The Good Wife

I bought a mixer with some of the money we received from our wedding. A pretty, pink, Kitchenaid Mixer (the good one). I had never baked a cake in my life, not even one from a box, but I always wanted to. I promised myself when I bought that mixer I was going to bake a cake from scratch. I know it sounds crazy, but that's just me. That's how I do things, authentic and all the way, or I don't do it all. I woke up one Saturday morning and decided this was the day. I got dressed, and updated my facebook status (I had to tell somebody, this was major).

I'm going to bake a cake today for the first time from scratch. I will post pictures later, regardless of the outcome.

I got all kinds of comments

OMG!

This should be interesting, seeing as how you can't cook.

Wow! Good luck!

I can't wait to see this!

The recipe was for a basic, two layer, yellow cake with chocolate icing. I jotted down the ingredients I would need for the cake and the icing, and left for the store. I bought the finest ingredients at my local Whole Foods, stopped by Williams Sonoma to buy a sifter, and Bed Bath and Beyond to buy parchment paper. By the time I got back home I was exhausted, but I was on a mission. Mission: Bake a Damn Cake from Scratch. So without further adieu, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, went into the kitchen armed with my perfect, all organic, most-expensive-brand-you-can-buy ingredients, and I was gonna bake me a cake. I schlepped my heavy, pretty, pink, mixer over from the shelf in my tiny New York apartment kitchen and slammed it on the countertop. The only sliver of a piece of a countertop I had was now occupied. How the hell did I think I was going to do this again? Anyway, I was determined, so I preheated the oven, pulled out the recipe and began mixing, and measuring; dry with dry, wet with wet. I turned on my mixer and alternated mixing the wet ingredients with the dry ingredients, just like the instructions read. After about five minutes of alternating and mixing, I'd made cake batter. I evenly poured the batter into my two cake pans and popped them into the oven. I now had to melt chocolate to make the frosting (I was doing too much). Needless to say I'd never done this before either, but I'd seen Ina Garten do it on the FoodNetwork, so I knew to be careful of scorching the chocolate. I did it! My chocolate was perfectly melted and my cakes were in the oven. I was feeling very good about myself. I whipped up the melted chocolate and at least a million sticks of butter, and wah, lah, I'd made buttercream icing. I cleaned up a little bit while I waited for my oven timer to go off. There was chocolate smeared all over everything, bowls were on the floor, on top of the microwave, on top of the refridgerator, and I was beyond stressed out. But it would all be worth it in the end after I put the icing on my cake; a cake that I baked with my own hands, from scratch. I am so proud of myself! I didn't think I could do it! I'm such a good wife! I thought to myself smiling. DING!

It was time to pull my cakes out of the oven. I opened the oven and pulled out the rack. I felt myself begin to sweat. This was the moment of truth. I set the cakes on the coffee table to cool, and before my very eyes, the middle of both of them started to sink. Oh my gosh, they're not done. I carefully, placed them back in the oven, and tried not to panic, but it was too late. Where is my husband? I can't believe these cakes aren't done. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I kept opening the oven to make sure they didn't burn. After about ten minutes, I checked them with a toothpick. They were both still undone in the middle, so I left them in the oven for a few minutes longer. It still didn't work. The outside of the cakes were now dry and hard, while the inside was half baked at best. I was so disappointed and frustrated. Where is my husband?! I had to finish, so I took the cakes out of the oven, let them cool, and frosted it anyway. I was extra careful to fill in the big, sunken, hole in the middle with a lot of frosting. When it was all done, I was relieved but it didn't make me feel any better. By the time my husband got home I was beyond distraught. Where is the camera? I asked him with a nervous smile. He found it and I took a picture of my chocolate frosted, half-baked cake, and posted it to my facebook page. It didn't look too bad at all. Looks can be deceiving.

No. 2

Disclaimer: Every once in a while, If I can, I like to give some practical advice to my female readers that they may be able to use in their everyday lives. This is one of those posts.

Traveling with a guy for the first time can be exhausting. My ex-husband and I didn't have a honeymoon (how ironic), but I have been on mini-weekend, road trips with men that I have dated. The first time I took such a trip I was dating this guy that was so sexy I needed a change of underwear whenever I was around him. A woman can never be her total and complete self around a man who is sexier than she is. Consequently I was always on my toes trying to impress him. I had to be flawless at all times. So when he called and invited me to take this weekend trip with him, I was siked! I bought new outfits, new lingerie, I got my hair done, mani/pedi, brazilian wax, I even bought a new piece of luggage. I was ready. The night before I anticipated every situation that could possibly happen while we were away together and how I would handle it. No matter what I would not get my hair wet. I had to wake up before he did, so that I could brush my teeth, get the crust out of my eyes, and brush my hair before he woke up. And I wouldn't drink too much. I had all of my bases covered. Except for one, what if I had to go no. 2?

I would have to at some point during the weekend. I thought of everything from not eating, to secretly booking my own room; nothing seemed reasonable or sensible. I just won't go, I thought. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to take the risk of Super Sexy walking into the bathroom after me and breathing my post-poop air. I didn't even want him to know that I did that. He was so beautiful, and his di@k was so perfect, you can't hop out of bed with a man like that and go take a dump. I nixed the idea of not going, and decided I just had to figure something out. This may have been the first time I'd encountered this type of situation, but it would not be the last. After wrecking my brain for the entire ride down to North Carolina, it came to me. Most people poop on average once a day, twice if you're really healthy. I would just do no. 2 when I went to the bathroom to take a shower. Ladies, take note. You turn the water on as soon as you go into the bathroom (after you lock the door), do your business, and than take a shower. Your boo has no idea that you're doing anything other than showering, and even if you spray he won't here it over the sound of the water. By the time you get out, the smell is completely gone, and you are daisy fresh. If you're lucky you'll get a little face-time afterwards. Never underestimate the power of a shower. Happy Friday!

Sincere Lee

The Problem with Proposals

During dinner he kept fidgeting, and shifting in his chair. He left the table at least twice in the middle our meal. I knew what he was up to, act surprised I kept telling myself. Dinner was over, and he asked for the check. Okay, here it comes. I looked him straight in his eyes. He gave me a wink. He paid the bill and we exited the restaurant. Okay. He drove down to the beach. We parked, I took my shoes off, he didn't, he would never do that, and we walked down to the shore. It was a pretty night, a little cloudy, and cool, but I love the beach at night; the way the ocean looks as if it stretches farther than your imagination. Endless, and overwhelming. We talked about our future, what we wanted out of life. Then he spun me around, and got down on one knee. "My life is not worth living if I don't have you." "Will you marry me?" I giggled, I was so nervous. I really wanted to think about it, but I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the waves. Before I knew it I shook my head yes, then the word yes slipped out of my mouth. He slid a one carat round solataire on my finger, and it was done. We were engaged.

