I wrote at the beginning of this month about the 2009 resolution I finally accomplished, 11 months into the year. The same disclaimer applies here, I think.

Anyway, the whole point of that weekend (A’s wedding, the casual attitude, etc) was that I would never see him again. Or really speak to him. I went to the wedding with zero expectation of any kind of hookup – I was there to be A’s bridesmaid – and when the hookup became apparent, I went into that with zero expectation of any follow-through. In fact, I actively didn’t want any follow-through. As things progressed, I felt more confident, sexy, and free than I had in a really long time. There were no strings attached! The guy lived in California and I’m in NYC. It didn’t occur to me that there might be an exception to the rule of one-night-stands.

Like I said, it was fun. I figured we’d become friends on Facebook, mostly because he had pictures and I had pictures and I had met a lot of really cool people and it would be bizarre to leave him out. So the friending happened and then he sent me a message. It was really short and nice, superficial, a simple how-was-the-trip-back-were-you-struggling-as-much-as-I-was. (I mean, we’d gotten about 3 hours of sleep. That day of traveling was rough). I wrote back agreeing that it was rough and returning the question. He wrote back again and this time the message was longer, more engaging. I showed it to Twin, wondering why on earth this guy was writing to me. I mean, I knew he thought I was hot and I knew he liked my personality. But come on, it was a one-weekend fling. No need to pretend like you have any further interest in me past that. Twin advised I wait a bit longer before replying and slowly make the messages shorter so they’d fade out. And that was my intention.

Fail.

Within two weeks we’d moved from Facebook messages to emails and another week after that we exchanged numbers. (Talk about a backwards way to get to know someone). It’s been a solid month and a half since we met and we are emailing “epic essays” (his words, not mine) several times a week. Sometimes there is contact multiple times a day. Texts are also not uncommon, though they mostly happen when at least one of us is not so sober.

So now I must introduce this guy not simply as “some guy from the wedding,” but as Cali Boy. Because, oh right, he still still lives in California.

What am I doing? One-night stands are supposed to be just that – one night. No further interest. No further contact. It’s casual, meaningless. You’re not supposed to realize that the other person is not only sexually attractive to you, but also really fucking cool. And even if that does happen, it’s not supposed to be mutual. Or bi-coastal. So what the fuck.

The thing is, I’m trying to just kind of go with it. I don’t want the emails or texts to stop. I really like learning more about him and hearing stories and I find myself interested in how his week is going and what his plans are for Christmas. He seems to be interested in the same about me and has done some cute things, like sending me videos of baby otters playing on the carpet and Elfing the two of us into the jibjab Elf Yourself video on Thanksgiving day.

There are definitely times (this past week was one of them) that I seriously question my intentions and motives here. I question the entire situation and wonder why I continue. I don’t see contact ending but I also don’t see a future involving anything more than virtual communication. What’s the point? There isn’t one.

Except he’s tentatively planning to come visit in February.

EDIT: I wrote this a month ago (obviously we are more than 334 days into 2009) unsure of whether I’d publish it. However, in the spirit of this new decade approaching (um, what?), I’m going to put it all out there. This shit is way more therapeutic than it gets credit for. Also, the end of the post wasn’t totally true a month ago, but now I think I’m at the point where it might be.

…and I wrote the date as 11/29/08 yesterday.

That’s so not even the point. I have so much on my mind I can’t even write about it. I know if I wrote about it, I wouldn’t have to think about it, but … I started this post over an hour ago and this is all I have. Ugh.

My mom has a new boyfriend. Well, new to me. Not so new to her. Even though they only met in the beginning of August, which is barely four months ago. They met on e-harmony and at first when she emailed me about how well it was going I was really happy for her. Because that’s all it ever was: she’s dated men before, since my dad, but never anything serious and never anything past a few dates. So I went along with it, with her gushing on the phone about how he is so smart and funny and charming-and-everything-I’ve-been-missing-for-years-and-years. Because it always starts like that and then the whole world comes crashing down when she finds out the new man she’s oh-so-in-love-with is actually a pill-popping alcoholic or a manipulative bastard or still married or all three.

