if the world should end

The Mayan Apocalypse.  12-21-12.  Yikes!  The general consensus is that it's not happening, but that hasn't stopped people from stalking the mountain tops in France waiting for the UFOs to rescue them, buying candles en masse, and scheduling End of the World parties.  I'm basically a non-believer, but this awful rainstorm we're getting in the Ace Deuce right now has me ever so slightly worried, just in case that movie 2012 was right and we DO need to be piling onto the arks...which are in China.  Since I'm obviously not making it over there in time, I've got less than a day to start living to the fullest.  Here's my Last Day On Earth List:

1. Use the Mayan Apocalypse to jump back on the blogging horse.  I've been writing a lot and then get stuck pulling the trigger on the "publish" button.  "No more!" I say.  You'll be stuck with my random thoughts and drawings whether they're witty or not.
2. This might be a cliché, but people say this for a reason:  I'd call everyone who I love (and go see anyone close enough in person), and tell them I love them.  Then I'd throw away my phone.
3. Stop saying sorry.  My habit of gratuitous apologizing has reached new levels recently.  I am NOT sorry you have indigestion, as I did not cause it.  I am NOT sorry that you elbowed me at soccer.  Sorry I'm not sorry for not being sorry?
4. Go for a hard, fast run, because it's something that makes me feel alive.  (So does waterfall jumping, but there aren't any waterfalls close enough).
5. Stock up on canned goods.  I know that the kind of apocalypse people are talking about won't be the kind for which bottled water and canned beans would be useful.  But what if ... the Mayans were predicting the Zombie Apocalypse?  I need canned food, good running shoes, a backpack, a machete, and some water proof mascara (I'll be the best looking zombie survivor ever!) STAT.  At any rate, I'll actually have canned goods in the kitchen, which would be its own kind of apocalypse in a way.
6. Blast "Don't Rain On My Parade" on repeat for a good 20-30 minutes. 
7. Ignore the End of the World emails that are flooding my inbox.  No, Spirit.  I will not be booking a cheap flight.  And I hear OKCupid is encouraging its users to "Go out with a BANG," if you get my drift.  Delete delete delete!!
8. Watch Dirty Dancing.  And then turn on Crazy Stupid Love, but only watch the Ryan Gosling parts--particularly the shirtless scenes.  
9. Put on the beautiful, unworn cocktail dress hanging in my closet and await the end gracefully, peacefully, and in style. 

All that said, it doesn't seem that the world will be ending.  I'm not sure if the world is ending at midnight tonight, midnight tomorrow, or 5:11 AM tomorrow, but it's already 9:35 AM on Friday 21 in New Zealand, so I'm gonna go ahead and call a big bluff on those Mayans. 

Dear Mayans,
Stick to the brain surgeries with rocks as utensils, and leave Doomsday predictions to Harold Camping.

why you shouldn't apply the scientific method to relationships

I’m in a relationship again.  The funny thing about relationships is that they send my psycho brain zooming off in a million directions, all at once, non-stop, twenty-four-seven.  [Side bar: What if we knew all the answers to love?  We could devote all that extra brainpower to something productive.  Cancer would be cured.]  Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t always meander in good directions, because this hopelessly romantic gal is a tad cynical and guarded these days.   And my overactive brainy nerdiness that makes me endearing (to some at least) totally backfires in this instance.  Because I collect and gather evidence and analyze my relationship, like it’s an experiment or something-- the Scientific Method, 20 times a day: 

• Ask A Question:  Does my boyfriend like me?  (Easily replaced with “Is my boyfriend planning on breaking up with me?”)
• Construct a Hypothesis:  Boyfriend does not like me. 
• Conduct an Experiment:  Now, I’m not the kind of girl who usually sets up “traps” for her boyfriend.  There is no “Count how long it takes to respond to my text message” or any of that baloney.    But I might employ those methods during my experimental phases.  When I send a smiley face, is it returned?  If I call does he sound happy to hear me?
• Analyze the data:  I combine the results of my “experiments” with the vast amount of data already at my disposal -- the number of dates, numbers of text messages, lines in gchats, and numbers of phone calls received versus sent.  And I look at those numbers in terms of frequency over time, e.g.,  “3 months ago he used to text me 20 times a day, and now only 2 times a day!”
• Draw a Conclusion:  He hates me and is planning to dump me ASAP.  Or very occasionally, my fears are put to rest.  The numbers have remained steady, and I am relieved and consoled for a whole hour until the whole process starts again.
• Communicate the results (and more!):  Once I draw my pessimistic conclusion, I start to dwell on it and let it eat at me, and I become resentful, and start lashing out with passive aggressiveness.  And then, what do you know—that hypothesis becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, because how many sane guys would stay with an angry, resentful, passive aggressive girlfriend that counts text messages?  Oh wait…none.