My story is a classic American marriage proposal. Boy meets girl, sometimes they fall in love, sometimes they don't, but for whatever reasons, they stay together. If they stay together long enough, inevitably, at some point in the relationship, the question of marriage is going to come up. Girl waits patiently, or impatiently, for the day that he finally proposes, never questioning whether or not she would say yes or no. Boy kneels down on one knee, girl says yes, with or without a second thought. I had second thoughts, but I didn't entertain them for longer than a second. My boyfriend of two years had just knelt down on one knee, in the sand, and asked me to marry him at the precise time in my life when I wanted to get married, holding a diamond ring, what woman wouldn't say yes. This is the problem with proposals. In American culture, while men may fret over whether or not the woman will say yes, women rarely do. Most of us either don't realize we have the option of saying anything other than yes, or we don't have the guts to say anything else. Whenever I spoke to my girlfriends about the possibility of my ex-husband proposing, no one ever asked me "What will your answer be?" There is no emphasis on the answer, it's all about the question. If a man asks you to marry him you say yes, that's just what you do. No woman wants to be the bitch who turned down her boyfriend's marriage proposal. Surely it will be the NO heard round the world, and undoubtedly it will mean the end of the relationship. It's like blindsiding someone with an ultimatum, only it's teasingly biased because you know that the right response will get you a pretty, sparkly diamond (beautiful wedding, 2.5 kids, and a house, or a classic six on the Upper East Side of Manhattan whatever your dream is). As long as the relationship is okay, and there have been no major problems, this is usually enough to sustain most of us; never mind love and happiness (sorry Al Green). If my ex had never put his hands on me, I know we would still be married, even given the fact that I was never in love with him. I'm not placing blame here. I don't blame men or our culture, nor am I blaming the women (such as myself) who say yes when they really wanted to say "no," or "maybe." I am proposing that we revamp the way we propose marriage.

Women you are not going to like this but I disagree with the idea of a man purchasing the ring before proposing (yeah, I know, now that somebody put a ring on it and it didn't work out I'm ready to screw it up for everybody else). I think it adds too much pressure. If there were no ring involved until after the woman accepts the proposal, then maybe we wouldn't feel as if we had to say yes. At the very least we wouldn't feel so much guilt if during the time between the proposal and the actual purchasing of the ring, we changed our minds. It would also lessen the humiliation for the man, who probably spent four to five months salary, or maxed out a credit card to purchase such a ring, only to have to return it, or sell it on ebay. The ring in and of itself creates so many problems with marriage proposals. It is a symbol to the world that another human being thought highly enough of you and loved you so much that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. The ring is usually symbolic of something more personal for the woman wearing it. For me it was a symbol of the relationship we had before, the man he was before, the woman I was before. It was a symbol of everything I worked for and fought for and defended. I deserved it, it was owed to me. But the world's idea of what that ring symbolized was easier on my spirit and my heart so I forgot about all of that and held on to the world's idea for dear life.

I never dreamed about my wedding day as a little girl. I always wanted to get married, but I never obsessed about it. After I was engaged however, I could think of nothing else including whether or not I honestly wanted to marry this man. The task of planning my wedding became a welcome distraction from the reality of my unhealthy relationship. I became fixated on this image of the life I always wanted for myself, and got busy planning it. I may not have been in love with my ex, but I was 100% dedicated and devoted to our relationship, and our marriage before I started to examine the issues. The American traditions and customs that a marriage proposal is based on are the reason why over half of all marriages fail in the U.S. If the answer to a marriage proposal was discussed and well thought out the way we handle any other type of proposal, there would be less people shouting YES to it and investing so much time and money so quickly. As I've figured out by now, a proposal is just that, a proposal. A marriage proposal should not automatically be the pit-stop on the way to holy matrimony. It should signify that you're giving the idea of marrying this person some serious thought.

Sincere Lee

A Loaded Gun

If you haven't figured out by now I am in love. I practically did a whole series of blog posts for half a week about this person (I know, I got it bad). There is a bit of drama surrounding this love however because it began to bubble over in the midst of my marriage (post-choking, pre-separation). Basically my husband did what any husband would do who is about to lose his wife; found someone else to blame for the demise of our marriage because there is no way either one of us is to blame (I mean this with as much sarcasm as possible). After he noticed that the phone calls between my love and I had spiked quite a bit, he became suspicious, and accused me of having an emotional affair (he was right, if there really is such a thing). He went through my phone, found his number and began harrassing him. This in turn put a strain on the relationship between my love and I, and without warning my love changed his phone number on me i.e. he decided he'd had enough of the bullshit and cut me off. I was heartbroken, but I understood that he did what he needed to do for himself. As much as it hurt, I certainly was in no position to begin another relationship with someone. I had enough to deal with on my own. I've sent a couple of emails since then in vain. We used to be bestfriends, and I really miss having him in my life. We went to high school together, so of course we know a lot of the same people, and he's pretty cool with two of my girlfriends.

This past weekend I accidentally got a little piece of information that could change everything depending on how I handle it. Here's what happened, my two girlfriends (S and D) and I went out to dinner. I am closer to S than I am to D. Consequently S knows all about my love, whereas D knew nothing about him and I. Somewhere in our mindless chatter S asks me about my love and D is surprised. So I have to explain the situation to D. She seems genuinely concerned but stops short of offering any advice. Fast forward to later that evening. Dinner is over and we are now in search of something else to do. Of course we had a few drinks at dinner so our mindless chatter became a little more unfiltered as the evening dragged on. Come to find out neither one of us has had sex in about three months (go figure)! A little off topic, but I digress. My girlfriend S knows the bouncer at a local club and jokingly makes a comment about possibly hooking up with him that night. "Oh no," I respond, "We are all in this together, if you're hooking up with him, than somebody needs to call my love and tell him to come and pick me up." "Oh that can be arranged" says D, "I have his phone number I'll call him." And here comes the random, life changing information: SHE BLURTS OUT HIS PHONE NUMBER. The logical person in me told her not to call him, while the love-sick, stalker in me committed those seven digits to memory. I couldn't believe it. I was flabbergasted to say the least. What are the chances of this happening? She didn't even know that I didn't have his new number, so she had no idea that she'd just given it to me. It was as if someone handed me a loaded gun at the precise moment that my life was in danger.