But then he stuck around. He has three daughters. She met them. My brother, who’s still living at home because he just graduated, had dinner with them. Then my mom asked if he could come to my birthday dinner and I said yes because it was a month away and it was my 25th birthday so that was distracting enough. Then she called to ask if I’d mind if his eldest daughter came along and I said no before I could think about whether I really meant it. I tried to take it back – no, it wasn’t ok if this strange girl came – but she was already invited. The anticipation made me so anxious I had dizzy spells at work.

And then I went to the dinner. First impressions mean a lot and he was unimpressive to me. He seemed distant, my mom seemed more into him than he was into her, he didn’t engage me, he barely spoke. I decided I didn’t like him. His daughter – a major part of those fucking anxiety-induced dizzy spells – was very blond and very pale and incredibly smart and outgoing. I didn’t let myself like her, but she was an acceptable addition to my birthday dinner.

My mom continued to date him. I continue(d?) to resist every anecdote she tried to tell me. I am very detached from her life, I realized, as she grew (grows) closer to him and I remain in the same spot. Now it’s The Holiday Season and over the past barely-four-months I’ve been able to admit that I’m having a really hard time with her (finally) having a Real Boyfriend. I want to close off our family, hang up a Not Welcome sign, and continue existing the way we have for the past 10 years.

Or I did, until I rode the train home with the oldest daughter. Basically, our parents orchestrated our coordinated train ride, with my mom telling me she wanted to ride home with me and her dad telling her I wanted to ride home with her. We realized this fairly soon after meeting at Grand Central, walking together in our boots, leggings, and long shirts to the 3:33 Metro-North train at track 25. Small talk ensued: she’s 20, a junior at NYU, and – like I said before – incredibly smart. Her name’s Alex. Time passed and I found her saying “me too!” in response to many things I said. Not in the “I don’t have my own opinions so I’m agreeing with you” kind of way, but in the way that made it clear that we really have a lot in common.

Inevitably, the conversation turned to the main thing we have in common: that our parents are dating each other. I might back up here and clarify that while my dad left 10 years ago, her mom died 3 years ago from a really rare kind of cancer. Not exactly the most relatable ways to become Kids of Single Parents. When the conversation turned toward our parents dating, we agreed it was weird. Really weird. Even though I knew, through my mom, that her dad hasn’t dated seriously since her mother died, I told her that I didn’t know if he had dated but my mom hadn’t and I lied about not knowing because I wanted her to know I could relate to her on that note. Alex only mentioned her mom once; I think I mentioned my dad maybe twice. The absent parents were non-entities in a foreign and totally relatable way.

Finally, with her help, I was able to articulate something that struck me even as I found myself saying. When kids find themselves with a single parent – regardless of how that parent became single – they adjust their view of the family dynamic and it becomes their bubble. When that single parent moves again toward being a partnered parent, it’s really fucking hard to navigate that new expanded-shifted-burst bubble. Now that I’ve been able to (sort of) see Alex’s perspective – and how similar it is to mine and yet how differently she appears to be approaching it – I’m not so intent on closing everything off. It doesn’t feel normal and I’m definitely not comfortable, but I’m accepting it. Also, Alex is cool as shit.

My mom told me she read my blog at some point so I have to issue disclaimers when I write about some stuff. Take this statement as such. If you’re related to me, read at your own risk.

…

A very good friend (A) from high school got married on November 7. I was one of her bridesmaids. The wedding was in the mountains in central Georgia, at night, in front of a waterfall, with the aisle lined with floating candles. It was stunning – my friend looked breathtakingly beautiful (she’s pretty anyway, but I swear there’s something magical about wedding dresses that guarantee the bride is the best-looking person all night long) and while it was pretty chilly out (especially in our strapless dresses), it was clear and I could see the stars (so many!) and after the reception there was a bonfire that was very toasty.

But I didn’t issue a disclaimer to write about the wedding itself. I’ll start from the beginning:

I arrived at the estate (yes! we stayed at an estate!) at midnight-ish on Thursday night, November 5. I was exhausted, having gotten not much sleep the night before (thanks to a work event, of course) and having then flown for three hours and driven (alone) for two. A and I stayed up till 2am catching up anyway, but I didn’t see any of the guys except for the groom, J. The next day was a girls day out: We – all the bridesmaids and A’s mom and cousins and aunts – all got manicures and pedicures and went out to lunch. We came back and just had time to get ready for the rehearsal. It was freezing and we didn’t have jackets and the waterfall made it colder so at first I didn’t notice that we had a little audience watching us all practice walking up and down the aisle.

