DC Damsel

I did something on Sunday night that I haven’t done since I was a co-ed in my dorm room at the University of Wisconsin, I popped some kettle corn and watched the Academy Awards from top to bottom.

For what it’s worth, here are my top five ordinary observations of the 82nd Annual Academy Awards:

1. Seacrest vs Swimsuit: The biggest debate surrounding the almighty Oscars this year may have been the David vs Goliath battle between the Titanic techno talents of James Cameron and his IED-loving ex-wife Kathryn Bigelow, but for me the most striking showdown of the night was between red carpet wranglers Ryan Seacrest (for E! Entertainment Television)  and Kathy Ireland, one of the three B-list stars ABC chose to have anchor their 30 minute pre-ceremony coverage. Seacrest is hands down the hardest working man under 5′8  in Hollywood. And say what you want about the little guy, but the dude charmed the pants off of Tom Ford and the Jake Gyllenhaal alike (god knows no one can blame him for wanting a taste of that bilateral  action). By day he fills the shoes of Casey Kasem, hosting the nationally syndicated American Top 40, by night he handles Simon Cowell’s scowls, takes the reins for the aging master of midnight Dick Clark or fills the live loafers of talk legend Larry King.  Then there’s the lovely Sports Illustrated cover model Kathy Ireland. Certainly no one can diminish the raw inspiration of a woman who looks better wet and naked than Flipper could have ever hoped to.  But watching the wide-eyed former buxom beauty turned MILF interview Zac Efron (at 32, I’m still not sure who the fuck that kid is) was about as awkward as peeking in on the pope at bath time. I salute the 46-year-old for boldly branching out into the A-list academy but me thinks Kathleen Marie should stick to hocking affordable wares at Kmart and loving Jesus while wearing a yellow two-piece and leave the true star-gazing to Seacrest incorporated.

2. Boring Barbara: I made an executive decision to opt for pre-ceremony dress assessment rather than the standard Oscar night Barbara Walters special. I mean if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen em all. Same hairstyle, same speech impediment, same celebrity wah fest on a fancy couch somewhere in southern California. But I gotta hand it to the old broad, (she’s 81 and that technically qualifies as old in anyone’s book), she’s an ace in the hole when it comes to marketing numero uno and she announced on Sunday she’s hanging up her star stalking socks and living out her golden years devoting her time to her uber-popular daytime show The View. And while I find interviews with Sandra Bullock and Patrick Swayze (god bless his dirty dancing soul) pretty bloody boring, the lady knows how to coax a cry out of even the most stalwart of studly stars. Nobody tweaks a tear quite like Baba Wawa and for that, I will always salute the (Caucasian) queen of daytime.

3. Botox Don’t Make You Brighter: As I embark on the ripe old age of 33, I can’t help but notice the fine lines, or “flines” as I prefer to call them, that have begun to develop on my once fleshier forehead and between my true blue peepers. And while I may have, on occasion, manually tried to smooth my face in front of the mirror, and briefly flirted with the idea of forking over some dough for an anti-aging serum at my local Clinique counter, I’ve decided for now, I’m happy to carry the “flines” on whatever flight of fancy they’ve decided to take me on (not as keen on the cellulite that’s chosen to hitch a ride on my hips, but that’s a different story altogether).  But I can’t say the same for too many Hollywood hotties. And I couldn’t help but wonder if the botox beauties toasting Oscar on Sunday night were aesthetically preferable to the women who have chosen to wage the wrinkle war sans artificial weaponry. I mean no one can dispute that Demi Moore is worth an indecent proposal, but the girl has become so orange and taut she’s practically a kumquat. And Melanie Griffin looks like she couldn’t wink or whistle even if all her nine lives depended on it. Meryl Streep on the other hand has publicly sworn off the knife and from my high-definition, 20-inch vantage point, looked capable, confident, and downright foxy in her winter-white suit. I mean the pressure must be enormous for women whose every curve and crevice are dissected via TV and Twitter, but there’s got to be a point where the desire to avoid looking like an extraterrestrial trumps the fixation on fighting every flaw.

4. Sexagenarian Steve and Aging Alec: I have to admit Hugh Jackman was pretty impressive as last year’s Academy Awards host. He sang, he danced, he filled out a pair of tuxedo pants with full Wolverine panache (lord knows I’d scratch behind his ears even if the moon was waning), but it was the comic stylings of Martin and Baldwin that made me choose to DVR the hottest night in polygamist drama since Joseph Smith hosted his first swingers party. And while the comedy duo had their high and low points, they looked and sounded pretty damn good for two dudes my parents’ age. If they can send a text message in under an hour and grasp the concept of the World Wide Web without auditing a course on the space-time continuum, I may just petition them to adopt me. They were able to improvise enough around the notoriously bad Oscar script writing to produce some genuine laugh lines. And they’re a hell of a lot more fuckable than Ben Stiller gone blue man. I did kinda dig that tail though.

