Coded Messages

(image courtesy of: http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk)

While I made my rounds on the weekend party circuit, my friend (and loyal PCP reader) Mandy and I firsthand witnessed could-be hookups and girl code hand-in-hand. The scenario always is the same. Girl meets boy. Boy meets girl. Boy shameless hits on girl. Girl reciprocates. Boy seems clueless to girl's obvious signs of interest.

It occurred to me that everyone knows guy code (all too much, if you ask me), but girl code seems to be this hidden secret that no one speaks of or flaunts around. Maybe it's because as females, we're a bit more inept to subtlety. Maybe it's because as females, we don't care if there's a code or not. Maybe it's because we all have moments where we're bitches and break the code anyway so if we pretend there isn't one, then we're never in the wrong.

It feels a bit Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus (gag), but I stumbled upon The Girl Code by Diane Farr during my online search for 'girl code' terminology. As a twenty-something, post-college girl, I (and my friends) have had a fair share of flirting, dating, hooking up, breaking up and all that fun stuff. It may seem a bit Sex and The City but somehow the common thread in each relationships' bumps, endings or false starts concludes with, "He just doesn't get it!" Boys, take note. Open your eyes. We really aren't that complicated. We promise!

-M

Out of Sight, Out of Mind?

Last night, while on a conference call with two friends, my bestest A, mentioned an incident that occurred during our freshman year of college. All my life, I was a journaler. Everywhere I was, so was my notebook, from the time I was 12 to 18. I wrote down information about boys I liked, boys I dated, and chronicled my first serious relationship. It was when that relationship went down the drain (you never really forget the first time you walk in on a significant other in bed with another person), that I went home for a weekend, on a rampage, and shredded every journal from my adolescence. At first I started putting page after page, then pages after pages through my parents' shredder. Finally, when I broke the shredder after trying to push through too many pages of my scrawled writing, I sat in my room and started tearing up the remaining journals by hand. I considered it a purging of all my memories with boys from the previous few years. A walked into my room, take-out dinner in hand, to find me amidst hundreds and hundreds of torn pages.

Somehow, I thought tearing all of those pages to bits would let me forget. More importantly, I thought forgetting would allow me to not hurt anymore. Out of sight, out of mind. A few years later, after a particularly nasty breakup, I went through and detagged every photo of us on Facebook. As if pushing the black and white image of us smiling and laughing would make the hurt go away. A year later, still not completely letting the relationship die due to mistakes on both of our parts, I continued to delete every Facebook message from him. I still thought the further I can push the memories away, the easier it would be to forget.

2009, 23 years old, and I've come to realize that no one ever forgets (didn't I just say above how I'd never forget the image of a boyfriend in bed with someone else?). Hurt still hurts and feelings just might never go away. Maybe it's a grown up way to look at the demise of relationships; far away from the idea that one day you will wake up and feel okay again because you just erased the person from your life -- in written, electronic and communicative form. While discussing this with P, she brought up the very valid point that regardless of the state of the union of each other now, there was once a point where an ex-couple made each other happy. Very happy, most likely. Isn't it a bit unfair to simply forget, erase, delete to trash and not acknowledge each other?

-M

In the words of Carrie Bradshaw...

(photo courtesy of: ourweddingplus.com & Google images)

“Maybe all men are a drug. Sometimes they bring you down and sometimes, like now, they get you so high.” - Sex and The City

In honor of Valentines Day (our culture's consumerist and flower-filled holiday that I now detest despite the fact that I have a so-called valentine), I have given great thought to relationships and what they mean to us, the twenty-somethings of the early 2000's. In my parents time, about half a century ago, dating had a standard definition. My dad would drive, pick up my mom (in a town about 35 minutes away from his!), without complaint. They would go out to dinner, have some sort of conversation (about what, I do not know since they're basically polar opposites), see a movie, window shop, enjoy each other's company, have a goodnight kiss and part ways.