At the rehearsal dinner, A and J sat with their parents, so I was at a table with two other bridesmaids, G and S, the groomsmen, and the two other friends of the groom who weren’t in the wedding party. It was those two guys who were the little audience earlier that night. You know when you meet a guy and you just know you’ll end up hooking up? Not because he’s omgsohot. It’s not like there’s some spark. You just know. I am really good at knowing. So when I met this one guy, I just knew. (And he was pretty cute, but that’s not the point).

Turns out, he was actually really funny and fun to be around. I actually don’t even remember how it happened first – everyone was so drunk! But suddenly everyone else was in bed and we were on the couch in the living room and the next thing I knew it was 4:30am and we had been making out like teenagers (read: fully clothed) for hours. I snuck into bed (which I was sharing with A) but not before he asked me if we could “do this again tomorrow night?” I said maybe if he was really lucky and immediately fell asleep.

Saturday was Wedding Day and S and G and I were assigned to arranging name cards and helping with the candy bar (best idea ever). I didn’t see him until after the photographer conveniently finished early (or the sun set) and let us go enjoy the cocktail hour before the ceremony. I told S I felt awkward, she told me it was fine. And it was! No awkwardness, no feelings of hey-we-made-out-till-4am-and-now-we’re-sober-and-did-you-tell-your-friends-about-this? At the reception, S, G, and I danced around with all the guys and drank a lot and then ran to the bridal room to change into sweats and then ran back to the post-reception-bonfire. S pulled me aside as we made more drinks and asked if I was going to hook up with him tonight. I took a second and finally admitted that yes, it was going to happen. Then she asked if I had condoms. (I did, but not because I meant to.) Then she asked how I was with one night stands. (It took me a minute to realize I didn’t know. It took me another minute to realize I didn’t really care.)

The bonfire died down and we all heaved a giant tub of beer up to our house. Then we set off bottle rockets and almost blew up A’s car on her wedding night. Then it became painfully obvious (as if it hadn’t been already) that he and I should probably make out soon. So we did, outside, while the bottle rockets were almost exploding A’s car. And then inside when we thought no one was looking (fail.). And then I turned around and said, “I’m going to my room.” He followed and I locked the door.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is how I broke my 18-month long sexless dry spell! It was casual, meaningless, really fun, drunk, not-mind-blowing, totally necessary sex. It was also the first time I’ve ever felt really good about a one night stand and of course I’ve vowed to never, ever, let such a drought happen again.

P.S. I also learned something really key: those free “NYC” condoms they hand out at events sometimes? The ones in the fishbowls at bars that everyone grabs in bulk because they’re, well, free? …They come with lube packets for a reason. :)

Several months ago, Twin and I were on our way to yet another company happy hour open bar event (somehow these manage to get scheduled on a monthly basis at least). We had to walk up 8th avenue for about 15 blocks, which was the perfect amount of time for me to relay a story to Twin. At this point, I have no idea what the story entailed. All I know is that it was the end of a long day and I was very passionate about getting this story across (shocker).

So we’re walking up 8th and I am heatedly telling Twin whatever it was I had to tell her. It was likely venting about something at work or one of my roommates or something and so there was a lot of “Ohmygod, and then she was like [blah blah blah] and then I was like [blah ">blah blah!]” and so on. I’m sure it was not the most intriguing story and I know I was certainly not speaking eloquently by any stretch of the imagination. But that really wasn’t the point.

In the middle of one of my “ohmygod, like, whatever” statements, this woman cuts in front of me (this takes skill, since walking past Port Authority at 6:30pm in the middle of the week is just a little bit crowded). She turns to me, her anger actually tangible, and says in the most cutting tone:

“Do you have ANY IDEA how many times you have just said LIKE???”

Twin and I stopped dead in our tracks as this woman continued walking with a weird air of pride and vindication. We looked at each other in shock (and slight horror) and then immediately burst out laughing.