I know.  This is insane, irrational, and totally unhealthy.  (Though I WAS comforted to find out recently from a girlfriend that I’m not the only one who does this—but I may be the only one who admits to it on the internet!).  I’m slowly coming to recognize my unhealthy behaviors, and I’m trying to grow out of them.  So going forward, I’m going to try and ditch the scientific method and operate on a basis of trust.  Trust that just because I’m not receiving a constant stream of text messages doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about me.  Trust that if he does want to break up, he will let me know.  And trust that if I am feeling uncertain about anything, that we can have an open dialogue about it.

Whoa-- Am I sounding a little grown-up? 

L

an open [breakup] letter to pinterest

Dear Pinterest,

Are you from Jamaica?  Because Jamaican me crazy!  But really --all puns aside, you're driving me crazy.

I suppose I should love you.  After all, I'm a 20-something web savvy, social networking girl who unabashedly went to college hoping for an MRS degree (obviously that didn't pan out), and loves painting her nails and eating cupcakes.  Plus, most of my friends love you.  They're inspired, invigorated, and motivated by you.  But me?  You just make crazy.  Let me explain.

Despite what some mean ex-boyfriends would say about me, I like to think of myself as a nice, normal, 23-year old girl.  I feed myself at restaurants and vending machines, and I haven't set foot in a grocery store in almost two months.  I don't have a boyfriend and I'm okay with that-- I have a ton of fun with my friends, and I sometimes wonder if I even have the time to invest in a relationship right now.  I have a closet filled with a fantastic mix of clothes from J. Crew, Banana Republic, Target and JCPenney.  I rent a room in a condo from my best girlfriend.  I like my life.  It's messy and imperfect, but it's mine, and I'm content.  Until I visit you, that is.

I try to avoid you, I really do.  But you pop up everywhere --blogs, twitter, my facebook newsfeed-- beckoning me with your trendy, perfectly painted fingernail.  And I always give in.  "Just 15 minutes before I start this project," I tell myself.  And after just 15 minutes with you?  I can't stop.  I can feel the crazy coming on, but I keep going.  Next thing I know, I have my 17th wedding planned out, 300 low-fat meals, 77 art projects, 43 fabulous outfits, and 96 ab-toning workout plans pinned.  In the course of minutes, you have turned me into some crazed, wedding-obsessed, crafty, over-ambitious Stepford Wife.


Why do you show me these things?  I don't have a boyfriend, I can't afford those adorable outfits, and my idea of creative cooking is ordering something from the kitchen that's not on the menu.  And let's be honest-- I am not Martha Stewart, and I will never make those cute, eco-friendly lightbulb flower holders.  Maybe someday I'll get to that point in my life.  Someday, I'll love cooking and have a fiancé and it will be appropriate to plan a wedding.  Maybe I'll even have tens of thousands of dollars to spend renovating my dream bathroom.  But right now?  Not so much.  You're thrusting me into this fantasy future and stealing hours and hours from my actual life, which I should be living.

So, I'm sorry, Pinterest.  But I think we've run our course.  Our time together has been special, but my heart just isn't in it anymore.   It's not you, it's me.  I want us to be friends, but I don't think that's possible right now.  Maybe I'll see you in 5 or 10 years, when I'm ready to organize my closet.

Love,
Lindsey

summer crushes and vacation boyfriends

As we all know, I spend a lot of time surfing the internet at work, obsessing over celebrity gossip and reading random blogs.  My most recent obsession is Thought Catalog.  It's full of awesome lists and essays that make me feel jealous in a "why didn't I think of this first?!" way, and usually good for some giggles.   So I was reading one such list, 19 Things You Should Do Before the Summer is Over -- most of which I have done, yay! -- when I stumbled upon this gem:

"14. Tell your crush that you like them because they’re more likely to like you back in the summer than in the fall. There’s like scientific proof."

There isn't actually scientific proof that someone will be more likely to like you in the summer (I checked), but my personal experience leads me to believe this is true.  First, because I like people more during the summer than the fall, and second, because people like me more during the summer than the fall.

Just think about it.  Summer is that magical time of year when everyone is better looking with their bronzed skin and subtle, natural highlighted hair.  All that sunshine banishes the Seasonal Affective Disorder so everyone's in a better mood all the time, and there's just so much to do:  fireworks, sailing, carnivals, evening strolls with ice cream, picnics, patio drinking, music festivals, weddings, you name it.  All of which are conveniently So Much More Fun when you have a special someone to enjoy them with.  As someone who has spent the past couple of 4th of Julys solo, I can vouch for the fact that fireworks are exponentially better when you get to snuggle on a blanket with a cute guy while you watch them.  My long, drawn-out point here?  It's natural to be more attracted to a summer crush during summer.  We're practically programmed to mate during the summer months.

Similar to the summer crush, there's the Vacation Boyfriend.  You're on vacation feeling hot from all the crash dieting, carefree because you don't have to clock in at 8am, and tan.  There's a cute guy who wants to hang out.  Another no-brainer-- sunsets, king sized beds in hotel rooms, and naps in hammocks are all meant to be shared with a cutie.  Maybe you spend the rest of the vacation flirting up a storm, smooching, going on mini-dates, and generally exploring the exotic locale.  All of this exciting romance my cause you to experience the phenomenon of Narnia Time -- you're all smitten and you feel like you've known the person for years, but in the real world it's only been a long weekend.