5. Precious Imperfection: She’s unlikely to be starring opposite Clooney or Cruise anytime soon, or wearing the Armani Prive that was too small for the mannequin, but Gabourey Sidibe has something those other leading ladies don’t, a Bedford Stuy spirit and the balls to flaunt it all over a stage normally reserved for caviar bulimics and celluloid dreams.  She wore a dark blue, diamond encrusted Marchesa, that I wouldn’t be confident enough to wear in a size 8. But the girl rocked it and shimmied her full-figured ass in front of room full of self-obsessed perfection and 42 million viewers to boot. For three-and-a-half-hours, multiple cameras shot multiple angles of the young woman and never once did they catch her looking sheepish or lacking a smile. And while speed queen turned miss congeniality Sandy Bullock clutched a golden goody for pretending to play a chick in touch and in charge, Gabby Sidibe graciously applauded, while sitting in a seat reserved for a lady wearing her big girl panties, already pretty god damn familiar with the realities of the big bad world.

In honor of his, fifth, yes count em, fifth heart attack, I’ve decided to salute former vice president and 2010 CPAC hero, Dick Cheney, by proclaiming to the world (or at least the half dozen folks who read this blog) my top five reasons I’d fuck Dick Cheney:

1. Halliburton Hunk: Despite his many years of political service , bettering the lives of the wealthy and privileged (among whom I hope to be someday) it’s probably his dedication to the oil giant Halliburton that really wets my whistle, lubes my locomotive, and frankly, pumps my jack. Despite my middle management status at a left-leaning DC think tank, my carbon footprint leaves a lot to be desired. I keep my windows open in the middle of winter when the heat is so hot, my bullet-like nipples can’t help but relax. In summer I deliver an even worse fate to those damn polar bears when I CFC the fuck out of my studio apartment. And every time I frequent one of those trendy asshole bars on U Street with a green roof and no receptacle for my cigarette butts the guilt in my gullet grows at an exponential rate. A few months ago DC declared its rivers and woods plastic free and started charging 5 cents for every plastic or paper bag. So every time I buy a liter of Grey Goose or a 20 pack of flushable applicators I either get to parade them down Connecticut Avenue in all my alcoholic, medium flow glory, or get charged for a little synthetic sack of modesty. I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry one of those canvas totes from some place like Whole Foods or Trader Joes around all day like some tree hugging, rainbow loving fucktard. So do excuse this environmental adulterer if she waits for her Dickie dear to scoop her up in his vintage H1 Humvee,  it’s awfully hard to carry that 40 pack of ultra plush, five-ply chlorine bleached, Redwood-lined toilet paper all the way home to Chateau Cheney.  (Guess he’ll have to make room in the back  for the  jumbo sack of unicorn horns and dodo eggs I snagged for Sunday supper).

2. White Icing Kisses and Angiogram Dreams: After five heart attacks, and a waistline that doesn’t seem to wither with any of them, I’m going to go ahead and reason that Dick is not a man who prizes physical exercise above the more leisurely pastimes. And while I’d imagine he’s awfully handy to have around when a girl needs an answer to the Super Saturday NYT crossword  (though I can’t imagine he’d ever read that pinko commie rag), I highly doubt he’d be up for shooting lay-ups in the driveway of One Observatory Circle.  And as a woman who would much rather sip her Sunday coffee and suck down Cinnabons until her arteries exploded, I can’t help but think Ranger Rich might be just the right man for my kind of blood sport.

3. Cowboy Cheney: The Washington Post’s Bart Gellman didn’t call Richard Bruce Cheney “the angler” for nothin. Born in Lincoln, Nebraska, and raised in Casper Wyoming, Dick Cheney was raised knowing how to tend a farmstead. I’m sure I’m not the first cowgirl to be taunted by his Rockey Mountain blues turned big city woes allure. His half-cocked smile and his standpat spurs really jingle my jangle. Gotta wonder where Veep 43 falls in the saddle vs bareback debate.

4. Angry Sex: A girl has to assume that any man so supportive of torture tactics in the interrogation chamber, must be a hell of a hair puller in the bedroom. A dance with Dick between the sheets gives a whole new meaning to deep vein thrombosis. Depending on where exactly he wants to attach the electrodes I just may be game. I mean if he asks me to wear a hood, I may require jewelry, but if waterboarding is an option, diamonds are definitely in order.