I mean, what? Ok, sure, I was saying “like” a lot. I realize that. Sometimes when I’m tired (or not, even) and sometimes when I speak quickly and heatedly, “like” is a filler word that appears on my speech more times than it should. But again – what?!

I wasn’t offended by this woman’s absurd explosion – I was actually incredibly amused – but what really struck me was how fucking angry she was. So angry, so appalled, that she felt the need to tell me, a total stranger on 8th avenue, how disgusted she was with the way I was telling a story. I think it made her angrier that all I could do was stare incredulously back.

As if that outburst weren’t inappropriate enough, Twin and I continued up the street (an awkward 2-3 feet away at all times from this woman) and then had to stop at a red light. On the corner. Next to this woman. And of course she felt the need to turn to me, AGAIN, and express her utter disgust at my speech pattern 3 blocks ago. “Really, do you have to say ‘like’ so many times? It’s just ridiculous.”

Of course Twin burst out laughing again as I just stared blankly at this woman, probably reaffirming her snap judgement that I am an airheaded ditz with very poor conversation skills.

Wednesday morning, one of the senior directors of my team at work called me into his office. My manager was there as well and a look of dread must have flickered across my face as I opened the door cautiously, because the senior director laughed and told me to chill out. Even so, I was nervous – I’ve gotten off to a rough start this quarter numbers-wise and I didn’t hit my goal last quarter, either.

And then they told me I was getting promoted.

At first I was hesitant – this promotion also involves moving to another, slightly different team: I’ll still be using much of the same knowledge, but I’ll get to really hone my strengths of hyper-organization, thriving on consistency, and leadership skills. As it sunk in, so did the excitement. By the end of the day, I was giddy. I get to co-manage three people with the possibility of hiring one or two more in the next several months. Effective January, 1 (stupid fiscal years), my salary will be significantly increased. Maybe most importantly, with my company growing, expanding, and going through some potentially ground-breaking changes in the relatively near future, this is an incredibly beneficial and key career move for me.

And then it really hit me – this is a career move. This isn’t a new job. This isn’t a run-of-the-mill Junior-to-Senior promotion. This turns my current job into a career path.

I imagine to most people, the typical reaction to that would be along the lines of excitement, eagerness, relief, and a sense of security.

I’m excited and very eager to make this transition, but I’m not relieved at all. In fact, I’m scared shitless. On Monday, I will have been at my current company for exactly 1 year and 5 months. In that time I’ve had one promotion and two pay-raises and learned more about marketing, management, and the online industry than I ever dreamed possible from “just a job.” Because that’s what this has always been – a job. I’ve never looked at what I’m doing as a career path and I was ok with that because I’ve always loved working for this company. Now, because of this promotion and subsequent amazing career move, my entire Mental Plan is being uprooted:

Previous Mental Plan: Renew UES apartment lease with R1 and R2 for 2010. Take GMATs in 2010. Prepare to apply to business school, possibly to start Fall ‘11. Prepare to leave NYC in 2011.

Current Mental Plan: Renew UES apartment lease with R1 and R2 for 2010. … … … ?????

On one hand, I’m thrilled to be moving into this new position – career! – as it really will open so many doors for me. I think especially in terms of business school (which is a definite fixture in the MP), this opportunity will be more beneficial than I can even comprehend or predict right now.

On the other hand, though, I think it’s really scary to settle into a career. Not that I’m bound to this in any way, but as much as I thrive on consistency, it’s also one of the scariest things to me. This promotion means a commitment to my company and to myself; it means making a decision that will likely effect where my life goes. I realize how trite that all sounds and how I’ll likely look back on this and laugh at my slight naivete (an awesome benefit of being painfully self-aware: I can say shit like this and it still doesn’t change the way I think or react).

I think this really just points to how, right now, I am terrified of doing anything that will possibly set my life on a path I’m not 100% certain I want to go down. It’s ironic since I spent years training myself to live day by day instead of constantly in the future. Apparently I did that a little too well – and now I need to train myself to strike a balance.

Unless you are not American or you have been living under a rock, you are at least mildly aware that it’s football season.

I have explained about my Buffalo Bills Fan Status before, so if you need a refresher course go read this. Also go read one of my really early posts, where I mention a certain pair of pants. Those pants really were not the focus of that previous post, but they most certainly are the focus of this one.