Despite my love for Thought Catalog and each of its authors (I know one from college!), I disagree with the 14th thing you should do before summer's over.  Summer crushes and Vacation Boyfriends are fleeting and a little shallow-- just look at Grease.  It's easy to get swept away with all of the superficial romance and overlook flaws, whether its pot smoking, deep-seated commitment issues, or the fact that they live hours away and work the night shift to boot.  I say wait until fall to tell your crush you like them. That way, you can be sure that you actually like your crush, versus succumbing to the environmental mating effects of summer.  And if they say they like you back, they're more likely to mean it, too.  Same goes for Vacation Boyfriends-- don't date them unless you still like them in the unglamorous light of the real world.

As for how to tell your crush?  Definitely don't ask me-- I prefer to drive away my love interests with my insecurities and various neurotic tendencies before it gets to that point.  But I'll save all that for another post ;)

L

writer's block and other ramblings

Darn.  The blog had it's first birthday, and I was all amped up and excited about writing and .... nothing.  I have a bunch of post-it notes covered with ideas and little sketches, and then I sit at the computer.  My mind goes completely blank.  The fingers freeze, poised above the keyboard.  I keep telling myself I'll write tomorrow, or next week.  And now five weeks have passed with nothing to show.  I even had a heckler write a comment about my lack of blogging.  Yikes.  So, as with any other problem, I turned to Google for a little research.

What I found: There is a lot of boring research regarding writer's block. There are a lot of lame-o websites with lame-o writing prompts to help "cure" your writer's block.  Even lamer?  My attempts at said writing prompts.   There are also a lot of how-to's.  Implement a writing schedule, make deadlines and keep them, work on more than one project at a time, don't be too hard on yourself, etc.  The two most recurring themes?  Try writing exercises, and examine your anxieties (the most common "cause" of writer's block). I'm not great at freestyle writing, but here goes a try at a Lindsey-like writing exercise-- a list.  My anxieties, on a scale of 1-10:

1. My cursive F is still not quite perfect, despite the many trees I have killed practicing my penmanship. 
2. Brad and Jennifer are still broken up.
3. Where did my favorite pair of underwear disappear to?  Hopefully not stolen by the neighbor in unit 10.
4. My bad taste in music.  Will I ever progress past Justin Bieber, Carly Rae, and Katy Perry? 
5. The color I will paint my bedroom for next year.  And whether I should get a new duvet cover.
6. The guy I like not liking me back.
7. Do I really want kids someday?  Recent events have me terrified of bringing kids into the world to raise and educate and release into a scary, jaded world.
8. My weight, and the struggle to balance my fat-phobia with my love for butter and burritos.
9. Overreacting and letting other people affect my mood so easily.  I can't be responsible for what others do, but I need to be responsible for how I react.  
10. Feeling like Britney Spears circa Crossroads.  What am I doing with my life?

Whew.  Words on a page, it's a baby step!  Hopefully getting all that out there will return my mojo to me, and I can go back to my sketchbook full of ideas and shower you with amazing, witty prose.  But first, I'm off to celebrate America's birthday!!

L

five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes

How do you measure a year?  I measure in blog posts ... 45 to be exact!  I started this blog a year ago tomorrow with the intention of using it as a summer diary.  Over 7000 hits later (from more than 25 countries!), this blog has turned into my own version of Sex and the City, where I can speculate about my relationships with others and myself, and whatever else crosses my fickle mind.  It has been so rewarding--and frankly, downright cathartic-- to practice writing, find my voice, and work on my MS Paint skills. 

So, Happy Birthday Blog!  And thank you friends and random readers for joining me on this wild ride of hand holding, crushes, Vegas, pants-peeing, break-ups, and general over-sharing.  You can look forward to another year of excessive parentheses, doodles, and attempted humor while musing about my crazy (and yet, non-existent) love life and other topics of interest.

And just like last year, I'm fleeing Ann Arbor and the temptations presented by ex-boyfriends and DEMF, and heading back to the Windy City to celebrate Memorial Day.  Catch ya on the flip side!

L

the web of destruction

Last week, when some guy asked what my hobbies are, I playfully answered "Indoor soccer, yoga, marathon training, and... serial dating."  He must have thought I was joking, because he promptly asked me out.  While I meant for it to be a little joke-y, the truth is that I love dating.  The little boost of self-esteem you feel when a guy asks you out.  Agonizing over the perfect outfit for the occasion.  Having a great conversation with a new, interesting person -- whether it's over a fantastic meal at a restaurant, smoothies in the park, a couple glasses of wine, or at an outdoor music festival.  Using my creepy, hyper-active imagination to envision each different version of my future with each guy.  The rush of the "Will he try to kiss me?" moment.  I just feel sparkly when I'm dating.

