Wednesday, January 31, 2007

don't mess with my man

OK, so I guess I don't technically have a "man" -- unless Grow a Boyfriend counts -- but if I did, I wouldn't want you messing with him.
In an ideal world, I'd be planning lust-filled exotic vacations with Patrick Dempsey, or, more practically, the short-term fling whose MySpace I visit daily.
But we don't live in an ideal world, and that means we must often face the harsh realization that the men of our dreams are taken. And then we move on.
At least that's what's supposed to happen.
However, it doesn't always work that way, and in recent years I've seen more and more of my female friends regard a crush's girlfriend, wife or wife-to-be as merely a speedbump in the road of life.
In my experience, plenty of girls won't think twice before pursuing an attached man -- even if they're lured simply by the appeal of wanting something they can't have.
Now before glaring images of "skank," "tramp" and "ho-bag" invade your minds, let me play devil's advocate. Aren't relationships supposed to be governed by the unexpected? And if so, isn't it possible that the invasion of a third party can actually make us more aware of what we want out of love?
In short, who -- if anyone -- do you consider off-limits? Have dating rules changed to the point where it's OK to pursue someone who's attached? What about someone who used to be attached to one of your friends?
Give me your thoughts, maneaters.
And in the meantime, happy hump day. Behave appropriately.

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

let me see that...

I did forget one tiny detail of my weekend -- a major overhaul of my underwear collection, made necessary by my dog's recent chewing spree.
So Saturday, I hit the shelves of Victoria's Secret, and left the store with $71.23 worth of panties, all of which were thongs. It was a retail decision made purely by instinct. I wasn't planning a romantic interlude -- at BEST a solo fashion show -- but rather, I was simply shopping according to what makes me feel comfortable.
Yes, I realize that's a rather ironic statement, seeing as "comfort" and "perpetual wedgie" are hardly synonymous. Thongs were a concept entirely foreign to me until my freshman year of college, when a group of "cool girls" encouraged me to enter The Dark Side.
The changeover was in motion by the end of my sophomore year.
Now, I can't imagine wearing granny panties. Three letters: VPL. But maybe that's not the case for everyone. Years after my college graduation, I was shocked when a fling told me I was the first hookup partner of his to wear a thong.
So maybe I'm overestimating the virtues of these barely-there undergarments. Maybe they really do serve no purpose other than to feed canine teething habits. For the sake of my Victoria's Secret addiction, I really hope that's not the case.
Ladies...have you made The Changeover? If so, when and why? Comfort? Versatility? Romantic intrigue? If not, do you feel like you're in the minority?
And you even pay attention to our underwear? If a girl wore thongs during the honeymoon phase of relationship, and then switched to granny panties once she got comfortable with you, would you be upset?
Give me all your Sisqo-inspired insights.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

three for three

It's the second time this has happened since I bribed my eighth-grade teacher by making fortune cookies to accompany a book report about Confucius.
I got an A+ this weekend.
I'm referring, of course, to my grade for completion of my weekend picks. Take that, Brad.
I bought my plunger at Target Saturday morning, and watched "Little Miss Sunshine" -- which I recommend, by the way -- Saturday night. But my favorite pick by far was running with the Chattahoochee Valley Hash House Harriers Saturday afternoon.
You have to hang out with these guys, even if the mere sight of running shoes gives you convulsions. It doesn't matter. Trust me...this is coming from the girl whose exercise regimen is sculpted around the likelihood of nail breakage.
Physical prowess really is secondary to the Hash. It's about friendship and secret symbols and beer...and men in kilts. What an endorsement.
Picks aside, I stayed in for most of the weekend, as I'm saving money to attend my friend Lily's wedding in Vegas in two weeks. Make a donation to the fund and get the first look-over of any of my "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" X-rated photos from the weekend.
However, I did enjoy dining at TGIFriday's Saturday night. Sure, it's a chain, but the company was great and the food was even better.
So there you go. Remember...A+. Although I have yet to fix my defunct plumbing, so penalize as you'd like.
Is there a plumber in the house?