In my decade (yes, decade) of "dating," I can count the number of standard dates I've had that fit the above description on one hand - no exaggeration. I've had four serious relationships. One from ages 15-18. One from 18-19. One from 19-21. One from 21-present day (23, for the record). Please don't take note of the overlap, it's not my fault. Anyway, I found myself in all these serious relationships craving dates. Old fashioned, quality time together. Instead, I found myself as an undergraduate student in college in Amherst, Massachuestts during a time where hooking up (with a fuzzy definiton of what 'hooking up' even is - but you can take a sociology class for that) was dating. No guy (or excuse me, boy), takes a girl out for pizza and a nice artsy independent flick, pays, and then goes home -- separately. Dating in this time comes with all of these backhanded assumptions of what's to happen after the movie, after the martinis and after the walk back to your dorm, apartment, house, whatever. Whatever happened to romance? Somewhere Cupid is weeping in a corner over not just my love life, but all of our love lives.

Another thing about my generation and relationships? We have ADD. Literally. Love and sex are drugs and more potent than any grade narcotic. We're told in fourth grade to 'Say no to drugs.' I don't know about you, but no one ever warned me about love. We float from partner to partner, crush to crush, in hopes of feeling butterflies and passion at every moment. The instant that feeling of hope, the sense of, "oh my gosh, this could be the one" leaves, so do we. Mentally, physically, psychologically. However you choose to leave, we do. We're like love junkies, going from one high to the next. And that high is so addictive, there's nothing like it. When your stomach flip flops when you steal a glance across a table or at an event. When you gasp (even silently) when you see the name of your chosen pop up on your caller id or text message. When you look at photos of the two of you and think that there it is. Your future right there. But we're flighty as a generation. The moment that things get tough, we run. Fast. We leave quickly and commit quickly. We move in together out of convenience without thinking of consequence. I hate to say it but my mother has always been right about her disapproval of how we, as a generation, lead our love lives. Irrationality is the way, and regret is inevitable.

I encourage all of you, Pop Culture Paradox readers, think hard this Valentines Day about the committments you've made while you munch away on those tasty candy hearts (I always only pick out the white ones and eat them. Delicious.). Be careful who you choose as your valentine and what it could all mean.

-M

Playing House?

(photo courtesy of Associated Content)

Quick all of you blog readers. A little pop quiz:

You find out that one of your exes (fairly recent, nonetheless, with a lot of history behind it) is basically married. What do you do?

A.) Get mad, angry, break a few Tiffany's wine glasses and then sulk and eat a lot of Ben & Jerry's ice cream (I'd recommend the 'One Sweet Whirled' flavor)

B.) Get sad, feel nostalgic, and watch 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and wish that you were Holly Golightly (and wondering where in hell is your Paul Varjack).

C.) Feel completely thrown off balance and hope that they all fall off of a cliff. Or the Tobin Bridge. And wonder why you aren't the one that gets to write 'Mr. and Mrs.' since you're the one that put up with all of his childish behavior anyway (P.S. It's totally true, you deserve to, not that skank).

OR

D.) Get even. Look hot. Know your current boyfriend is hotter, and tell the world to suck it.

My opinion? All of the above. Breakups are a bitch and exes should be sent to another planet - preferably Pluto -- that is the smallest planet? Yes? Because we all know that where there's a small planet, there's surely small... well you know what I mean.

Which brings me to the point of my relationship based blog post. As a twenty-something that recently graduated college, there is a boom in couples that I know (some well, some not so well, some that I would rather not know at all) that are suddenly 'shacking up together' (to use my conservative father's terminology). Some couples have been together for years - and I understand the need for your own place. Some couples have been together for about a year - and that's okay, I guess, as long as you know the reprecussions. And if you dont, FYI, breakups are a lot more difficult to do when your name is signed on the dotted line next to your forever and ever (or until a better one rolls around)'s. Some couples have been together for a matter or months. For all of you that fall into this catagory. I have no words.

P and I strongly believe in the one year curse of relationships during this time of our lives. It's proven true for us and all of our friends. One year hits, and so does the drama. The questioning of whether it's worth it. Or we meet someone cuter, funnier, smarter, more intellectual and we relapse into sixteen-year-old girl mode. Acting like this is normally temporary, and should be if the person is, you know, the one. If the person is not the one, well, you know how that story goes -- and it involves crying, saying 'it's not you, it's me,' wondering if you'll ever be alone, and a whole ton of listening to 'Screaming Infidelities' by Dashboard Confessional. It's okay, I've been there. It happens.