I have been praying, and wishing, and hoping for months that I could just get in contact with him somehow without popping up at his apartment or his job. And now I have his new phone number without even having to ask for it!! It's killing me because I know I can't use it. Or can I? Technically he never told me not to call him, and I really don't think he would be upset if I did. He would definitely be shocked, but not upset. He knows me better than I know myself, so he knows that I would never do something like this. However, I don't want to seem desperate or pathetic, like I snuck around behind his back and got his number from someone else. I'm a grown woman for goodness sake. I know this is so fifth grade of me, but I am in love with someone for the first time in my life, and this person has expressed his love for me. Isn't this what people do when they're in love? make a complete fool of themselves. The next day when I awoke I told myself I wasn't going to remember it, but I did. Then I tried to convince myself not to write it down, but I did it anyway. So it's neatly scribbled on a tiny, ripped off, piece of an envelope in my wallet, and for the last two days I've been fighting with myself about what to do. Logical me says throw it away, he didn't give you his number for a reason; when he's ready to talk to you, he'll call. Stalker me says call and hang up, then maybe he'll call you back and your call won't count. Writer me says call, whether it ruins your chances of ever being with him in life or not, it'll make for great material for your blog, and your memoir. Needless to say I have not used it. I don't plan on using it, but I can't make any promises unless one of you (yes you) are able to convince me not to.

*For a little backstory on our relationship, please refer to the Love Squared series, as well as the last paragraph of First Time "I Love You's"

To my husband

I apologize for hurting you. I accept my responsibility for the hurt that I caused you. I knew before we married that I was not in love with you. I should have ended it then. I took advantage of you because I knew you would do anything for me. I expected too much too soon, and no matter how hard you tried; no matter how hard you worked to give it to me it wasn't enough. It could never be enough because I didn't love you. I know now that when you truly love someone you don't feel the need to measure it in terms of money spent, time spent, which neighborhood we live in, what job he holds, what position he maintains at that job, who his friends are, where his family is from, his bad habits, the way he dresses, the food he eats, the house he grew up in. You did your best, but it was never enough. I covered it all up with designer dresses and designer bags. I sauteed it up for dinner every night in my top-of-the-line cookware, and plated it for you and I to eat. I poured a glass of it every evening at five pm and drank until my heart was content. Then I wrapped myself up in it, and slept on it peacefully and comfortably until I woke up. I lied about it. I complained about it. I cried about it. I fussed and cussed about it. I yelled about it. I was silent about it. I gave up on it. I walked out on it. It should never have gone this far. I am truly sorry about it. I am truly sorry. I am.

Your wife

1+1=2

If you recall a few posts back I expressed my raging, insanely out-of-control need to have sex. Unfortunately, not much has changed since then. The opportunities have been there, so at this point it is my choice to continue to suffer this way. There are only two reasons why I woman would turn down a perfectly good opportunity to have sex when she really, really needs to. Either she's married, or her number is nearing the maximum; my reason is the latter. I will not reveal exactly what my number is, but I will say that it is not in the double digits yet. With men, the higher the number the better (at least that seems to be the consensus amongst most men), so naturally, the opposite is true for women(I don't make the rules, it's the American way). So I have one of two options. I can either screw the next guy who makes it beyond a third date, or I can dip back into my crate of oldies but goodies.

Either way this is an extremely tricky situation. The consequences and repercussions that accompany sex with a new guy are endless, but most importantly (besides the obvious STD's and/or a baby daddy) I'm taking the risk that the sex could be bad. I cannot afford to take that big a risk. Because I'm only about two penis's away from my max, I have to choose very wisely. The chosen one need only be attractive, and have the xy chromosome accompanied by a respectable sized member. The sex does not have to be mind-blowing, but it has to be good, otherwise it's not worth it. Herein lies the obvious issue, how the hell am I supposed to know all of this for sure about a complete stranger after only a few dates, or a million dates for that matter. I suppose there's word of mouth, the size of his hands or feet, or any of those other mythical methods of determining a man's worth in bed. However "what they say" has never proven to be anything less than a major let-down for me. The probability that sex with a new guy will end negatively is very high.

Sex with an ex can be just as disappointing. I always think of that message that's printed on the rear-view mirror of a car, objects may seem closer than they appear. Inevitably, the risk of someone catching feelings, or wanting to get back what we never had will rear its ugly head. In my particular case that someone will without a doubt be him. I have mastered the art of having sex without falling in love, particularly with an ex. I have to admit that I'm a bit of a heartbreaker. Not in the conceited, I'm so great they just can't help themselves way, but in the sense that I get bored very easily. It takes a lot to hold my attention for longer than five minutes before I'm thinking about the next thing to do. Consequently I've been the one to call it quits in the majority of the relationships I've been a part of. I'm hardly a bitch about it, unless the guy acts like a bitch; but when I'm done, I'm done. So if I decide that I need to go back it's just sex. Nothing. else. The great thing about sex with an ex is that my number stays put, and I already know what I'm getting. So for arguments sake, sex with an ex trumps sex with a new guy. But which ex? and the saga continues. . .

Old Chick In Da Club

I don't want to be the old chick in da club. I'm twenty-six, and I know that hardly qualifies me as old, but lately I've been thinking about exactly when I plan to put my "stanky-leg" stilettos in the closet for good. Things are definitely beginning to slow down. About four years ago I could party all night, go to work the next day, and then party again, now I need a nap. I can't hold my liquor the way I used to either. Two good martini's (I like 'em dirty), and I'm done. That number was doubled back in the day before I was even tipsy. I pride myself on knowing my music. The last time I was in da club however, I had to keep asking my girlfriend "What is this?" to which she always replied "Girl, you don't know this song?" (as if everyone in the world knows that song except me), and then it hits me. Am I the old chick in da club? Maybe I've just been out of the scene for too long. Monogamy will do that to a young woman. Just as a disclaimer, I have nothing against monogamy. I enjoy the stability of a good, solid relationship as much as the next woman. But I'm starting to feel like domestication has ruined me forever. My afternoons spent shopping at Williams Sonoma, and recording recipes has sucked the club-sexy right out of me. I still have the desire to go out, and for the most part I enjoy myself when I'm in da club. Yet I have to admit I have my moments when I'm partying, and really feeling myself, and then someone bumps me without so much as an excuse me, causing me to spill my $13.00 martini, and I think I'm getting too old for this sh*t.

There is a very fine line between ages twenty-five and twenty-six, but the line exists none the less. I was a much different woman a year ago. Certain things like being drunk in public felt right at twenty-five, or cursing out that guy who walked by and purposely slid past you close enough for his penis to rub against your ass. At twenty-six however, I feel like I've turned the corner. I would be a complete hypocrite to act as if I haven't been drunk in public recently (check the post "Shout Out to D.C."), but I didn't enjoy it as much as I would have at twenty-five.

PSA: Fellas I don't think any woman has ever enjoyed that little slick-ass, slide-by, so please excuse yourself, and keep your di@k to yourself.