5. Guns and Butter: As a man who applied for and was granted five (I sense a theme here) deferments from military service in the Vietnam War, who could have guessed Cheney would become the ultimate war monger. He oversaw Operation Desert Storm during Daddy Bush’s tenure and can arguably be considered one of the main influences leading Bushie Jr to hunt for Saddam like a cat in heat looking for a lamp post to hump. From his co-founding of the Straussian stroke-off group, the Project for the New America Century, to his frequent blind dates with Langley’s finest when he convinced them to push aside their panties and pop their WMD conspiracy cherries, Dick did more for the military industrial complex than any other lone chicken hawk could hope to accomplish with some bad intel and a rope in the desert.  I guess in the end, the derelict diva in me just can’t help but want to fuck a man with such utter assurance in the veracity of his own beliefs. God only knows what I’d do to the old man if I had him all alone in a foxhole. Oh Dick, say we can be bunker buddies and do it doggie style while we plot the invasion of Iran. I’ll let you Shiite mine if I can Shiite yours.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys
They’ll never stay home and they’re always alone
Even with someone they love” -Willie Nelson

It’s hard to believe it’s been 12 years since Slick Willy told a federal grand jury and the American people he didn’t boff that chubby girl in the beret.

After seeing a news clip of Billy’s infamous speech the other day, I couldn’t help but think about my own sexual experiences with women, or a lack there of.

As all five readers of this blog know, I am no prude. And while I’ve never been into bondage (unless the occasional handcuff fantasy counts) or erotic asphyxiation, I’ve still been known to get my freak on from time to time.

I’ve had sex in an elevator.

Been on the giving end of a fair amount of road head.

Fucked a guy within the first 15 minutes of a first date.

I’ve been felt up in front of tourists on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial (doing in front of honest Abe would just be, well, wrong).

Been the lone female in a boy, boy, girl threesome.

You catch my drift.

I’m no porn star, but I’m still pretty fun at parties.

But after 32 years, one failed marriage, and an extremely respectable number of sexual partners (or depraved depending on who is asking), I have yet to have anything close to a sexual experience with another woman.

Not during a raucous slumber party in high school.

Or a particularly mind-blurring night smoking kind bud in college.

Never in the consoling arms of a girlfriend when my marriage broke up.

And not once when getting drunk with my gay boyfriends and their ridiculously cute lesbian friend who does research with rhesus monkeys at the NIH. (Seriously, the girl is adorable, wears baggy jeans and a wallet chain and can assemble furniture from Ikea or Best Buy like nobodies business).

And despite the fact that I’m an avid supporter of same sex marriage, listen to Melissa Etheridge and k.d. lang with all the angst of a lady in limbo, and played with my own tits from time to time, I’ve never longed to taste the upper (or lower) lips of another girl.

I’m an angst-filled, love-lorn, chick on the edge of heterosexual desperation, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t ever imagine partaking in vagina pie.

Maybe women are too emotionally expensive (hat tip to the Restaurant Refugee).

Maybe I really hate the smell of vanilla and Summer’s Eve in the morning.

Maybe I dislike the color pink and think women are sensitive, soft, and kind of dull to get drunk with.

Really, I can speculate until the cows come home and their utters stop milking. Regardless there are a few key reasons why bitches will never be my bag. Here they are, A-E:

A is for Adam’s Apple: I’ve lived with these ovaries and fallopian tubes for 32 years now and as much fun as they’ve been, I have to say, I can’t imagine dating another set of each. They are a hormonal bunch of organs. They bloat like balloons and demand inordinate amounts of chocolate every month. They have cost me some decent dough in silk undies from Victoria’s Secret and honestly, a girl can only expend so many tissues on Sarah McLaughin themed-ASPCA commercials before she needs to buy stock in Kimberly Clark. I just can’t imagine twice as many Tampax, Costco size bottles of ibuprofen, four sore boobs, and the kind of emotional overload that only comes with the square root of the double X chromosome. So, I’ll stick with that damn knobby nodule that protrudes from the neck of Neanderthal Nathan and hope for a smaller monthly Chubby Hubby tab.

B is for Bitch: From the elementary school playgrounds of yesteryear to my cubicle colleagues of today, girl groups have always inspired a kind of blood curdling fear in the pit of my stomach. Women in numbers greater than one are notoriously mean. I’d rather run around with tampons stuck in my nostrils twitching and muttering about the parting of the Red Sea than endure the wrath of a collective chick click on a day I’m wearing an unflattering pair of skinny jeans. My mother, bless her heart, loves to prognosticate what will happen when my thirty-year-old sexually tinged friendships with boys evolve into forty-year-old relationships with married family men. God willing, my cirrhosis-lined liver will help me stumble towards my maker before the realities of a sewing circle filled future ever gets a chance to set in.

C is for Clooney: Even the most gorgeous girl can’t get my gourd the same way George Clooney does on his most average of days. Not Angelina or Scarlet, Kate Beckinsale when she beefed up and played Ava Gardner in The Aviator, or even Beyonce when she got on her knees in that tight black number at this year’s Grammys and pontificated like a gilded lioness what she would do if she was in fact, a boy.