This all being said, consider this a warning - a public service announcement of sorts. If you've been with your other half for less than twelve months, rethink before signing on the lease. We've all seen the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda has Steve sleeping on her couch for a month because he has nowhere else to go. There's no satisfying rebound in this universe with your ex sleeping a wall's distance away. If it's too late and you've already gone ahead, moved in, bought Kate Spade flatware, make sushi on Wednesdays together, and pretend you're married, well good luck to you. No, actually, not good luck to you, because chances are I know you and maybe dated you and think you're stupid for doing so. I dont' care if we were together when we were 15, 18, 20 or now. Do. Not. Care. I'll be there when it crashes and burns -- not for support necessarily, but simply to say, 'I told you so.' I always did love saying that anyway.

-M

"I had often fantasized about running into my ex and his wife. But in those fantasies, I was running over them with a truck."

One of my closest friends from high school, K (that's right, we go way back), were gmail chatting online today during a lull at work. We have drawn to the conclusion that somehow, somewhere, exes everywhere are like Big Brother. Lurking on you until you have your life somewhat stabilized, happy, fulfilled, and poof. There they are, blowing up in your face, telling you they still love you, wanting you back, etc. Common sense says that jealousy (and sometimes a picture posted on the internet or a relationship status change) is the reasonable and logical explanation for this. After all, if they broke up with us, why would they come crawling back? They made it clear that they don't love anymore. They need to be alone. They need space. They need, they need, they need -- without any regard for what we need. Afterall, if they really ever cared in the first place, or had some dramatic revelation where a lightbulb went off and they decided they care once and for all, I don't think the trigger would be seeing our beautiful faces next to another dude. I could be wrong though. It hasn't been the first time. I guess the question is of sincerity or jealousy. And does jealousy ever bring sincerity out of a person?

Anyway, what we need. We, most likely, need space. Time. And that means space and time apart from you, jealous man. I would be inclined to say that friends with exes never really work - at least for me, that is. Especially with the ones that you would most like to stay friends with. Those are always the ones that you know, deep down, you, once upon a time long long ago, cared about the most. Maybe even loved the most. Loved in a way that you can only really love when you've never really been hurt before. I would have to argue that it's love in a way that no one every really loves again. That crazy, unrestricted, ohmygod i love you i love you i love you and you'll never hurt me because i've never been hurt kind of way. It's like Carrie and Big a la Sex and the City. Only, life isn't a movie or a really great tv show, and Big doesn't just call your best friend and show up in Paris and save you from an annoying (and boring, and old) Russian artist.

Does anyone really ever end up with their Big in real life? Maybe there just aren't any real Prince Charmings and you just settle for the hand you've been given. You find new people, and you love them - but never like that Prince Charming slips the shoe onto Cinderella kind of way. Maybe that's why Carrie ended up with Big. It gives hope -- but when you realize it's just not real, the false hope is just disappointing. And it's disappointing to know that it'll always sting a little bit. Or a lot a bit. Just look at this week's NYTimes Modern Love column. Holding on isn't always the best thing, and sometimes no response is just the perfect response.

-M

Me and Madonna. We're tight.

Throughout the past week, or rather, this afternoon, it's come to my attention that me and Madonna aren't so different from each other at all. Yes, she was (technically still is) married to Guy Richie, and has a bunch of kids, and more money in her big toe than I do in my savings account, but I digress. I mean in the world of relationships, I can feel Madonna's pain -- and see some of the issues that she might be encountering in the near future.

I just stumbled across this on the Daily Intel. Tsk tsk. Mistake number one, letting your rebound move close to you -- physically. emotionally. environmentally. Whatever. It's all bad. First a fun fling with a baseball superstar (or an ex that you still think about, or some guy that a friend sets
you up with) starts off fun. You sneak around to each others' places. Get discreet dinners together. You deny it all until you both wind up single , then next thing you know the crazy one in the relationship goes ahead and starts moving in closer to you. Madonna, watch out, first he's all secretive and it's fun. Then he moves into your neighborhood, but you know what that means? Your place is his place. You'll find his toothbrush in your bathroom. Boxers on your bedroom floor. It's like G.W. invading the Middle East. And like W, do you have a bailout plan? Negative. The last thing you need is the guy that you've had fun with and a flingy to do with to be your next husband. Watch out.