While it may not be time to put my freakum dress way in the back of my closet, I now have a little more poise about myself. Consequently, the foolishness that can and will go down in da club is just not my scene anymore. There needs to be a club/lounge, beer garden, rooftop terrace, somewhere for sexy, sophisticated ladies and gents aged twenty-six and over to gather and party, or just hold a decent conversation without having to yell at the person right next to you. My girlfriends and I are spending an awful lot of our Friday nights at nice restaurants for lack of an exciting place to go that is age-appropriate for us. Club Entreprenuers take note, I can't be the only over twenty-five year old woman who feels this way. The party scene, as it stands, is one extreme to the next. It's either dry as hell and boring i.e. the place where you go to party before you go to the real party, or the music is blaringly loud, it's dark as hell, and the air is polluted with the stench of weed smoke. Once in a while I can get down with the extremes. I love jazz and a nice glass of wine, or a jumping party where I can dance and sweat until I wear the tap off my heels, but these can't be the only options. Now I understand why our parents had house parties. Maybe we should bring it back. Happy Friday!

Sincere Lee

*This post was inspired by my very good friend, he'll flip out if I mention his name or initials, but you know who you are. I hope you continue to find inspiration to do what you love.

Operation Ms. New Booty

Generally speaking size matters in the south. Bigger means better, so EVERYTHING is bigger. Land, cars, portion sizes at restaurants, hair, smiles, waistlines, and most importantly, asses. Southern people are the original creators of big booties. You're born with it, so usually we take it for granted. I know I did. I never even acknowledged how nice an ass I had until it was gone. Yes my good people, according to some pretty well acquainted sources, my big ass is no more. So I'm on a mission to get my booty back. I tried not to let it bother me. I'm an intelligent, pretty, funny girl with a great personality, I don't need a big ass, I told myself. I blamed it on the fact that some of my jeans fit bigger now since I've lost weight, but to no avail. I have to just face the facts. I don't know exactly when it happened. It was a gradual process I suppose. When I moved to NYC I still had it, but I guess somewhere between those three blocks I walked to the train daily, my visits to the gym three times a week, and my all organic diet, it just deflated. Good health = *nassatall. I'm exaggerating a little, I still have a nice little booty, but my curves are much softer than they used to be, from the back anyway.

Now it's like the fat from my ass went its separate ways and settled on my hips. Is this the beginning of the aging process? Can this be fixed, or am I just assed out? Come back booty! Come back! Life just isn't as much fun without you. I'm not going to pretend like I don't notice how men check me when I'm walking down the block. After your face checks out, every man's natural instinct is to check you out from the back. Whether I'm interested in him or not, I like knowing that everything is on the up and up. Who doesn't like being admired? I digress. I seriously don't know what to do. I tried to entice it with pasta, biscuits, pancakes. I've seen a little improvement in bounce, but not too much in the way of size. However, there is a very delicate balance here that must be maintained. I don't want to go from nassatall to **bootydo. The only thing worse than nassatall is bootydo (so not sexy). I'm sure you get the severity of this situation, so any suggestions are welcome, but please no built-in booty panties. The bottom line is, this ass needs to be authentic.

*nassatall- no ass at all
**bootydo- your stomach sticks out further than your booty do.

The "No Baby Daddy" Oath

"If you don't have any children by the age of thirty, there's no point in having any at all." My mother made this comment yesterday while eavesdropping on a conversation I was having with one of my girlfriends who is childless and single. While I'm not single, I will soon be divorced, and I don't have any children either. We both took offense to this. I was appalled, yet I couldn't figure out why. I had to sleep on it, and think on it some more this afternoon. I think it's bothering me because I will not have children without a husband. I realize that this is a rather archaic way of thinking; the nuclear family does not really exist anymore. Some may challenge whether it ever really existed at all. Whatever the case, I still want to have a family in the more traditional sense. My sister is a single mother, so are three of my cousins, and I've seen first- hand how they struggle. It's like pulling teeth to find a babysitter. There is never enough time, or enough money, and it ages you well beyond your years. Not to mention the effect it has on the children who rarely get the time and attention they need and deserve from both parents.

I took a "no baby daddy" oath (see below) when I was eighteen, and I plan to continue to adhere to it, so far so good.

I ____________ hereby swear to always be responsible
and cautious where matters of a sexual nature are
concerned. I will refrain from having sexual
relationships with men who have baby mamas. I
promise to avoid one night stands at all cost,
and never go home with a man when I am inebriated,
or otherwise not liable for my actions.

So basically my decision to have children is dependent upon when, or if I remarry, and truthfully that is anybody's guess. I have a prospect, but as much as I believe that we were written in the stars, I also know that nothing is guaranteed. My mom's comment really hit home with me because I am ready to be a mother. I love children, and children love me, it's always been that way, but I'm ready in a different way now. I physically get a sensation whenever I see a baby, it's almost like something is tugging at my uterus (I don't mean to be so graphic), but its true. Herein lies the most frightening thing with this apalling comment, for me it has to be all or nothing. It's either family i.e. me: mother, wife, writer he: husband, father, thriving career, and children, or me: single, writer, traveler. There is no in between, all elements must be present, one will not exist without the other. Here come the "what if's," What if I never remarry? or worse What if I remarry and re-divorce? OR What if while I'm enjoying bachelorette-hood, and writing, I get pregnant? I honestly don't know how I've made it this long without getting knocked up. I love sex. It is most certainly not in my plans to stop having sex as my single, (might I add sexy), writer, traveler self. Given my current screw up, I refuse to marry again for the wrong reasons, or without being in love. When did it all get so complicated? The funny thing is I called myself avoiding all of this when I got married the first time. I guess the joke is on me (just in case you're wondering, I'm not laughing).

Read Between the Lines

It's amazing how similar my feelings about my world then, and my world now are. I've always had friends who were older than me, even as a child. When I was in the first grade Colinda was my oldest friend. She was a fourth grader who lived around the corner from my house. She had three brothers, and I always felt like she was stronger and knew more because of them. I learned how to play video games at Colinda's house, her brothers taught me how to throw a decent punch, if I needed to defend myself, and Colinda was the first person to teach me how to ride on the handle bars of a bike. In the life and times of a kid, these are all extremely important life lessons. Of course I haven't ridden a bike in at least thirteen years, I don't play video games anymore, and I can count on one hand how many times I've ever thrown a punch. Colinda did teach me an invaluable lesson, however, that I still use to this day. She taught me how to teach myself how to do things. You could call it responsibility, accountability, courage, initiative, or independence, whatever it is, it's the the thing that makes or breaks us in life. It's the difference between living and existing.