D is for Dick: I really dig dick. White. Black. Big. Not quite as big. In me. On me. Sideways. And back around. An imperfect beast, with a mind all its own. They almost assuredly cum when you call them. And while healing isn’t their strong suit, they can learn to obey if you’re willing to put the time and effort into training them.

E is for Edification: In the end, as much as I bellyache about the ramifications of dating dudes, I really do adore their primitive ways. I like the ridiculous ways they attempt to relate to others. The sports metaphors and the way they stink after a workout. The way they muscle rather than reason through an argument. Their penchant for chili fries and blow jobs. The raw rather than the refined. The way they’d rather save than merely soothe. The way they will never remember the anniversary of the first time you kissed but they’ll buy you jewelry nonetheless once you remind them how daft and unthoughtful they are. The way they look at you with passionate recognition when you deep throat a bacon cheeseburger on the first date. The way they’ll oblige morning sex before you’ve had a chance to brush. The way they covet tits the size of the Sutter Buttes or the ones tantamount to Tibetan glory. And above all the way they’ll wrap you in their arms, chubby or chiseled, and whisper promises in your ear, regardless of whether they’re bullshit or bona fide.

“In the kitchen
in the shower
and in the back seat of my car
I’ll hold you up
in your office
preferably during business hours
‘cause you know how I like it when there’s people around
and I know how you like it
yeah I know how you like it
I know how you like it when I tease you for hours” -Melissa Ferrick

According to Weight Watchers, I’m only 5-8 pounds overweight. That said, I was looking at the high-end number. The low-end number made me want to vomit into my running shoes and then run laps with them on just to remind me of what a big fucking pig I am.

For all intensive purposes, 5-8 pounds of extra flesh really ain’t much in our morbidly obese, Type 2 diabetic, super-size society, but when I glimpsed a picture that a co-worker posted of me on Facebook from a birthday party a few months ago, I nearly lost my lipids.

No wonder men weren’t staring at me on the Metro.

I knew there was a reason I had resisted buying new pants as of late.

I used to pass on the bread basket

Now I’m practically threshing the glutons straight down my gullet.

Fuck next year’s harvest, I’ve already turned this year’s crop into enough Bagels to make a Jewish Princess blush.

I’ve got enough tummy flab to insulate a whole fleet of homeless Haitians.

The fucked up thing is, all I can think about right now is the Triscuit and cheese spread duet waiting for me in my kitchen.

Or the microwavable Kettle corn of the full-fat vareity and the 20 ounce Diet Pepsi I was going to rock while watching Bad Boys 2 tonight. (Fuck you if you can’t grasp the genius that is Willard Christopher Smith Jr.)

So, what to do about the chubby Charleston Chew I have become?

How much weight would I need to lose to look like Valerie Bertinelli in those god damn Jenny Craig commercials?

I really don’t need to be swimsuit ready by Spring, but I better start counting calories before I start competing for sympathy along with those poor beached whales in NZ.

Time to postpone my next trip to NYC to see Staten Island’s favorite son.

Or the hot redhead who I’ve worshipped from afar for the last three years. He practices Krav Maga and posts Facebook updates on his weekend ten-mile runs. Me thinks I better start hitting the pavement before I can hope to hit anything on his lithe lower body.

No trips to Texas to spend a weekend with my gay boyfriends until this extra epidermis sleeps with the fishes. I mean, if I’m going to function on fatty acids, I suppose the Omega 3 variety will have to do for now.

How many calories does h.w.c. actually contain?

Should I be concerned?

I mean, I know Weight Watchers makes you count points for booze, but jism may be going a little far.

Seems to me, semen shouldn’t count anymore than your average plankton.

Someone call Jean Nidetch so we can revise this antiquated system.

I’m 142 pounds and fearful if I don’t skim the cream soon, I may miss out on all the lovely livestock life has to offer.

So, tomorrow brings the treadmill and a newly enforced ambivalence to carbohydrates, cheese, and Grey Goose (God help me).

In the name of Bridget Jones and all those other girls who starved themselves skinny to stardom and romance incarnate, I salute you.

Here’s to:

Poise over paunch.

Muscle over milling.

Resolution over reticence.

Chic over cheesecake

Until Costco puts that big motherfucking white chocolate raspberry truffle thingee on special.

I’m not superhuman for Christ’s sake.

Damn people!

