Fall is Coming!

It is finally starting to cool down or at least Mother Nature is teasing us with a few jacket weather days and they alone are enough to make my heart sing.

I love the fall. Any heat makes me cranky and the brutal summer we have had has left me with a 90 day bad mood.

This week I was finally able to turn off my A/C, easing my $400 electric bill and opening the windows of my loft for the first time since spring. I deep cleaned my kitchen, making everything smell like Pine-sol and even vacuumed under my stove.

Then I lit my favorite Mexican Pumpkin Candle, which I bought last fall at a boutique in Briarcliff. It, along with the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup and football popcorn, defines fall for me.

The weatherman might say that it is going to warm back up but the scent of Mexican Pumpkin stands in firm opposition. It will be cool. We will have lazy Saturdays. And god help us, one of my teams won’t play like crap before winter comes back around to freeze us all.

Road to Grandparent's House

Sometimes things suck.  Often I feel completely lost and confused with no idea what I am doing and where my life is headed.  Then I have days like this one - driving to see my grandparents, the open road before me and while I couldn't say that there wasn't a cloud in the sky, that was just fine as they were quite a sight to behold. 

I still don't know where I am going but sometimes that is okay. Sometimes enjoying the ride is good enough.

Considering Cohabitation

The Examiner.com recently hired me to write a column for their Kansas City page offering relationship advice for men. I haven't gotten started righting my regular posts yet which will most likely be about 1500 words long and will cover topics as investigative and cutting edge as what to say when your girlfriend asks you if her butt looks big or if a war begins to brew between your mother and your lady love. You know, real important stuff.

Until then, here is the post I wrote that got me hired.

In our current tight strapped economy more and more couples are considering shacking up as a temporary means to aleve their cash burdens. Before jumping into bunk-mate status with your partner, consider your motivation, long term changes living together will make to your relationship and what you hope to gain from cohabitation.

New studies have begun to dispel the myth that couples who live together before marriage won’t last, but their success is dependent on a solid commitment at the time of moving in together. If you are considering living with someone for ‘right now’ anticipate that she won’t take kindly to you changing your mind later. When it comes to the progression of a relationship, there is no going back once you share kitchen utensils.

If moving in together seems like a natural progression, then celebrate your new found extra income with time spent maintaining relationships apart from one another. No, making sure to devote time to your buddies does not mean you have one foot out the door. It is an important choice to ensure a healthy balance. Living together can come with all sorts of challenges so make sure that both you and your partner have friends to associate with when you need your own personal time.

Know that living together is not a step to be entered into lightly, so factor in the logistics, your living styles and anticipated gender roles and the level of commitment that sharing more than a bedroom implies. Understand what your partner expects. Is living together a situational necessity, a phase meant to last awhile or is it just a short pit stop on the way to ‘I do’? Be clear in your expectations from the get go and start your next step together on solid ground.

I Am Obsessed

Seemingly Sweet and Innocent

I got Bently at the end of April. He was a sort of an impulse purchase. I was at the Pet Expo with my friend Trish (yeah, that is one place I never imagined myself jonesing to go to but I suppose fate had plans for me) when I spotted a deranged looking woman in cat face paint holding a massive ball of fur from across the showroom. I assumed from the way she was practically making out with the thing that she had just purchased him but no, she apparently does that with any cat she finds.

“That is my cat!” I exhaled. I had been joking for a few weeks that I was either going to need to get some lovin’ or I was going to have to get myself a cat. And I hate cats.

How can you not love that face?!

But Bently was different. I mean, look at him – He looks somebody spray painted Garfield grey and white and I was obsessed with Garfield as a kid.

Bently was name that had been given to him by the crazy ladies at the Kitty foster care place. I liked the name and chose to keep it because I didn’t want him to have to undergo any more traumatic change than what he had experienced with the ladies who started bawling when they had to give him up to me. He is three and a giant tub o’ fur. He is like pretty much every other man in my life in that he is pretty apathetic to my existence until I am not paying to attention to him. And so I treat him as I do those other men, smothering him with love until he figures out how awesome I am. The advantage with Bently is that I can actually physically smother him and so we have established the nightly ritual where I try to get him to cuddle with me at bedtime and he tries for dear life to get the hell away from me until 2 am when suddenly I am desirable. Again – men.

Bently has cost me a near fortune in our brief relationship. He came to me with lots of baggage which he disguised with cuteness, reminding me of my last boyfriend. He is blind, has some serious bladder issues and oh yeah, has herpes. He is also a compulsive paper eater and a bulimic. I am developing a very special relationship with my vet.

My Dad keeps telling me I should trade in the defective fur ball but he is like my child. You can’t return your kid just because he has issues. If you could I am sure my parents would have swapped me for a better model years ago.

No, Bently is a neurotic mess with all sorts of issues. But so am I. I guess we make the perfect pair.

Oh yeah - because he is slightly scary.

Doug

This is Doug. Doug and I used to date. Doug was the subject of many of my previous blog rants. Doug is kind of a douche. But he is a lot of fun and now that there is no threat of having to sleep with him, I like hanging out with him a lot.

Doug and I hit up First Friday this month and while walking around in sweltering heat we talked about life and relationships and of course, art.

“I seem to only gravitate to the pieces with faces,” he commented (or something like that, I can’t swear that Doug would actually use the word gravitate). I misguidedly took this as a signal to steer him toward a more introspective examination of self.