We were sitting in her garage, and she was reading a book. I always loved reading. I had a ton of Little Golden Books at home that I'd memorized from cover to cover, but I'd never seen a book like the one she was reading before. The words were very small and tightly spaced on the page. There were no pictures, so one page contained like a million words. Words I'd never seen before, some of them I'd heard in conversation, but I had no idea what they looked like on paper. I was fascinated. The most amazing thing to me however, was how fast she was reading silently I was floored! I thought she had to be the smartest person in the world. I sat there for at least an hour watching her turn page after page. She didn't even need to use her finger to follow along. When I finally left her house that night I felt something I'd never felt before: determination. I went home and took out my first grade English book. It was the most beautiful of all my school books. There was a huge frog or some green animal on the cover, and there were big, bold, streaks of blue and purple that looked sparkly and reflected the light, so it looked different depending on what angle it was in. I did my homework for the night, and then flipped back a few pages past the information that the teacher had already covered in class. I read about three extra stories and answered the reading comprehension questions that followed them, but that wasn't enough. It was too easy, and the words were still very big, not small and tightly spaced like the ones in Colinda's books. I went over to my bookshelf and pulled down all of my Little Golden Books. I began to read, but I started to get upset because these weren't good enough either. I already knew the stories by heart. I needed to learn something new.

Every evening that week I went to Colinda's house. I had expressed to her how much I loved her books and how fast she could read. So she began to read to me out loud, as I followed along, but I couldn't keep up. By the end of the week I was frustrated to tears. I'll never forget sitting on the steps to our house crying one evening when my mother came home from work. "What's the matter?" she asked me. "Did you fall down?" "Did you break something?" I shook my head no to both questions. "I can't read" I stammered to her through a flood of tears and a snotty nose. "You can read" she said, you get good grades in English class." "I've bought you plenty of books." "But I already know how to read those." I said. Unbeknownst to me, at the tender age of six, I understood the concept of learning; going beyond what you already know, challenging oneself to do something, or think of something you've never thought about before. It seems so simple, but so many times in life I have to remind myself of what I'm learning, and who the teacher is. Needless to say I taught myself how to read that summer. The following year I was a second grader taking fourth grade reading classes. I always finished first or second when we had to read silently, I was always called on the read out loud, and of course my grades were stellar.

I'm not sure exactly what brought about this memory, but it was the first thing on my mind this morning. Perhaps its my divorce, or the transitional state my life is in right now, mixed with the fact that frustration and tears are at an all time high. Maybe it's because I am thirsty for something new. Maybe its because its been awhile since I've read a really good book. It could be all of these reasons. I'm not sure of too much at this point in my life, but I know that regardless of my situation, at my core, I am that same little girl who taught herself how to read beyond a first grade level. I'm very proud of myself for that.

First Time "I Love You's"

Since it's Valentine's Day I've been thinking about how many guys in my lifetime have said those special three words. There really haven't been that many. I've had about five serious boyfriends, out of which, only two have said the words "I love you." This makes me feel really, really good about my choices of men. This is probably the only solid evidence that would support the notion that most of my ex-boyfriends are great guys. Shout out to all of my exes, (if you know I blog, more than likely you'll be reading this). The first time I felt what I understood to be love as a teenager, I was fifteen. This was my first real relationship. He was my bestfriend's older brother, and I had a huge crush on him when I was in seventh grade. I worked very hard to get him to notice me, wore my hair just the right way, wore all the right outfits, made sure I stood where he stood in the hallway every morning, and it worked. Eventually he was my boyfriend. We were together for one blissful year, and three months. We went everywhere together, did everything together, and people loved us together. We were the "It" couple in high school. Although we never actually said "I love you" he did write it in a card he gave me eleven years ago today (and yes I still have it).

It was about six years later before I actually heard a guy tell me he loved me. This was my ex-husband. Our relationship started with a crush as well, but not on the level of my very first crush. I don't even think that is possible. The point is, I was over it by the time we actually met. But it didn't take long for those butterflies to re-surface. He said "I love you" after only a week of talking on the phone. I don't even think we'd gone on an official first date yet. It scared the shit out of me. That should have been the first red flag. I didn't say it back because it wasn't true for me. I don't believe in love at first sight. If I did, I would imagine that both people would have to feel it at the same time in order for it to be real. I can't remember the first time I said "I love you" to him, but I'm certain it was months into the relationship (red flag number 3, number 2 is a whole nother post).

As sad as it may be, I've only ever truly been in love once. Here's an interesting tid-bit about this: It's not my ex-husband (as if that wasn't obvious by now), and this "one instance" that I am speaking of is right now, also, this person has never been my boyfriend. We've never even exclusively dated. No he is not a figment of my imagination (I'm aware of how ridiculous this may seem). He is the person I am thinking of in my last four posts. He is my best friend. The first time he told me he loved me was in a facebook chat (I know, that doesn't count). However, he did tell me again in person. He didn't say it during sex, or after sex, or with the anticipation of sex. We were fully dressed, and sober. We'd just had one of the most memorable nights in with his favorite cousin and her husband (who are now two of my most favorite people in the world). There was nothing glamorous, or perfect, or pre-planned about that night. It just was. Just two couples in love, sharing wine, laughs, and betting on horses. That night defines pure enjoyment for me, but I digress. It was all over us. We had to acknowledge it. As we lay in bed, my head resting on his chest, he nuzzled my forehead, and kissed the top of my head. I tilted my head up towards his face. We kissed. "I love you" he said, with a content sigh. "I love you too," I replied, as if I'd said it that way to him every night before we went to bed for thirty years. We fell asleep. I realize now I've never said "I love you" and felt it at the same time. I usually say it as an automatic response, I never really thought about whether or not it was true. Kind of like the way I always say "I'm fine" when someone asks "How are you?," regardless of how I'm really feeling. It felt wonderful to hear someone say those three words to me and know that he meant it. It was even more wonderful to know that I meant it too. A lot has happened between us since then, but I still feel the same way. I believe I always will.

Love Squared Part Quatre- Elation's Equivalent

It felt like Christmas. I woke up early, earlier than I usually do, to make sure it wasn't all a dream. "Babe, relax" you sleepily say to me, playfully pulling me back down under the sheets with you. You pull me closer to you. I surrender. A streak of sunshine warms my face. A soft giggle escapes my lips as you kiss the back of my neck. Your fingers interlock with mine. I smile and sigh. Relaxation slips in between my thoughts of us the night before. I anticipate what will happen later.
This.
is.
true.
happiness.
defined.