Friday, January 26, 2007

about that boyfriend...

He's not who you think he is. And by that I mean a breathing human being.
Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Thursday night, a male friend of mine was complaining how many times he'd entered a fulfilling conversation with an attractive woman, only to have her inform him 15 minutes later that she had a boyfriend.
His peeve: Why can't they just tell us right away?
First, and perhaps most harshly, they might be lying. I'll be the first one to shamelessly admit that I use the first 15 minutes of conversation to gauge a potential fling's suitability.
If there's no glimmer of hope -- but he seems to be a nice guy inside -- I'll shoo him off gracefully, subtly mentioning a (fake) boyfriend. Is it harsh? Decide for yourself. Is it better to tell someone -- who may be struggling with 24 years of self-esteem issues -- that he brings nothing to your romantic table?
A fake boyfriend seems to be the lesser of two evils.
But there are times when the aforementioned bf is real. I got this scenario from a married friend, who said an early-conversation decision to specify she's taken often results in anger from single men.
"What? You mean, you can't even TALK to other guys??"
Either way, the shutdown can be spirit-crushing. So women, time your words carefully.
And men, save yourself a night alone with the "Grey's Anatomy" soundtrack and just ask if we're attached. Early.
Have a good weekend, fake boyfriends and all.

holler for a dollar?

Before I'm inundated with a sea of cyber ads for custom-made dancing poles, I'll emphasize this isn't another post about stripping.
Anyway...I recently got a call from a male reader who related a recent first date of his. They went to a local restaurant, exchanged the obligatory getting-to-know-you formalities, yada, yada, yada. Fast forward to the end of the night. He offers to pay for dinner, she offers as well, he accepts her offer.
And they lived happily ever after. Right?
Honestly, I don't know. But I was surprised at how many friends of mine -- male AND female -- said his decision to let her pay for dinner was the end of the beginning.
I would have thrown me a little off guard. Men, listen up. All women have a rustle-through-your-purse, I'll-get-this routine. That does not by any means signal an actual desire to pay. In fact, more than 75 percent of the time, I perform my routine in the absence of real cash. Or credit cards.
That said, are my friends right in calling this reader's monetary submissiveness lethal? Or, has modern dating courtesy progressed to a point where emotional investment outweighs a $24.14 restaurant check?
And what if his female companion knew a second date wasn't in the cards? Does that change the financial equation?

Sunday, January 21, 2007


Sure, the night was a little twisted, but I didn't think twice before hitting the local strip club scene last weekend. In the company of two friends, I saw my first toothless pole dancer and was even snubbed for dancing that supposedly jeopardized a local venue's business.
A manager-typed charged me with multiple counts of something that involved "banarama."
Still, I considered the excursion a welcome break from the usual monotony of local nightlife, and I'm wondering if female ambivalence toward male-oriented strip clubs is a thing of the past. Do women still harbor anxieties about hitting a topless bar on a Friday night? Even if they don't attend, are women more willing to let a significant other devote a night to the world of questionable gyrations?
I'd like to know if there's any degree of taboo attached to these entertainment options.
Tell me your tales of half-nude glory.

Friday, January 19, 2007 you come here often?

Consider this blog a therapy session you can attend in your underwear.
That's not an invitation for uninvited webcasts, but rather a vow that we'll wake up together each Sunday afternoon willing to numb the scars of the weekend.
Expect the inside dish on seedy socializing, as well as hungover insights on a dating life that has so far been a reaffirmation of the necessity of my inflatable boyfriend. Men break up with me on MySpace. Enough said.
Partying can be tough. Don't even expect me to clarify the blurred distinction between "bed head" and "sex hair."
Still, I can promise you a blog in which readers will get their money's worth. Beginning with this Sunday's post, which incidentally involves a bunch of $1 bills.
So abandon your dignity, ignore the smeared makeup and join me on The Walk of Shame. You'll find your way home in no time.