Confession: I'm a little addicted to this particular kind of sparkle, and I tend to overdo it.  I once went on 8 different dates with 8 different men (boys?) in one week.  Some might say this makes me "flighty."  Or a "maneater."  But I beg to differ -- I fall in love, and I fall hard.  I have had long-term, serious boyfriends.  I prefer to think of my serial dating as evidence that I'm a romantic, and I'm putting myself out there in hopes of meeting The One in Ann Arbor (or wherever I may be).  But serial dating leads to a whole new problem:  the non-boyfriend break-up.  There's been a few dates, maybe a little kissing.  But only one party (him) sees a future.  Cue the "break-up."  I've narrowed it down to two methods: The Fade-Out, and The Direct:

The Fade-Out: When you just...stop...calling (or texting) and basically disappear off the face of the earth.  The nice thing about the Fade-Out is that you never have to awkwardly tell someone that after a handful of dates you are quite certain you never want to see them again.  They just sort it out on their own.  However, this is very immature, cowardly, and rude.  It also makes you feel very embarrassed if you should ever run into them again. 

The Direct:  Sitting down with someone and basically saying, "Thanks, but no thanks."  This is what adults do, ending things decisively and maturely.  But people don't like being rejected.  It is uncomfortable, and awkward, and makes you feel like a mean, bad person.

I have tried both of these methods with mixed results.  I really struggle with The Direct method, as I am generally not very good at being direct, especially when it means hurting someone's feelings.  My indirectness is usually compounded by the fact that I probably like the guy, just not enough.  Because I know how badly The Fade-Out sucks from first-hand experience (I'm lookin' at you, JFK), I try to use The Direct method as often as possible.  But since I can be slightly indirect with my approach, the result is something my friends fondly call "The Web of Destruction."  This basically means that there are a number of men out there at any given time who are caught up in my devious, wily ways, still hanging on "the hook," waiting to have their hearts and souls crushed.   You may be wondering how I sleep at night.  I figure all's fair in love and war, and hey--at least I haven't broken up with someone on a post-it.

L

some things i need to know about life, i learned from star wars

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Star Wars.  My little brother and I staged lightsaber battles with empty wrapping paper tubes, and later upgraded to the flash-light-under-telescoping-traffic-cone models.   Princess Leia was my golden standard for beauty, I could do [terrible] impressions of Yoda, and I dreamed of being a Jedi Knight.  To this day, I still love Star Wars-- who doesn't?-- but I usually bury my total nerdiness beneath a facade of girlishness and J. Crew.  But today, on Star Wars Day, it seems okay to let it all hang out.

When I was a kid, my little brother had a poster on his wall that said All I Need To Know About Life I Learned From Star Wars.  (We thought it was pretty hilarious, because it listed things like "The possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field is approximately 3,720 to 1" and "Always let the Wookie win.")  Sadly, I have not learned all I need to know about life from Star Wars, but there are several lessons on life, love and happiness embedded in the greatest series of all time.  My list:

• Do or do not.  There is no try.  Yes, I had to go here-- how could a list about knowledge taken from Star Wars not include Yoda's most iconic bit of guidance? He spews fortune cookie advice regularly (or at least did... RIP), but this is unquestionably one of his greatest lines.What it comes down to is give it your all, or don't even bother. I'm doing my best to not disrespect Yoda and half-ass my way through life, but I'll admit, it's a hard line to walk for someone who is inherently lazy like me.
•  Your dad isn't as evil as you thought he was when you were a kid.  Love my dad. 'Nuff said. 
•  If your gut tells you “I have a bad feeling about this,” listen.  If I only listened to my gut, I'd eat a lot more cake and exercise even less, so I do try to be analytical about decisions and weigh pros and cons.  But for big emotional decisions, intuition gets the big veto-- always.  When logic fails, that inner feelings somehow always prevails and gets me through, safe and sound to the other side.
• Don’t give up, even if all you know has been destroyed and the love of your life has been frozen solid.  Princess Leia is proof that perseverance = good, giving up = bad.  I think that's pretty straight forward.
• Keep your mind strong so no one will be able to bend your will. I've gone through phases where I'm a little too compliant, and let myself be manipulated by others.  I really hate confrontation, but I'm slowly realizing that standing up for what I believe in is worth the confrontation, when the alternative is to back down and let someone discount my beliefs.  
• Judge others by their size, do not.  Another Yoda-ism.  I've traditionally gone for Talls, but I'm learning to give guys under 6'3 a try-- and it's worth it!
• Being a princess can suck sometimes.  Poor Leia.  Kidnapped, home planet destroyed, boyfriend frozen?  I used to dream of being a princess, but it seems like it's a hazardous occupation.  And speaking of Leia...
• A woman who can kick ass is highly attractive.  Sure, she had some help from two hotties, a couple of robots, a Wookiee and those adorable Ewoks, but she was definitely able to hold her own in some dangerous situations.  And the men her life weren't intimidated -- they only wanted her more!  It's nice to know that forcing femininity is not necessary to get a guy.  I'll be my BAMF self and still land my prince!
• "There's no mystical energy field that controls my destiny."  Han Solo, you smarty pants!  Harrison Ford's best quote ever.  Han Solo doesn't leave his destiny up to The Force or God or his Boss, or blame it on something.  He puts his life into his own hands, and in doing so understands that he is the sole person who can make himself happy.  Someday I hope to be like Han Solo, but for now, I just try to remember to ask myself "WWHSD?"
• Make sure you know your family tree before kissing a boy on the mouth.  Google, people.