Love Squared Part Trois- Daydreaming

I never stopped thinking about you. I just didn't want to get in the way. I kept you and our relationship under a glass box. Both are so precious and fragile to me. I never wanted to do anything to ruin it. I lived my life. You lived yours. Occasionally, they would meet, and dance together. It was always appropriate for the time, and meaningful. That's the way I always liked it. You were never too far out of mind, though usually out of sight. I got married in the spring. I thought about you every day. As my wedding day crept closer, so did my thoughts of you. You were in my dreams. You were in my heart. On our anniversary, we went to a beautiful restuarant in the city. It was so classic, very old world New York. There were floor- to- ceiling, watercolor murals in pastel shades of blue, lavender, and gray, of different places in the city covering each of the four walls. The lake by the Boathouse at Central Park. Rockefellar Center. Times Square. Music by Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole was playing. I felt like I was in a dream. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, and looked across the table, I saw you. I wished for you. I wanted you to be there in that moment with me. Autumn came and you were everywhere with me. At the coffee shop, where I often sat alone with my thoughts, you were there. I would go to the park and daydream. I took a picture and sent it to you. You said you never received it. I wondered why.

Love Squared Part Deux- Timing

I had one of the worst colds in the history of my life. I had a fever, a terrible cough, and snot to spare. I'd been in bed for about three days, shut off from the rest of the world. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. It was a Friday or Saturday night, and a Meg Ryan movie was coming on, "You've Got Mail." I was doped up on Nyquil, and planning to watch it and peacefully go to sleep. About an hour into the movie, I hear my mom calling me.
Why is she doing that
she knows I'm sick,
what good could I possibly be to anyone right now?
Leave me alone.
As my thoughts of complaining continue, she pops her head into my room. "The phone is for you." I was about seventeen at the time, and I really didn't use profanity, but if I did, a good, frustrated, DAMN IT! would have definitely been in order. "Who is it?" I asked. My mom shrugged her shoulders, handed me the phone, and closed my bedroom door. I rolled my eyes, and screeched "Hello" into the receiver. "Hey you" I heard on the other end.
Oh no,
why is he calling me right now?
I sound like I've been asleep for a thousand years.
Immediately I tried to clear my throat, which hurt like hell, but it was no use, my nose was too stuffy. At best I sounded like one of the Rugrats, the one with the red hair whose voice sounded as if he had a perpetual cold every episode, and I looked like him too. This was one of my best friends calling, and usually I was always excited to talk to him. We could talk about anything, and we always had the best conversations, but this time, I had to get him off of the phone. "I'm sick" I told him. I explained my plans for the evening and waited for him to politely say "I'm sorry, I'll call back another time." "What are you watching?" was his reply. (Insert expletive here, which ever one you like).
"You've Got Mail" I mumbled, trying to sound terribly annoyed and bothered.
There was silence.
"I'm coming over," he said.
"What?!"
"NO!" I wailed.
"I'm very, very, sick."
"You need some company, it'll make you feel better" he said.
He was not taking no for an answer. The conversation ended, he was coming over, and I looked like shit warmed over. I told myself it didn't matter, we were good friends. I was not interested in him at all. Who cares? I sat down on my bed to continue watching the movie, which, I was in love with by the way. It was at the part where Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, is also sick with a cold, and Tom Hank's character, something Fox, unexpectedly shows up at her door with a bouquet of Daisies. Immediately I began to tidy up, comb my hair,and make sure there were no nose crustys hanging around. I did the best I could, but when you have a bad cold, no matter what, you're going to look it.
He gets on my nerves, I thought, but I didn't even have the energy to get upset. By the time the movie went off, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew it was "my company." He opened my bedroom door. What I saw makes my heart flutter even right now, at this very moment. My good friend was wearing a huge smile, and carrying a big bouquet of Daisies. How did he know? I was baffled. I don't even remember how I reacted; I just remember a feeling. This was the first time a man had ever brought me flowers for no reason. It was also the first time that anyone managed to surprise me with anything. I didn't realize it then, but I believe I was beginning to fall in love with my good friend in that moment. I was just too teenagery to understand it. So I tucked all of my feelings way down deep inside for a very long time. Timing is everything.

Love Squared Part Un- Love Life

From the moment you touched me I knew I could never go back. I got goosebumps all over. I didn't want to let go. Your embrace felt like home to me; no other hug that I've shared with anyone else since then matters. It had been five years. Where does the time go? Why did it stop the moment our worlds collided again? I wore no makeup, although I really needed to; but you've seen me at my worst. We've been very good friends since high school, almost ten years. I wore my Uggs and a fuchsia cashmere sweater. No stilettos, no blousy top; and you still greeted me, "Hey beautiful." Your smile was warm and unforgettable. I knew from the moment you spoke to me I could never go back. On the ride back I suddenly felt self-conscious. "Have you been crying?" you asked me. "No" I replied, decoding what I thought that meant, "I just don't have any makeup on." I began fishing around in my bag for my lip gloss and my compact. You told me I didn't have to put on makeup. From the moment we got in the car, I knew I could never go back.

The ride home was the best ride of my life. It felt good to be alive. It felt good to be me with you. Even with no makeup, and my Ugg-ly boots I felt beautiful. It was a windy day, sunshine galore. It was made for us; but it couldn't be. We had brunch at a little place you frequent. "Only special, select people get to come here," you told me as we pulled into the parking space of the store front. We both ordered the same thing, the belgian waffle, except you ordered sausage and scrambled eggs with yours. Regretfully so, I can't remember how you liked them. For a brief moment, my mind was somewhere else. What should I do with this ring? It was just sitting there. That day, my one carat diamond solataire, stood up on my finger like a three carat diamond. I couldn't ignore it. It was there. Our conversation was made of the stuff only old friends can share. From the moment we both laughed together, I knew that I could never go back. Something happened inside. When we left the restuarant, it was all different, but the same. We were reaquainted, I could recognize myself again. From the moment I walked through your door, I knew I could never go back. Your place felt like our place. It felt as if we'd only left there moments ago to make a quick stop at the store. It didn't feel like the first time. I didn't feel like a guest. It was more comfortable, more familiar, more permanent than that. I could hear music. Music was all around me. There was a delicate, sweet, scent in the air. You'd taken care to make your home pleasant for me, but nothing about it seemed forced or unnatural. I belonged here. Where had I been all this time?