I have several recurring themes in this blog – men, my weight, liquor, shoes, Springsteen. Ex-husband, ex-boyfriends, ex-lovers, my job, my friends, my family, the curious thoughts that pop into my head when I’m trying not to stare at freaks on the Metro or soaping my naughty nuggets in the shower, my bad poetry, my bad puns, my even worse happenstance. But never, in all my days and nights of hunting and pecking my deepest darkest obsessions for the rest of the world to share (or at least the five people who read this blog) did I ever think that I’d be adding neighborhood pervert to my repertoire of written regurgitation. I mean, he’s found his way into the occasional post, but he has yet to encapsulate a category onto himself.

Until today.

I’ve lived with his frequent window-front masturbation since June of 2009. The first time I spotted him, I was teaching my friend Kenny how to play Texas Hold-Em after a full Sunday of drinking at a Cleveland Park hole in the wall.  At first Kenny and I thought the guy was naked ironing without realizing his shades were open to the full monty view we were getting. Then, as we stared a little longer, we realized, he was naked ironing while wearing a pink corset. We chuckled, we drank another Corona, and Kenny learned another way to bluff his friend the DC Damsel out of her dollar bills. Who were we to judge? Who were we to shun this lingerie clad fellow citizen who’s soul mission in life was to rid himself of ghastly wrinkles while enjoying the early summer breeze?

Not I!

Not Kenny!

But then we realized, our friendly, cross-dressing,  co-resident wasn’t ironing. Nor was he obsessively vacuuming his floors or over-watering his ficus. He was doing the deed, in front of his Cleveland Park apartment window facing Connecticut Avenue.

He was loud.

He was proud.

And it was, well, kinda funny.

Kenny stood in my window and waved at the dude while I took pictures of Kenny on my iPhone.

I mean, I thought the dude was creepy but I was drunk and it was summer and my good friend was about to move to a Central time zone so I didn’t really give it much more thought than that.

Until, the next time.

And it was nighttime.

And he added a spotlight.

And I was alone.

I frantically text messaged Kenny and his partner Sean.

What should I do?

Ignore him?

Draw the blinds?

Tell the building managers?

Call the cops?

“Just ignore him,” Kenny told me.

Kenny’s partner Sean simply laughed at me and told me to make sure my deadbolt was in place.

My mother told me she was quite sure that while the man may be a pervert, it was unlikely anyone wearing a pink corset had violent tendencies. (Not sure how mom became an expert at such things, but I digress).

Naturally, their reassurance was most comforting.

So, I learned to live with the cross-dressing, chronic masturbator like you learn to live with a broken drawer, a creeky closet door, a leaky sink.

I made sure to admonish him consistently when he decided to “practice his craft,” by drawing my blinds boldly before him.

Surely if he lacked a captive audience, he’d turn elsewhere for his voyeuristic sexual gratification.

I mean, regardless of the old woman with Elephantitis who sits on the lobby couch talking to herself all day long, or the nice Jewish newlyweds domestic abuse couple or even the alcoholic old guy who liked to accost any woman under 60 with his drunken admiration and his surefire meatloaf recipe, regardless, this was a nice building to live in. And surely I thought, our cross-dressing, chronic masturbater would realize this and bring a halt to his uncovered activities.

But alas, he has yet to see the light.

And after eight straight months of living with his nightly performances (he does matinees for half price on the weekends), he has yet to cease pleasuring himself for the public.

And I am left frustrated, grossed out, and wondering why he hasn’t visited a decent lingerie store by now.

I mean, seriously, go dumpster diving at La Perla already, because I’m pretty sick of the extra large Maidenforms from Filene’s Basement you’ve been rocking.

If you’re going to be a dedicated pervert, go hard or go home.

I’m quite sure this ain’t what  Bob from Sesame Street meant when he told me these were the people in my neighborhood.

Surely this is the guy the “stranger danger” folks had been warning me about all those years.

What in God’s name would our dearly departed Mr. Rogers have to say about this man and his McFeely ways?This brings a whole new meaning to the term “speedy delivery.”

It would be pretty fucking hilarious if it wasn’t so damn disturbing.

So here, I boldly sit, typing this blog post, and waiting with bated breath for the moment I have to Iron-man it to the window to pull my blinds down when Fiddle Faddle Felix makes his nightly appearance. I can only hope he’s a peaceful kind of pervert and doesn’t want to make a suit out of my epidermis.

It rubs the lotion on its skin?

I shall say so.

Otherwise the chaffing would be ridiculous.

1.  “Vampires ARE kind of sexy.”

2. “Cherry Blossoms? Eh.”

3. “Do you think Michelle Obama takes performance enhancing drugs?

4. “No, I don’t subscribe to his Twitter feed, but I did let him tweet the fuck out of me once.”

5. “My money’s on the flying monkeys, but that seems like the obvious answer.”

6. “I just started the Taco Bell Drive-Thru Diet.”

7. “I don’t think he speaks with a Negro dialect either!”