Not bad life lessons from a sci-fi movie.  May the Force be with you!
 
L

everyone loves a makeover

I was taking a shower last night after a fantastic 10k training run, and just as I squirted a big glob of Softsoap Honeysuckle Orange Moisturizing Body Wash onto my loofah, it hit me -- my blog design was at war with my blog content.  My banner was so... sterile, and I like to think my writing is not.  After a full year of "illustrating" my posts, it finally dawned on me to Lindsey-ize my title as well.   I think it adds just the right amount of whimsy.  So, enjoy!

L

PS:  Feel free to offer any feedback, but I can't promise to take constructive criticisms nicely.  :)

why i hate cuddling

I hate cuddling.  Absolutely despise it.  Just the word "cuddle" sends me into cold sweats, and my body breaks out into hives (as you may imagine, this will be a rough post for me).  You see, once upon a time, at the tender age of 8, I was curious as a cat and asked my mom what sex was.  I can still remember sitting in her bedroom, her on the edge of the bed, and me sitting cross-legged on the carpet looking up to her while she described sex as "a special kind of cuddle for adults only."  Cut to 15 years later when someone wants to cuddle and cue the negative associations and subsequent gagging.

Now don't get me wrong, I like to nestle up to a warm body and overdose on oxytocin just as much as the next chick.  But I don't cuddle -- I snuggle. And even if your mom didn't scar you for life from cuddling, I think you should be a snuggler, too.  Let's refer to dictionary.com for a little vocabulary lesson to start:

snug·gle [snuhg-uhl], verb (used without object)

1. to lie or press closely, as for comfort or from affection; nestle.

cud·dle [kuhd-l], verb (used with object)

1. to hold close in an affectionate manner; hug tenderly; fondle

Hugging and holding tenderly, closely and affectionately?  Yumm.  But it's all fun and games until someone gets FONDLED.  Thanks, but no thanks.  I prefer a life in which fondling is typically not involved.  And by "typically not involved," I mean never[ish]. Other reasons to opt for snuggling?  Fabric softener and the fabulous Snuggie.  If you can't get over Snuggie compromising the integrity of the word, I propose the huggle (and I don't mean the Wikipedia vandalism reversion tool).  Because huggling is great in every sense of the word, which coincidentally, feels like a hug on your lips as you utter the word.

So are you a cuddler, a snuggler, or a huggler?  I suggest knowing, because I suspect that OKCupid's mysterious compatibility algorithm takes this tidbit into account.  And if you are a cute boy who needs to conduct more research on the issue in some real life situations, feel free to get a hold of me... I'm only here to help.

L

guest post: red flags

Greetings, friends!  Contrary to popular belief, I do actually work at my job sometimes.  And this week has been particularly busy. So when my love-challenged and verbose friend Jon offered to write a guest post for me, I really had no choice but to let him.  Besides, it's kind of refreshing to get a man's point of view.  Enjoy the writing, and I'll be back next week--and probably with a response to all this manly nonsense.  L  
 ---

Today is a good day.  I would go as far as to claim it for myself; today is my day.  12 hours of sleep, laundry, shower, even clipped my nails.  Who could deny me my own day based on those major accomplishments?  Don't even try it.

(click to enlarge)

So here I am: a thirty minute drive from my house, at a favorite coffee shop in Starkville where I can sit and actually hear the sound of my own voice in my head.  My friends don't quite understand why I travel a quarter tank of gas when there is a coffee shop in the town I live.  Well the coffee in town sucks.  Out here in Mississippi, there isn't a Starbucks on every corner.  In fact the closes one is two hours away.  I'll give you a second to think about that.  They think I drive out here to "pick up chicks" (clearly plural) which is an outrageous claim, since I have only men one here (clearly singular, much like my FB relationship status). 

For me, being single is a state of mind where I am open to the adventure and intrigue of meeting someone new.  Here's the problem: there are 6.9 billion people on this planet and 2.2 billion women in the age group of 15-64 (Wikipedia for the win).  If we safely subtract out girls younger than college sophomores [reference half-your-age-plus-seven rule below] and how I'm just not that into cougars over 45, that still leaves a rough estimate of over 1,000,000,000 women.  SO I would think that this is a situation where in order to meet someone of actual worth it's in my best interest to work smarter, not harder.

