head and dragging her back to cave.) But branding appears to have evolved a bit faster. Mating today seems more akin to 19^th century branding, when patent medicine companies were hawking grain alcohol mixers as snake-oil based cure-alls. Dating tools have evolved from club to Match.com, but the strategy behind them lacks the coinciding sophistication.

We’ve already seen how successful professional branding can be for people (Oprah, Martha Stewart, Michael Jordan, etc.). Maybe romantic branding could be just as effective, although the co-branding aspect would make it a bit more complicated. But think of the magical result—not just a marriage or lifelong partnership—we’re talking synergy! Plus, even if you don’t find The One, you could at least replace tired break-up lines like “It’s not you, it’s me” and “We should just be friends” with “I’m sorry, you’re just not brand compliant.”