8. “Wait, let me just slip out of these Spanx first.”

9. “Just club soda for me please.”

10. “Let me tell you about my new app idea.”

The longer I’m alone, the more I find myself scrambling to gain my single girl footing as I approach certain dates on the calendar. Trying to decide how I am going to spend Valentine’s Day makes me want to down percocet and pinot, chased with a chilled shot of Pepto and sleep to the next fucking leap year.

I suppose I felt pressure to make the Hallmark holiday special when I was married too, but if we both called uncle and gave the middle finger to the whole shabang, we were off the hook for that particular year and united in our cool ambivalence in the customs of coupledom.

He may have been a martyred saint,  but Valentine ain’t done shit for me lately. I spent last February 14th  with friends and a romantic interest at an ostentatiously obvious DC bar drinking too much wine, and eating large handfuls of overpriced Wasabi peanuts only to spend the latter part of my evening polishing the porcelain rather than in copulated bliss. Again, sorry about that Frankie. I’m sure some day I’ll make it up to you by over-imbibing in some cute bistro in Little Italy somewhere and hugging the toilet with you holding back my hair. But not until you’ve had a decent slice of lasagne and a pseudo blow job in the cab on the way home. Who loves ya baby?!

Whenever February 14th approaches, I can’t help but harken back to my middle school days when they used to deliver red roses with notes attached in third period to whomever was lucky enough to have someone spring the two bucks on a dilapidated flower and lace heart made out of construction paper. No matter how hard I prayed, I never got one. I mean, us chubby girls all made sure we took care of one another and sent anonymous buds to each other so we wouldn’t look like pathetic fools in front of the more pituitarily-blessed pubescents.

Now, being single and 32 on Valentine’s Day presents an uncomfortable but familiar conundrum. Do I reject the day altogether in a Carrie Bradshaw-like fuck-you-fashion (she did have all those Manolos to keep her warm at night though) or do I embrace the bullshit and succumb to the tradition of devil-may-care coupling? Everyone knows that when you spend the big candied heart holiday with someone, it’s a commitment that is difficult to break free from. I always thought that only the shittiest of singles go into Valentine’s Day with a shroud of uncertainty just to have someone to stare at over an overly-priced seafood dinner and heart-shaped subpar chocolaty confection. So the question is, how badly do he and I need to feel the comfort of another’s skin to feel ok with our single selves on the holiest of red-letter days?

I’m lonely too.

So very lonely.

But becoming cupid’s bitch may not be the answer we should be searching for.

“I believe in the goodness
Though broken down and beaten
And I believe in the chances
And when they came, they were taken
Now all that wasted energy
We never really felt that way
Now I’m older I see
There’s no escape in the empty
We belong in a world away from here
Words aren’t spoken, just the quiet
Of red roses
So close your eyes now and go to sleep
Don’t be afraid of the darkness
Anyone can see you’re still full of hope and open spaces
And we belong in a world away from here
Where words aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Where the world wont come in
And where time don’t begin
And twords aren’t spoken
Just the quiet
Of red roses
Just red roses”

-The BoDeans

There are a number of differences a girl encounters when dating men of varying ages. Some prefer the careful comfort of a May-December romance while other ladies don’t bat a lash at cultivating a cougar status. As a woman in my 30s, I enjoy men of multiple maturity levels and have dated men as green as 23 and as gray as 46. And while I enjoyed sampling both categories of chap, I can’t help but draw a few, key distinctions. Here are my top four:

1. Target vs Tiffany: It’s like trying to decide between a walk through Central Park versus a helicopter ride over Punta Cana. It’s the board game you love to play in his studio apartment in NE that he bought you at Target for your anniversary versus the little blue box awaiting your weekend arrival on the balcony of your Kennedy Warren apartment. I’ve spent nights eating pizza and playing Scrabble that have been far more amazing than any evening I’ve spent eating off a prix fix menu at a five star restaurant. That said, a diamond is forever and a cubic zirconia makes me want to blow chunks on the other patrons at the Olive Garden. And while money can’t buy you happiness, it sure as hell can make fucking one person for the rest of your life a bit easier to stomach  It’s the pauper versus the prospering and it’s the kind of game that breaks the very best of our worldly brethren. It’s the Cheeseburgers against the Filet Mignons in the fourth quarter of the championship tournament and all I crave is a medium seared bone-in rib-eye.