What I am referring to more specifically is the never-ending quest of cutting through the BS and connecting with people on a deeper level than what most of us experience on a normal Friday night at the bar.  Friday night out with the guys is all I have to work with . It's my once a week reprieve from the boredom of the Deep South.  It's a very limited window of opportunity, as the weeks aren't necessarily filled to the brim with women due to my well though out and calculated choice of profession.  There have GOT to be some of these people of actual worth out there with me on a Friday night... I just have to know where to look, how to dress, what questions I should ask, what answers I should look for in response... So it's a little more complicated than it should be in theory.

What a good part of "working smarter" boils down to is looking for what I think of as warning signs.  "Red flags" might be a more appropriate nomenclature.  Talking with someone new for the first time and they mention how they can't wait to get home to their cats? BOOM- RED FLAG.  Gone are the days of relentless naivety, where you look past the blaringly obvious to find the good inside of every one of the God's happy creatures living on Earth.


Because I don't have time for that.  Three strikes, you are out.  Two if you are wearing sweat pants.  My time is precious.  I only have so much before either someone else claims it as their own (thanks, Air Force) or I run out of it (imagine Morgan Freeman dressed in white).

But if you are so naive or stubborn, that you think everyone deserves an unlimited supply of second chances: let me suggest to you some of the "red flags" that make me take a very serious pause when I am talking/meeting someone new, until I order another shot of bourbon and press relentlessly on anyways.

Cats.  I know I just mentioned it.  But now that I think about it, it has never in my 24 years been a good night when I have seen a cat in or around the house I was staying at.  Has to be the connection between how the owner actively allows the cat to defecate INSIDE their home and my own personal mental image of hygiene.  Houses aren't supposed to smell like that.  Ugh.  I'm getting goose bumps from repressed memories.  If you are a cat owner, just do everyone a favor and fess up immediately.  You'll still have two strikes left.


Age.  Physical age does NOT immediately equate to emotional maturity.  But it can be pretty damn close.  here's a rule of thumb to start with: The Half-Your-Age-Plus-Seven Rule.  Take your age, Romeo.  Divide by two, add seven and see what you get.  Hopefully Juliet is older than the mathematical result.  This is an empirically derived formula which provides the youngest age where you might still have a small chance of finding someone who is the same emotional age as you.  I wrote my final thesis based on this exact formula for Ethics my senior year.  I got an A.  Take my word for it.

Sorority.  The day my sister told me she was joining a sorority was a very sad day for me.  Since then I've learned to cope, and I still love her nonetheless.  But the point stands that about 80 percent of sorority girls only know how to do one thing: NO, not that.  Get your mind out of the gutter Chatch; this is a classy article.  They only know how to make those stupid hand symbols that stand for something NO ONE cares about (besides the 30-100 brainwashed girls that are "omg bff's foreverz").  Unfortunately for me I can't seem to make myself care about Greek life (and I don't have the required genetics to fake it...), otherwise I would have had WAY more fun down here where this Greek Life madness reigns supreme over any other worthwhile accomplishments.

Bad Game.  If I go out at night with the guys, walk into the bar, and your brand new pair of heels and legs catch my eye because you look fantastic, odds are I will walk up say "Hello."  But we all know this isn't really a "Hello."  It's a convoluted mess of demonstrating sexiness, intelligence, and self-worth.  But now let's say I think you are WAY out my league.  I can't make it past the second sentence and I am choking, struggling to say something that connects...the conversation goes quiet...oh man.  Game over.  But wait.  For some reason you still want my number?  Red flag.  That screams "I'll take what I can get" which unfortunately doesn't come anywhere close to "This person is worth my time."  But since I know you ladies are softies at heart, try this if you still really just must have his number.  Bust his balls.  Make him feel like an asshat for having terrible game at this brief moment in time and he will thank you for it.

Overly aggressive kisser.  The good ol' college handshake:  I'm sure that everyone has their own ratio of tongue A to tongue B in order to qualify as the perfect kiss.  But dare I hypothesize that for most people it is roughly half-and-half.  Violating my mouth by repeatedly trying to jam a tongue in it makes me wonder what exactly you are trying to overcompensate for.  Sometimes less is more, and this is one of those times. 

Can't even see her face.  But that is hot.

Doesn't know how to dance.. and won't try. I'm not talking about the primal pelvic grinding that high school dances were trying to prevent and modern day dive bars are trying to encourage.  I am talking about no-holds-barred "I don't care what you think" dancing.  Think arms and legs flailing about in an attempt to physically manifest the music on the dance floor, and perhaps accidentally elbowing one of the less enthusiastic beings around us.  I have a confession:  I don't officially know how to dance since my mother never sent me to Cotillion lessons as a child (I threw away the signup sheet, ensuring my mother would never find it).  But that doesn't stop me, and it sure as hell shouldn't stop you from going and making a fool out of yourself.  Dance like your sex life depends on it (because it does).