This past Sunday Twin and the other girls and I were at good ol’ McFadden’s, drinking our $20 worth of unlimited Bud Light and wings. It was also barely pushing 60 degrees here in NYC, so of course Twin and I were in those pants. (If you haven’t clicked on the pants link, you should because they are hilarious, but the point is the pants are called Zubaz. Like Zoo-Buzz. Yes, they are essentially red, white, and blue zebra print pajama pants. And yes, I wear them to the bar every Sunday.)

Anyway, Twin and I wore them every Sunday last season, too, but apparently never realized the effect we had on the general bar population. (Actually, I’m lumping Twin in here with me because she wears the same pants – but really, I’m the only one who’s been approached. It’s weird.)

The point is we’re famous! And I wrote you this movie script to illustrate it. The cast consists of Twin (as Girl #1), FBF (as himself), and me (as Girl #2). Enjoy.

The Scene: MTA subway car, 4 or 5 express train, moving uptown from 42nd Street/Grand Central. Two girls, visibly intoxicated, wearing vivid, possibly blinding pajama pants. They are loud, oblivious to the rest of the car; they appear to be having a photo shoot of themselves.

(Girl #1 rises to exit subway car at 59th and Lexington. She must live in Queens. Her pants are an affront to regular Sunday evening passengers. She mumbles goodbye to her drunken counterpart and leaves.)

(Girl #2 blacks into the scene. She is suddenly aware of a fellow Bills fan across from her, though she does not appear to have full usage of both eyes.)

Girl #2 (visibly excited): What’s UP!

Fellow Bills Fan (FBF): I think your pants are bad luck.

Girl #2: Bullshit. I wear these every weekend.

FBF: You didn’t wear them last weekend.

Girl #2 (confused, as it becomes clear she has not seen or met FBF previously): I might have been wearing them. You don’t know that.

FBF: I do know that. You’re one of the Zubaz Girls.

Girl #2: Are you serious?

FBF: Sure, we always see you. My friend was texting me about you earlier tonight, too.

(Girl #2, still incredulous but too filled with beer to respond, gets up to exit the train. FBF follows. The two realize they live within blocks of each other. Girl #2 flees.)

End Scene.

Frere and I got (matching) tattoos on Saturday. I got a tattoo. Look!

Tattoo, 9/26/09

It hurt like a bitch. I’m talking – wow. I didn’t cry, but I definitely almost broke both of Frere’s thumbs as I tried not to hyper-ventilate or move my left arm. He, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch – but then, he’s a huge adrenaline junky and would probably get a sleeve of ink if it weren’t a near guarantee that he’d remain unemployed for the rest of his life.

In all seriousness, though, Frere was the entire reason behind getting this. And yes, it was all my idea. About three years ago, Frere found himself feeling really low. Not just kind of sad, not the kind of cloudy-bad-day that goes away when the sun (literally) comes out. He was tired, anti-social, unmotivated…As I’m sure you can guess, he was severely depressed. But it didn’t go away. Now, depression runs in our family, so none of us are strangers to the disease. But this was different – meds weren’t really helping. They made him dizzy, nauseous, all around worse. It was incredibly painful to watch happen, although I’m eternally grateful that we happened to go to the same college and that this happened during my senior year – while I was still there. Eventually, the pain was too much for him to handle and he began cutting himself. When I learned about this, I was heartbroken and also relieved. Heartbroken for obvious reasons; relieved because, statistically and psychologically, cutters are far less suicidal than non-cutters for the sole reason that they are “coping” with their pain.

One night, though, coming home from the bar, Frere called me. I’d learned at that point to always answer his calls – no matter what. At that point, I never had my phone on silent and I would have walked out of a class lecture to be there for him. His voice was strained and I knew he’d hit a low point. He could barely mutter “Yes” when I asked if he needed me to come over. As if I didn’t know. I left my roommate in my room and ran across campus to find him curled in his bed with several friends standing awkwardly nearby. The silence was eery; no one was moving or talking. I curled up next to him and he broke down. I can’t even put into words the rest of the night – it was one of the most emotionally draining I’ve had in my life – but that night truly embodies (to me) the meaning of what it is to be siblings.