2. Beer Bong vs Single Barrel: I have to admit, when it comes to mens’ vices, I’m often a pawn in the hand of whomever is paying the bar tab that evening. Just call me Solomon and split that baby smack dab down the middle. As much pleasure as I take in binge-drinking and nights full of making bad decisions to Lady Gaga looming over the bottle service section, I can’t help but long for the grey-templed guy who sips his small batch like liquid bliss while sitting on his porch swing with his vinyl collection spinning languidly in the background. While the young man gets high on the latest “it” drug to hit his college campus, the older man takes his sweet time rolling a burner on his antique coffee table. While Mature Monty may languish in long, drawn-out kisses in the May rain, Vernal Vic understands the benefits of a late night round of sexting in the December cold.  Killing me softly isn’t always preferable to love in an elevator and visa versa. Addiction has its drawbacks, but teaching an old dog new tricks might prove the perfect compromise.

3. Fucking vs Fulfillment: As a woman who supposedly hasn’t reached her sexual peak yet (I may have a few suitors who would beg to differ), I hesitate to equate a man’s sexual prowess with the number of rings around his truck (sorta speak). But sex plays a major role in determining the passion injected into any relationship and needs to be recognized as one of the cogs in the widget that makes the love apparatus go round (counter clockwise please). A lot of women assume (and we all know what that does) that a man’s age determines his ability to do three things; go hard,  go down, and go the distance. And while this generalization may apply to a significant percentage of male-female genitally inclined encounters, it’s not always accurate. Going hard while often physically easier for the younger gent isn’t anything a little blue pill can’t cure for at least four hours for the elder suitor (do call that hot-line number on the back of the box if it goes any longer boys – it’d be a super duper bummer if you lost tunnel vision down there). Going down on the other hand, while all men think is some inherent gift bestowed upon them personally by Pan himself, is a skill best left to the noble and the few. I hate to dash the random man’s hopes, but as the recipient of many alleged mouthy maestros, I’m going to admit here and now, few of you actually know what in the hell you’re doing. That said, my pleasure quotient averages out to somewhere smack dab in the middle. Grab a copy of the gazillionth edition of Our Bodies, Ourselves, and bone up boys, the rewards will revisit you tenfold. And finally, as for going the distance, practice makes perfect. Fuck those nuns who said you’d go to hell, 78% of them do it too and they’re still pie in the sky as long as the holy father is concerned.

4. Frank vs Justin - When push comes to shove, it really does all boil down to attitude. The lady may very well be a tramp but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s longing for your dick in a box. The 23-year-old has little to lose as he embarks on the early stages of adulthood. Fewer responsibilities, less contrition, mere backpack baggage. This can be very refreshing, invigorating really, a weight lifted from my own 32-year-old shoulders for the duration of the encounter, whether it consists of one hot night on his futon or a whole semester full of love. The 46-year-old on the other hand brings with him two decades more of history, triumph, failure, and more often than not an ex-wife or two. And while his burden may be heavier, he’s had that much more time to learn how to carry it with panache. We’d be foolish though to assume that age always equates with humility. The penitent man is as likely to carry a lunchbox as he is a cane. In the end, a girl of any age knows when a man feels lucky to have her in his arms, regardless of whether he can drop and give you 2 or 20.

They’re still racing out at the Trestles
But that blood it never burned in her veins
Now I hear she’s got a house up in Fairview
And a style she’s trying to maintain
Well if she wants to see me
You can tell her that I’m easily found
Tell her there’s a spot out ‘neath Abram’s Bridge
And tell her there’s a darkness on the edge of town – Bruce Springsteen

It’s been a long while since I believed in Santa Claus. I was the last kid in my fourth grade class to concede that Old Saint Nick was merely a figment of my parents’ well-meaning but rather manipulative imaginations. Why would my trusted mother make up such an immensely complicated lie? Whose bells were actually jingling the year he couldn’t make it on time and I had to sit in the den with the door closed watching Fraggle Rock while “Santa” delivered my presents? In truth, I was mildly terrified of the jolly old fat man who my mother insisted “got very angry with children who tried to spy on him,” so much so, I made her hold my hand walking down the shag carpet stairs one year because I had this image of Kris Kringle turning into something resembling Galadriel the elf queen when she gets a hold of that damn ring that was always causing so many problems - you know the part when Cate Blanchett turns from ethereal to demonic and freaks the fuck out of poor Frodo? (Guess he didn’t go to Jared).

Anyway, after the lie about Father Christmas was finally revealed to me, it all went downhill from there. Logically I began to question nearly every detail once purported to me as gospel about my childhood icons.

I became so downtrodden with the multitude of fabrications my parental units had bestowed upon me in the name of yuletide, my adolescent walls of sugar plums came crashing down around me like a type 2 diabetic attack. But this time, insulin wouldn’t save the day. The falsehoods needed to be revealed. The truth needed to be espoused one way or another and I wouldn’t rest until the shroud of holiday horse shit was lifted off of all the other impressionable minds around me. Here is one to get you started:

Part One: Frosty the Snowman Was a Letch
A fat stub of a wet cigar perched between his lips wet where his corncob pipe should have been. He wore a sports jacket and a button down yellow shirt with a duck on the lapel. He coughed like a TB-divorcee on his way to rehab for the third time in nine months, but something in those coal-colored eyes lured me in from across the hazy bar.