So there are the basics.  There are many more, but I am confident you can surmise my point from this... "abridged" list.  And the caffeine buzz is wearing off.  What is funny is how usually a gut-instinct is directly equivalent to a red flag, but a lot of times for me I won't realize it until after.  Usually right around the time the hangover hits, the revelations hit as well.  Duh.  Gotta love insult to injury.  But here is my hope, that I might share some of these misfortunes in order to save you from your own.  Guy or girl, this is a unisex concept.  But you be the judge.  Good luck, and happy hunting.

Jon

becoming my own reason to smile

I'm kind of an awesome girlfriend.  As previously discussed, I tend to throw myself into relationships headlong and at flank speed.  When Big Blue was interning in London, I sent him awesome care packages with swanky Brooks Brothers ties and spoons that I decorated to say "I miss spooning with you."   I baked like crazy for Tree, and showered him and his housemates with cookies and brownies.  Heck, I moved to Michigan to be with my True Love Voldemort.  And I embarked on a long distance romance and did the girl friend thing via hundreds of cute and funny ecards, plane tickets, and even a personalized comic strip (and yes, you should be jealous-- the comic was pretty amazing).  It's definitely not a lie to say that I get genuine pleasure out of making someone happy.

I've been accused of "trying too hard," but I never felt like there was anything wrong with that.  Is there something wrong with really liking someone, and trying to show that to them?  And I also don't see anything wrong with trying to be my best self for a boyfriend either-- I'm usually better about working out, eating healthy, and trying new fun things so I can be the bestest, Most Perfect Girlfriend ever.  Doesn't sound so bad, does it?

What I've been realizing over the past few weeks, is that it is kind of a problem.  Going cold turkey on all the doting is hard -- what am I supposed to do with all of this time I used to spend illustrating comic strips and sending ecards?  It's tempting to rebound so that I can redirect all of this energy, but it seems that no matter how awful I think SPF Ghost is, there is no one who is as good as him.  So I've been letting the extra energy fizzle into the atmosphere, and I've spent all that extra time online shopping and perfecting the art of Draw Something. 

Why it's taken this long to dawn on me, I'm not sure, but I finally realized:  All that extra love?  I should be showering myself in it!  [I can hear the collective "Duh" echoing across the country right now.]  So starting now, I'm going to spoil and dote on myself.  And I'm going to better me, for me-- not some stoopid boyfriend.  My preliminary list of things to do includes:  actually training for my marathon, eating my fruits and veggies, writing more, applying for grad school this year, getting a passport, and most important:  learning to feel safe in my own arms, and becoming my own reason to smile.

L

PS:  The Rules must be starting to sink in.  This is definitely Rule #1.

why you shouldn't wear sweatpants grocery shopping

In the past few years, I've evolved into somewhat of a non-sweatpants-wearing creature.  Gone are the glorious days of undergrad, when I wore sweatpants pretty much all day, every day -- from 6am crew practice to leaving the library at night.  I now choose to look nice and be presentable a majority of the time, and I threw out my scrubby sweats and replaced them with J. Crew minnie pants. I kept a handful of yoga pants and leggings, and I own exactly one pair of real, bonafide sweatpants, that typically are worn exclusively in the confines of my apartment, or over my soccer shorts to soccer games during the winter.  And once, I wore them to the grocery store.

[Let me make something clear:  I really hate grocery shopping.  And I make a big effort to avoid it-- sometimes I'll even send my roommate with a couple dollar bills and ask him to pick up essentials (diet coke) for me so I can make it by just a few more days.  Getting in my car, turning the engine on, remembering that I haven't put gas in my car for over a month, going to the gas station to gas up, driving the whole 1.8 miles down Main Street to the store, finding a cart, navigating the aisles, price comparisons, waiting in line, driving the car back home... it's just too much for a fragile soul like mine.]

So Once Upon A Time, on a dark and stormy night, I was hungover and tired and desperately needed to grocery shop.  I was wearing the heinous sweatpants, and faced with the horror of another trip to Busch's, I took a risk and jammed my feet into my Uggs, thinking to myself "Celebrities wear their sweats in public all the time." I hopped into my car and after the requisite gas stop, I arrived at the grocery store.  And it's while I'm comparing the prices of Progresso Soups that I see Notre Dame Mark: a Really Really Cute Tall who ran in college, had a good job and a nice condo, and took me on nice dates.  But when he wanted to be my boyfriend, I couldn't commit and I panicked, and stopped answering his calls and blocked him on Facebook in a Very Mature and Sober Moment.

I looked at Notre Dame Mark, who was checking out the canned tomatoes, and almost said hello when I have the sinking realization that a) I am far too embarrassed about the de-friending incident to ever speak to him again and b) I am in the sweatpants.  Thinking he hadn't seen me yet, I fled the aisle and headed for the wine section.  Problem:   He did see me.  And he followed me to the wine to say hi--apparently, my immaturity is charming to some.  I somehow made it through a stiff and awkward conversation, all the while hoping to melt into a puddle on the ground.