Not so soon after, but eventually, Frere worked with a psychiatrist and psychologist to get better; I couldn’t be more proud of the distance he’s come since then. Earlier that same year, though, someone else was having a hard time with her life. Her friends rallied around her to help her realize that her life was worth living – and founded To Write Love on Her Arms, a movement now dedicated to educating people and raising awareness about depression, suicide, and self-injury. This past March, Frere called and asked me if I would write love on my arm in honor of the movement’s anniversary. Without hesitation, I did it – and then kept re-tracing the word over the next several days. When a co-worker asked if it was a tattoo, I realized that I wanted it to be. For me, the tattoo honors the connection I have with my brother and demonstrates (to him, to the world, but mostly just to me) what he means to me.

I thought for a long time about this tattoo. I never considered myself a tattoo type of person (whatever the hell that means) and I definitely never felt compelled to get something etched and injected permanently onto my body. Before deciding to get this, I couldn’t totally grasp what would compel someone to do that. Now that I get it, though, it’s an awesome feeling. It’s so personal – and yet so public. I am thrilled with how it turned out and I’m so glad I did it. It was definitely worth the 4 minutes of white-hot, burning pain.

The past several days, my entire Facebook newsfeed has become plagued by status updates and new photo albums revolving around weddings and engagements. Just today, two new albums documenting “Our Engagement” went up within minutes of each other. By girls (women, at this point?) I knew fairly well in college, haven’t kept in touch with, but still am slightly shocked that they are the ones planning their weddings!

The mild surprise that accompanies these particular girls’ identities and what I remember of them from college is really not the point, though. Several people from my high school have also recently become engaged and I am attending two weddings in the next two months – one of which I am IN!

To back up slightly, 10 days ago was my 25th birthday. Despite the fact that I can still pass for about 19 years old, the idea that on paper I am one quarter of a CENTURY is kind of unnerving. I mean, it’s not…but it is. Twenty-five is so young and so old all at once (and yeah, I get that when I’m 30 or 45 or whatever, I’ll realize it was never “old”…bare with me here). On its own, it’s really just another birthday (and it was one of the best I’ve had). But combine the whole quarter-century bullshit with all these weddings and rest-of-our-lives vows and I’m suddenly like, what the fuck!

On one hand, I cannot even begin to fathom being at the stage in my life where I am ready to commit to someone totally and completely. To commit to sharing my life with someone – my space, my thoughts, my body, my nights, my meals – that’s HUGE. I honestly don’t understand how anyone at this point in life knows for certain that this is the right decision for the rest of their lives.

Maybe I’m a jaded child of divorce, maybe I’m envious that these other girls (women?) and guys (men?) have so much confidence in their love for one another that they are ready to go the distance and really commit. Seeing it plastered all over Facebook, though, unhinges a level of insecurity I didn’t know I had and provokes this weird, foreign gut-desire to have that kind of love, too.

And then I concentrate really, really hard and get my perspective back into place. I’m only, barely 25. Despite multiple chances at starting new relationships this past year,  I’m single. Apparently because I want to be. Because when I’m painfully honest with myself, as gorgeous as the wedding photos are, as romantic as the flowers and cakes and candles and beaches and waves and diamonds are, I don’t want to be the girl in the pictures. Not yet, anyway.

Shit it’s been almost 2 months since I posted. I suck apparently. I have had several nagging complaints and I do feel badly; this was supposed to be a regular thing! My only excuse is that the combination of my social life and work has left me entirely drained, pudgier than I was 3 months ago, and basically just absent from a few things I’d like to be bigger priorities.

I will be on a family vacation with my mom and Frere from July 11-19 (Idaho, here we come!) but I actually hope to use some of that down time to update this old thing. Hell, this blog is called Guide to Being Awesome…how on earth are you supposed to figure that out if I don’t complete the guide?!