“Do you think that your interest in this type of art could be a comment on your inability to connect with people on a deep, real level? Could it be that because you mask your feelings and instincts with a humor, which is propelled by your deep insecurities, that being able to connect with a work on this visceral level gives you a sense of human connection that you are otherwise missing out on in your life?”

“Yeah, I think that is totally possible.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Sure, I mean the only porn I can get off to are the ones where I can see the chick’s face.” And that, my friends is the Doug I know and tolerate.

Doug and I have determined that while dating was definitely a shit-show we do make a great point / counter-point. He wants to be Jerry Lewis to my Dean Martin. I thought radio would be a great forum but he wants to do a web series. And he might have a point. One look at that smug mug and I am sure I will have plenty of ladies lining up to watch me put him in his place.

We’ll see.

Varying Degree of Pants

About a month ago, I decided I needed to lose some weight. The summer had been so damn hot that I refused to put on anything heavier than a loose cotton skirt and so I managed to miss the fact that my ass had gotten as broad as a barn side.

Then we had a cool(ish) day and I decided wear my jeans. My fat pants jeans. My supposedly loose in the waist and baggy in the butt jeans.

I couldn’t zip them up.

Things had apparently gotten a little out of control.

When I moved back to the Midwest from LA two years ago, I celebrated the fact that I was finally allowed to eat again. If that meant I gained a little weight, so be it. Better to have a little extra chub and be happy than stick thin and miserable. Screw working out everyday and starving myself, I was going to have fun and enjoy food.

Not being able to fit in my fat pants was wake up call. What had started as an innocent enough lifestyle change had landslided into apathy and I wasn’t feeling so good in my skin anymore. I had gone from enjoying food to eating lazily and absentmindedly. Crap take out inhaled while sitting behind a desk everyday was not a celebration and downing pints of beer out of boredom wasn’t making me happy. I had taken the idea of occasional and special excess and morphed it into something ugly, fat and regular.

Immediate action needed to be taken. I needed to make diet and exercise a part of my daily thought process again.

Step one – Join Weight Watchers. Step two – Hire a trainer. Step three – start doing things that made me feel attractive again.

I implemented steps one through three with vigor, seeing a dermatologist to help my skin that at 28 had decided to have the coming of puberty that it forwent in my adolescence. I started seeing my shrink again just to keep things in line mentally and I decided to integrate more physical activities in my day to day lifestyle. I could relax with a walk or a bath or a home pedicure instead of a glass of wine.

I still have a long way to go. The pounds went on a lot easier than they are coming off. They aren’t coming off as a matter of fact. I weighed in at exactly the same weight 3 weeks in a row. But I am toning and I have more energy and my time on the treadmill is getting easier.

And last week I was able to put on a pair of jeans. And they weren’t even my fat pants.

Nice Guys Finish Last

"Never?"

"Never."

"Like never – never?"

"Never."

"What if you got married?"

"Never. No desire. None whatsoever."

"Well that's a deal breaker."

(Well duh.)

This was the beginning of the end of my brief eharmony bred romance
with a guy that under normal circumstances I never would have
considered.

He was, is, a nice guy. Nice. Very polite, paid for things, passed
along genuine compliments and didn't try to make a move. Nice.
He was the type of guy I almost never date. Nice is not all that
interesting to me.

I was having a drink with a guy I used to date, who holds much more
appeal to me now that there is no threat of having to sleep with him
and he suggested that perhaps I should give nice a chance, since
repeatedly dating assholes like himself hadn't worked out so well for
me.

So I gave Mr. Nice not one but two turns on the dance floor.
Our first date was a good time. He exhibited all the nice guy traits
listed above and for the first time in, maybe ever, I spent the entire
date being completely myself – metaphorical warts and all.
I explained this occurrence to my girlfriends during a girls' night
out. I blamed the personality freedom on my lack of attraction for
him.

When guys say a girl has a good personality they are really saying she
is a but-her-face.

When girls say that he is a 'nice guy' they are basically saying they
could never imagine calling his name out in the heat of passion.

I flinched when I thought he might kiss me.

"He doesn't make you nervous," my girlfriend commented over a plate of
pasta at Brio.

"Nope."

At this point there was divergent opinions on the necessity of
nervousness. My best friend recently read a book called something
like, "The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough" and has been touting
his praises ever since. My other girlfriend is making her exit
strategy out of a dead end relationship she knows isn't going anywhere
because they have different life plans. She says it is the deep love
that they have for each other that keeps her staying point. I don't
buy that it is not their smoking hot sex.

"I have been successfully single for 28 years," my other girlfriend proclaimed.
"I have successfully signed up for a series of unhealthy relationships," I quipped back.

So for this reason, even though Mr. Nice didn't make me nervous I
signed up for date number two.

Oh boy.

When I walked into his suburban mini-mansion, I thought nice might not
be all bad but he lost all points he gained as a result of my shallow
desire for square footage when I saw the deer head mounted
predominantly on his wall.

Yuck.

I tried, I really did but this guy could have fit right in with my gun
toting cousins and as much as I love them I wouldn't want to date
them, even if I wasn't related to them. Camo just isn't a good color
on me.

So after yet another good on paper date I tried to determine the best
way to slip out of his grasp with his dignity in tact and my gag
reflex untested.

Luckily the thought of a woman who would never change her name for a
man seemed to turn him off as much as a deer carcass repulsed me.
He texted the next night and called the day after but I haven't had
the heart to call him back. I know the right thing to do would be to
call him and tell him that while I enjoyed his company, I think we
would be better as friends.

The thing is, I am just not that nice.