We both changed into something more comfortable. You snuck a peek at me in my pink bra and black leggings, even though I asked you not to look. I quickly pulled my tee shirt over my head. We were supposed to be napping. I didn't want to miss anything, neither did you. We listened to music, and I heard songs, beautiful songs that I'd never heard before. At some point in my life I stopped listening to music. I didn't realize it until I was there with you. But you knew it. What was old became new again, and what was new felt so fresh and familiar all at the same time. "Who is this?" I asked you, and you always knew. From the moment we listened to music together, I knew I could never go back. Somewhere in a song you pulled me beneath you. I lay there suspended in your bed in a small space between magic and misery. I've never felt my heart beat so fast. I could hear it. I know you could too. Your body provided just the right amount of pressure. I didn't feel smothered or crushed. You supported your own body weight enough that it was comfortable for me to move or readjust if the need arose. But why would I want to do that? Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. I didn't know which parts belonged to whom. I could have stayed there forever with you. It was better than sex; it was the anticipation of the possibilities. Before we knew it, it was time to leave. Where did the time go? I knew from the moment we left your place together, I could never go back.

Breathless

"I can't breathe" I mouthed to him.
He didn't hear me. He didn't see me.
The white of his eyes were bright as white light.
He was looking past me.
I didn't recognize him. He had become something else.
I closed my eyes and began to pray. God make him stop, God make him stop.
I could feel myself giving up, but still believing.
I can't recall how it started, or what it was about.
Shoes, I think it was about shoes. But it was bigger than that, he needed to have control.
His hands gripped my neck so tight, he squeezed tighter as he shook me.
Only the tips of my toes grazed the ground.
"You're choking me," I mouthed to him.
I closed my eyes. Let it be over. My voice was inaudible.
Like a child releasing a spinning top, he released me.
My body hit the wall and bounced back.
My balance was off.
I couldn't stand up straight. My view of the room was sideways.
I was gasping for air.
Gasping. for. air.
Gasping. . . for. air.
My whole body heaving back and forth.
One foot in front of the other, hands outstretched to help hold my world in place, I managed to stumble out of the bedroom.
"I HATE MYSELF,"
"I HATE MY MOTHER,"
"I HATE MY FATHER," he was screaming through clenched teeth, clutching his head. The pain was paralyzing.
In my brain there was no sound.
I felt like crying. My spirit couldn't comprehend, it was shattered.
A belly deep, eternal, aching in my soul.
God knows it hurt.
This isn't me.
This isn't my life.
I didn't grab anything, I didn't look back.
When I got to the door, I stopped.
If I leave the whole world will know.
I have nowhere to go.

Goatee, Go Figure

Here's an interesting little tidbit, my ex-husband has grown a goatee. I realize that those of you reading this have no idea who my ex-husband is, or why this information would qualify as an "interesting tidbit," but trust, I will explain. My ex-husband is a real type-A, militant, always leaves the party early kind of guy. He wears loafers, he uses shoe horns, and takes great pleasure in cleaning off his Mac. These were all qualities I loved about him, by the way, this is not by any means a jab at his character. We were together for five years and the man shaved every single morning without fail. It was nothing that I pressured him to do, he was clean-shaven when I met him. When I heard about this radical decision to grow a goatee, I was shocked, and then instantly intrigued. What is the correlation between break-ups and hair? I've known plenty of women who resort to the same sort of behavior when a relationship suddenly goes sour; a la Rhianna after Chris Brown, Brittany Spears after K-Fed. I've just never entertained the idea of a man doing the same thing.
Does it have something to do with control? The freedom to make one's own decisions? The most that I've ever done when coping with a break-up is eat a pint of Haagen Dazs, and rip up a few old pictures. I've never taken it out on my hair. I can go to the gym and work off that pint of ice cream, but a bad haircut could haunt me for life. I must admit, I've seen a current picture of him, and he looks completely different. I hardly recognized him. Maybe that's what he's going for, or is this some sort of signaling of manhood. He looks older, but, well, I won't go there. I've always been kind of attracted to men with goatees. I used to think that they were so much more sophisticated, and suave than men without them. There is something very ooh, la, la about it, or maybe that's just a fantasy I created to keep myself interested, and disguise the fact that usually goateed men are slick talking, players without a conscience. They always seem to have a chip on their shoulder. Now I wonder if the reason those men grew goatees had anything to do with a divorce or a bad break-up. That would also explain why most men with goatees always seem to be a little moody, and quick tempered. Most of the one's I've dated had some serious committment issues, and they're always the men at the club buying out the bar. I'll stop short of a warning ladies, but you see where this is going.

You Say What?!

I was having one of those great talks with my sister tonight about men and relationships (what else). We were catching each other up on all the bizzare, what- the- hell- does- that- mean things that men have said or done to us. I have decided to share some of these quotes/situations with you, complete with a short blurb of my reaction, in an attempt to understand these creatures called men. Although I'm not sure that a task such as this is even accomplishable (I don't think that's a word, but roll with it). At the very least I would like to express what I was really thinking at the moment. Brace yourselves, some of the content listed below is a little hard to digest.

"Why should I live my life like I'm in a relationship, when I haven't been presented with one."- Initially I was pissed off about this one, but upon further observation, it makes perfect sense. I know now that I was pissed because at the time I couldn't present him with a relationship. A little something called a marriage is currently preventing that from happening. But I do love him very, very much. BOMBSHELL

"I love you, I always have. Not talking in the romantic sense, as a complete entity."- This was also said to me by the man that I am so enamored by. I wasn't sure how to feel about this. I took it to mean that he was not in love with me, but now I don't know, seeing it in black and white like this makes me feel really good inside.

"I wish I had more time to work with you"- WTF? you're the one with the wife and the kid and you think I need someone to work with me? This was a classic line from the beautiful stranger, and I might add the one thing that he said that made me want to hang up on him. He was just too damn beautiful. It's amazing the things that beautiful people get away with.

"Don't worry, I'll get it up"- Please don't bother. SUBTEXT to this subtext: Men who fail to warn a woman that they are uncircumcised.- Talk about a surprise. It was so sci-fi. There are more of these things running around than you think. You guys should wear special underwear or something. An instructional video would even be helpful, that way we can decide whether or not we want to go through with it before the faucet starts leaking.

Men who take you to meet their mother/family, everything goes great, and then they disappear, or their supposed-to-be ex girlfriend calls you to say that she's NOT his EX- girlfriend.- Long distance relationships are very tricky, you never can tell exactly what is going on. He was Star Wars obsessed, and a little nerdy, but he had the goods. I can't blame the girl for fighting for that one. Junk like that is hard to find.

"You're so easy to fall in love with"- Is that a good or a bad thing? Are you saying that you're in love with me? Are you just very observant? or Are you saying that you could fall in love with me? Why even bother saying this to someone, it is annoyingly pointless.

"It was either punch you or choke you"- I really hope you get the help that you so desperately need. You do realize that no normal, mentally stable person would ever consider those two options as a suitable means to resolve an argument with your wife.

Men you have a perfect first date with that you never hear from him again- Was it something I said? Oh no, I know, I know, he's just not that into me.