Turns out, talking to an "ex" for the first time in months when you are in sweat pants and he is in designer jeans isn't so fun.  It could have been so different if I could have hidden behind a cute outfit, instead of shrinking in shame.  Instead, it was basically the Worst Grocery Shopping Trip Ever. So I have to admit, The Rules are right.  Dress to impress, because you never know when you'll meet someone (even if it isn't The One).  I now vow to wear lipstick at the gym, and I'm considering the nose job.  Next on my list: mastering Rule #2:  Don't Talk to a Man First (and Don't Ask Him to Dance).  Wish me luck--I'm headed to Rick's tonight to practice it!

L

giving the milk away for free

Ever hooked up with a guy, only to have him blow you off later?  Not the greatest feeling. Plus, you have this mental image of a grandmother peering over her glasses at you and wagging her finger, saying "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?"  It's the first dating rule you ever learn (usually in conjunction with that awkward Birds and Bees talk).  In the past couple of years, though, I've given up on dating games and rules.  It seemed kind of silly -- if I like you, and you like me, why are we pretending not to like each other?  Why not talk all day, and I'll text you first and hang up last?  So instead of doing the nimble dance that is dating, I've thrown myself into relationships head first and at full throttle.  Obviously that hasn't been working out too well.

Because the "milk" doesn't have to be sexual.  The milk that I've been giving out for free?  My heart.  I wear my heart on my sleeve and make it super obvious that I like someone.  I shower the object of my affection with flirting and attention and pour all of my sparkle into the endeavor.  But then I end up in situations where I'm giving more than I'm getting, or I'm just left in the dust. So now I'm realizing that there are rules for a reason.  They make you show restraint, and put up a little shield of protection until both parties involved are on the same level.

I'm determined to stop giving away the milk for free, and start playing hard[er] to get.  I've turned to the experts, and downloaded The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right to my Kindle Reader App.  I'm a little hesitant to put my faith in a book that advises me to get a nose job in the first chapter, but these are Time-Tested Secrets-- surely they must be on to something!  Starting now, I'm a rules-following girl (and I'll be sure to let you know how it's going).  So far I've only read to Rule #1, and I'm acing it so far...Rule #1:  be a creature unlike any other!

L

PS:  I got a haircut, so no more ponytails for me!  I have adjusted my doodles accordingly.

are you a reacher or a settler?

So here I am, thrown back into the uneasy world of singledom [again].  For anyone who still reads this, my singleness just means more fodder for my blog.  Yippee!  But for me, being single means accepting the reality that I could die alone.  For someone who wants a husband and adorable quarter-Asian kids someday, this is Really Depressing.  But as I was telling a friend just the other day, there's something even scarier than dying alone:  Settling for less, just so that you don't have to die alone.  This of course led to the How I Met Your Mother theory of reaching and settling:  That in every relationship, there is a "reacher", and a "settler." In my vast dating experience, I've played both roles.  This is how it goes:

Scenario 1:  The Settler.  Settling is a good way to get a good dose of temporary happiness, because even with a less than desirable mate, you've found some relief from the stress of being single.  Now for some, just being coupled is enough to be happy.  For me, the settling has been a bit more calculated.  [SPOILER: You may not like me after reading this.]  Historically, when I've settled, I have enjoyed the position of power I get in the relationship.  I call the shots, I always get my way, and I don't live in fear of being dumped-- because when you're the settler, you get to be the dumper.  And this is all good and dandy, until you start getting text messages that say "Sorry I suck at hitting on you, I think you're the coolest, but you're so far outta my league," or you kiss somebody else and your boo barely blinks an eye.  Or something else happens that makes you realize that compliance and fawning are not love, and they are certainly not attractive or satisfying.

Scenario 2:  The Reacher.  Reaching is awesome.  There's this constant elated feeling of "ZOMG can you believe someone so attractive/interesting/awesome/cool/smart/ahh!! is into me?!?!?!"  Plus, you're trying to prove to yourself, and to Mr. Settler, that you are worthy of his attention and affection.  So there's self-improvement:  working out more, dressing better, doing cool things to keep up with his level of cool, reading up on topics so you can keep up with their interests.  The problem?  You start craving validation, proof that your efforts aren't in vain, and they still like you.  And you're so busy trying to prove that you're "good enough" for your partner that you never stop to ask if he is good enough for you.  You're so busy reaching for that happy feeling that you don't realize that as the "reacher" you are actually settling-- settling for less attention and affection than you deserve, settling for someone who probably doesn't deserve you in the first place, and settling for a dissatisfying relationship.  Because you can't be 100% happy if in the back of your mind you don't think you're good enough.

So me?  I'm searching for Scenario 3.  The perfect balance, where both partners are reaching and settling.  Except it's not called reaching and settling -- it's called compromise and compatibility.   And to get to that point, I'll have to find the self-acceptance and self-esteem to not have the urge to settle, and the maturity to know how to be 100% satisfied. 

And if that fails me, you can find me in Scenario 4, where I move in with Kiwi and we become old knitting cat ladies together.  You're never alone if you have a sister!

L