So anyway, some highlights from the past two months:

• May- Frere graduated from college (!). I began some kind of flirtation with KenDoll (not my chosen nickname), one of Frere’s frat brothers. Yes, he also just graduated. Flirtation turned into a post-college happy hour and subsequent sleepover. No, we did not have sex. Yes, the nuns are still banging down my door. Sleepover turned into constant s/texting. Frere and I went to Chicago over Memorial Day to visit Dad, Baby D and Baby J. They. Are. Precious. And I miss them every second. I’m sure the last weekend in May involved lots of drunken antics but of course I can’t remember them at the moment.
• June- KenDoll comes to see me June 1 and kicks off the month with a great night. It is possible my roommate(s) heard us hooking up. The nuns are still after me but that’s ok because now the best way to call me out in “Never Have I Ever” is to announce that you’ve never called in sick to work to continue hooking up until noon. I can gloat about this because since then the drought has really returned. Flirtation is still current, but we will not see each other till the end of August. KenDoll gets put on hold. Other June events include: Twin’s BBQ, our company’s summer outing, an awards ceremony for our company, seeing The Hangover, a weekend with my mom, and Hickfest II.
• July (so far) – I went to see B over the 4th in Western PA. It was awesome. I hadn’t seen her in SEVEN MONTHS which is the longest I’ve ever not seen her and it was actually so long that I’d forgotten how much I miss her all the fucking time. Sadly, it was almost easier before that – but I’d rather see her and miss her more than become numb and see her basically never.

That’s the brief recap. I will likely go into detail about a few stories here and there (I think KenDoll may make it to the Awesome People in My Life section – big maybe still, but it’s a possibility), but for now this is it. I’m going to focus on some other stuff that’s been on my mind lately…such as how I’ve become (or maybe always have been?) a relative prude, my reaction to an article my mom sent to me, and my newly discovered amazing connection with an old childhood friend.

I am fairly obsessed with this one chick-site called The Frisky. It’s kind of like Cosmo only written by girls I can totally relate to about things that seem like they could have been taken straight from my head. It’s on my blogroll and everyone should go look at it (but after you read this first).

Today, in the Weekly Romp email I get, an article was featured with the tagline “Mourning the Death of My Single-Girl Friendships.” The author/blogger, Wendy Atterberry, is getting married in a couple months and just relocated from Chicago to New York to be with her fiancé. From what she tells us, it appears her main motivation for moving was to be with him; her best friends are all in Chicago and so her social life in NYC is drastically different. It’s an interesting glimpse into the challenges and joys of being in a new city with your fiancé – but without your girlfriends. Wendy draws an insightful parallel between romantic relationships and girlfriend-relationships, which is a daring comparison but also entirely valid.

Most of the commenters on Wendy’s article come off as either bitter single girls upset that Wendy is condoning coupled girls’ tendency to ditch their single girlfriends in favor of their significant others or coupled-up girls nodding their heads in pleased agreement. I can see both points of view and Wendy replies to a couple overly-defensive girls to point out that she moved 2,000 miles away and isn’t choosing her guy over her girls.

Initially, I was irritated by Wendy’s attitude about her new girlfriend to fiancé ratio. My gut reaction after the first few lines of the article was slightly reminiscent of the bitter single girl comments. It was when she pointed out that, “[having single girlfriends is] a romance, really, that only fully blooms in the absence of a romantic relationship,” that I felt the connection to the article.

I’m way on the other side of the fence here. My girlfriends are my life – that “romance” is in full bloom right now! On one hand, it makes not having any kind of boyfriend almost unnoticeable. On the other, does it decrease my potential to cultivating a more real “romance” in the traditional sense of the word?

Bex and I have spoken about how girlfriends sort of replace the need for a boyfriend (in all areas but one, obviously…). But really, where Wendy (of course) places her fiancé and soon-to-be-marriage first in her life, I totally place my friends first. It makes sense, given that clearly we are at two very different points in our lives. It’s fascinating to me, though, to read about how as she “romances” and cultivates her new, life-long relationship, I continue to “romance” and cultivate relationships with my girls.

When I read the article and began thinking through this all, I guess I gained a new understanding about general life phases. The initial irritability or whatever mild bitterness I felt at first disappeared. I want the other people commenting there (both single and coupled) to realize it, too. As cheesy as it might sound (I’m kicking myself for even considering to write this – but it’s true!), as long as there’s some kind of romance in your life – some relationship, someone you can rely on, something stable – then you’re pretty damn lucky.