"You need someone to take care of you"- Really? Because I just paid for my own glass of wine while you were standing here, is that person supposed to be you?

"I like a woman who wears glasses, a woman once let me cum on her glasses"- Are you insinuating that I let you do the same thing to me? Is that supposed to be sexy you disgusting, perverted, pervert. I have a better idea, but I won't discuss it, I'm a lady. You fill in the blank.

Men say the darnedest things!

Lavender Memories

Like most people getting a divorce some of my days are clouded with painful memories. I am starting to see the light however, and I'm beginning to realize that it wasn't all bad. My soon-to-be ex and I shared a million, little, lovely, experiences together that I could never have shared with anyone else but him. Some experiences are nothing if not poetic, this was certainly one of them.

The evening was beautiful and unassuming, it was a random Wednesday night at the movies.
Cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, you wanted to eat them there, I decided we should sneak them into the theater.
You were so afraid of getting caught; you devoured yours right away, I saved mine for later.
But somewhere we both got lost in the movie, and time got away from us.
As soon as the lights came up that pretty little cupcake frosted with lavender colored icing was on my mind.
I clutched the white tiny box housing the confection of deliciousness until we were just outside of the theater.
There was a misty rain falling, the light from the movie theater marquee above our heads, a mass of people in my periphery, and the blare of the city traffic at my back.
I was oblivious to it all.
I ripped open the box to discover that my pretty little cupcake was smashed to one side, and all of the icing was smeared across the inside of the box top.
Without a second thought I began to use my fingers to get it all off, it tasted so sugary sweet, and I was so sorry that it was ruined.
I looked up at you, and saw a tear roll down your cheek. You looked as if you'd seen something that you'd never noticed before.
I blinked, "what's wrong" I asked you, as we began to cross the street together, the memory of sugar still lingering on my tongue. "Nothing" you replied smiling, tears still streaming down your beautiful face.
And you were right.

Shout Out to D.C./Blame It on the Alcohol

It would be more than fair to say that my time here in D.C. can be summed up in two words: drunken stupor. I have definitely done my fair share of partying here. I have also managed to grind out some really good work on my blog, and in between hangovers, make some major decisions about my life, all while thoroughly enjoying myself. D.C. this entry is dedicated to you. Outside of NYC, you are my home away from home.
It all started at The Park. My very first week here we went to The Park at Fourteenth. It's a fairly small space, the decor is typical of a restaurant/lounge, and the food is decent. But the energy on a Thursday night is fabulous! Thursday nights at The Park became a weekly event. I love the sea bass and spinach entree, loathed the mini burgers, and adored the selection of men. Shout out to Ron B., Andrew, Patrick, Sam, Jay, T.J., B.J., and God (don't ask). Whenever I'm in town, I'll be stopping in.
Of course a woman of my discerning taste cannot go anywhere without finding a decent place to shop. Tyson's Corner was my drug of choice. The afternoons spent shopping, and lunching with my girlfriends at Gordon Beirsch will never be forgotten. Dinner at Maggiano's is just what the doctor ordered for those long discussions with friends that can only be had over a huge plate of carbs, and a nice long stemmed glass of Merlot.
We spent Founder's Week (all you greeks know what I'm referring to) at the K Street Lounge. Shout out to Jessica of Delta Sigma Theta, my new found D.C. friend! That was a wild night. The club was packed to capacity, alcohol was flowing, and we danced until we were dripping wet. I had forgotten I could move like that! Isn't it funny how every song that comes on in the club is "your song" when you're tipsy and having a good time?
My girlfriend celebrated her birthday at Tuscana Lounge. I had a little too much to drink that night, but what I remember of it was a great time! I heard all about it the next day at brunch at the Silver Diner. I've definitely had better brunch, but when you're with friends, who cares.
Mexican at Lauriol Plaza was pretty good. The swirl Margarita is delish! I only had two drinks this time, so I was able to walk myself out of the restaurant. Shout out to the crazy guys we met while we waited for an hour and a half for a table (it was too cold out to go anywhere else).
Other random fun moments in D.C.- Getting escorted out of The Park for being drunk, getting sick, and throwing up (so much for being ladylike). Falling down on the dance floor at Tuscana Lounge (again due to too many martinis). That Saturday afternoon at the Westin Hotel (you know who you are, FYI: I am not referring to some random guy, despite how it may appear). Hocking my engagement ring at that jewelry store at Potomac Mills. BIG shout out to Jason! and lastly the meeting at P.F. Chang's that inspired three of my blog posts.
A few things I could do without: the snow, the traffic, and the parking problem. I'm used to the snow and freezing cold temperatures, but having to find a place to park in D.C. is nothing short of a nightmare, and I wasn't even the one driving! Since living in NY, I rely on public transportation, so it's been a while since I've had to sit in traffic. I have completely lost my patience where that is concerned. Sadly, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. In about a week I'll bid farewell to you D.C. Even with all the parking woes, and the traffic, you were well worth the ride. Cheers! Sincere Lee

Kiss, Kiss

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, and no actual valentine to speak of, I've been reminiscing about past loves. Consequently,I have been reminded of a lost art. The art of intimacy; hand holding, soft whispers, nuzzling, hand-written notes. Whatever happened to kissing? It's been a very long time since I've had a really great kiss. A kiss that makes the world stop spinning for all of five seconds. A kiss so perfect that when you pull away, you forget where you are at that particular moment in time. Are couples doing this anymore? Maybe its just me, but it seems like everyone (myself included) is so over-sexed. It's all about the sex, but what about intimacy? This may make me a little old fashioned, but I am beginning to echo the sentiments of my grandmother. We've made it too easy for men to get their rocks off, without having to put in much effort. That could be because we (I'm speaking for all women again) have decided to be a man's equal, thereby creating a hostile environment for the opportunity for real romance and/or a true courtship to thrive.

Every generation since the Women's Movement has fought to redefine what it means to be a woman in America. We seem to have forgotten what it means to be a woman in a relationship. I am in full support of a woman's right to do whatever she wants. However, we have a tendency to sometimes emasculate men by spitefully exercising those rights. A man still needs to feel like a man, just as a woman needs to feel like a woman. It is high time that we (both men and women) get back to basics. I am not proposing that women go out and buy floral aprons and rolling pins, nor that men start rehearsing their "king of this castle" bit. I am merely suggesting that the next time you are out on a date, be polite, smile, and wear your favorite perfume. Take care where being ladylike is concerned, just as we take care with our careers. Intimacy needs only an ethereal environment to flourish. No two earthly beings can create this better than a man and a woman. Be the best version of whichever one you are, and always be considerate of the opposite sex.

Kiss, Kiss,
Sincere Lee