“What’s your poison?” He asked.

“A vodka martini, dirty, in all the right places.” I purred.

“What’s your name kitten,” he whispered into my ear.

“I’m the DC Damsel. You can call me Dee Dee for short. And you are?”

“Frosty,” he said, “Frosty the Snowman.”

“Well Frosty, what brings you to these parts on such a cold winter’s night?”

“I’ve been looking for a little magic doll, in this old silk hat I found.”

“Care to dance?” I asked.

“Certainly.”

He twirled me like an ice princess there on the grungy floor of the Broomstick Bar, and as I fell into his graceful stick-like arms, I couldn’t help but wonder, if the fairy tale romance I had so long dreamed of wasn’t about to come true.

“How about I walk you home Dee Dee?”

“I’d really like that Frosty.”

And before I knew it we were walking the streets, arm in arm, pausing for long, cool kisses along the way.”

“Would you like to come up?” I asked.

“As sure as you melt my heart sweet thing.”

As we sipped on our buttered rums, I could tell he was starting to feel their steamy effects.

And before I knew it, our frozen fondling had gone too far.

“Don’t make me regret this night Frosty” I said as I took a post-coital pull off my Marlboro Light.

“Dee Dee, baby, I’ll never let you go.”

Relieved and satiated, I fell into a deep sleep. Had I finally found the one? Could his icy exterior really hold the key to all of my holiday happiness and beyond?”

THUMPITY

THUMP

THUMPITY

THUMP THUMP

“What the?!”

Something had startled me awake and as I stood there with my teeth chattering I noticed the window was wide open. I ran to it and stared down the seven stories.

“He couldn’t have…”

“He wouldn’t have…” I stuttered.

How could he have ever survived that jump?!

As I turned around and scoured my tiny studio apartment for clues, I saw it, in a heap in the corner. It was Frosty’s fedora with a post-it note stuck to the brim.

A shiver passed through me.

I clutched the yellow note in my hand and began to read.

“Thanks for tonight doll. I’ll never forget it. But I’m just not the kind of guy to be tied down. I’m not a one woman kind of snowman. I’m going through a selfish phase and I really need to concentrate on me right now. I’m sure you understand. Good luck Dee Dee, we’ll always have tonight.”

Who in the hell did that snowman think he was?!

He thinks he can just come into my life and laugh and play and duck out the back as soon as things start to heat up a little?

Motherfucker.

Frosty was sure right about one thing though, I never would forget that night.

Every time it began to flurry, small vengeful tears trickled from my eyes.

Snot-filled icicles hung resentfully from my nose.

On my weaker nights, after a few spiced rums, I’d send him lovelorn text messages from my iPhone. But I never did hear back from him and after a while I realized the number he had slipped me was for the Cold Stone down the street.

On my angrier nights I’d stare at my hair dyer, nurturing violent fantasies of the snowman’s silent screams as I melted him down to nothing more than a puddle on the floor and a pair of red licorice lips.

No Frosty, you won’t come back to life one day, not if I have anything to say about it.

1. I have less to write about now that I don’t date on a regular basis. What if angst is the only emotional state that allows me to say something the slightest bit meaningful? The dilemma of a minor league sob story. I’m an emotional vampire and my food supply has atrophied.

2. I fall in love with the most inappropriate of men and despite this realization, I keep letting it happen over and over and over again. It may be Oedipal. I may just be romantically retarded.

3. The thought of having an affair with a married man is starting to seem like the logical middle ground between being in a relationship and continuing to enjoy the freedom that being single allows. A miscreant’s happy medium.

4. I wonder who I’d get to sleep with if I was better looking? I wonder who I would have taken a pass on if I had the physical privilege? Perhaps the twitchy ferret guy.

5. I’m terrified the dreams I have about my ex-husband may never cease. If only there was some kind of subconscious pre-nup we could have worked out.

6. I may only have 8-10 good years left with my tits, then it’s all liposuction and leg-men.

7. He had me until renaissance fair. I can only pray he’s a good kisser.

8. If you laugh at my jokes, I’m more likely to go down on you.

9. If I don’t get laid soon, I may have to name my vibrator. The Purple People Eater has a nice ring to it.

10. A guy who once told me he wanted to show me that not all men were assholes, text messaged me the other night to tell me he was in the area and in the mood to fool around. Porky’s pendulem and other lessons in why men are full of shit. B side tracks.

“I can feel it in my bones, I’m gonna spend my whole life alone. It’s fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was seventeen. Fuck and run. Fuck and run. Even when I was twelve.” -Liz Phair