Also, as the newsflash states, our material girl has been keeping tabs on Guy Richie. You know what, let's not lie. We all do. Welcome to the land of breakups. The disgruntled party always wants to get even with the one who was "emotionally retarded" (Madonna's words, not mine). For Madonna, her spying involves something that looks like a government effort. For us normal, every day kind, this involves using mutual friends, Facebook stalking, hacking into ones phone (you think I'm joking, but talk to my friend S -- she's been a victim of such spying!). Oh Madonna, we know it all hurts right now, and you probably can't look at your son since he's the spitting image of your soon to be ex (all the reason why I shouldn't have kids before I've settled down with the one). But letting go is the first step to moving on. I allow my friends to have a month or two of obsessive spying, then it's time to wave the white flag. You don't really want to know what's going on there anyway -- the last thing I want to know is how high my ex's number has gotten since we split (which is really the only information you get). No thank you. Ew. Pick yourself up, move on, and burn all sentimental photos (including those you can find on Google).

It's true. Madonna is just a normal person going through a breakup. I feel your pain. If you need to get martinis to talk it all out, give me a call.

-M

'We wanted a white Christmas, so it was a good thing that Mom's husband was a raging cokehead'

I missed Gossip Girl so during my time away, and rightly so, looked forward to last night's episode. Overall, sadly enough, it was a miss. The only moment that my jaw hit the ground, was when S said the titled line. Even then, it wasn't such an oh-my-gosh moment (to be honest, the story that my friend was telling me was -- more on that later). Yawnfest, I feel as though my Monday night was wasted. I need some drama in my life, CW writers, take note. Maybe next week?

Now, with the boring episode of Gossip Girl in my background, one of my best friends shared an appalling/sadly hilarious story of a date that she had while I was in New Orleans. After a bad breakup, she decided to use the internet to find the potential love of her life (or at least of the week, maybe month, or maybe dinner). After pouring over profiles, we found one that seemed to fit -- handsomely gorgeous - his photo looked like he belonged in an Abercrombie advertisement -- and that, is a very very very good thing. It's a shame then, that upon five minutes of meeting her, he said she was stupid for dating her ex-boyfriend for various reasons, and said the f-word, many many times (and no, not the f-word that, although four letters and cannot be said on television, I say and find acceptable. i mean the f-word that's even worse). It goes without saying that his behavior continued to decline throughout the date, as he proved himself to be a classist, elitist, ignorant idiot. Second date. I don't think so.

Which all leads me to my rant. Who do some of these men think they are? What happened to trying to impress a woman on a first date? This man's idea of impressing included a flashy car and expensive steakhouse dinner, when, I think impressing holds more along the lines of holding car doors open, enlightening conversation, a good joke here and there that has PG-13 language. I dont understand how men were raised to think that impressing means anything otherwise. Nothing in our society (I think) says that the way to a woman's heart is through foul language and flat-out rudeness. Am I wrong? Are men being told otherwise? How did this happen? My head hurts from trying to wrap my head around it all. I can honestly say that if this is how men in America are, more and moreso, I have no hope. Bring on the single life, because singledom is, for sure, better than a bigot.

-M

The night dessert was held hostage...

"Take my number!"
*Blank stare*
"Here, take my number. Friends only. Friends only. Take it. Miss call me, now," he insisted, coming up close behind where I was seated.
"401blahblahblahblah"
"Ummm," I was so surprised I didn't even know how to deal with the situation.

In my current life as a journalist (and I use the term lightly) in K., I often come across the oddest things (Crime stories on illegal dairy rings? I rest my case)...this was just another one of those times.
I was reviewing a trendy new Arabic fusion restaurant that just opened up here...the experience was going well for the most part...good food, massive quantities, dessert included (woohoo), attentive service...we were seated outside, there was a lovely breeze (which would occasionally send the paper napkins flying from one patron's lap onto another one's face...oh well...) but we had an amazing view of the marina and I had excellent company :)
We had tucked into as much as food as we could manage to eat without exploding and were waiting on dessert when...

"Here, take my phone, put your number in," our waiter said, placing his phone on the edge of our table.
HUH?
"Umm, could you please bring out the dessert? And then we will see," I said, trying desperately to divert his attention from getting my number to just getting my dessert.
"Give me your number," he said, slowly walking away, not even bothering to complete the most basic of the 'hitting-on-a-woman' ritual: getting her number.
"UMMMMMMMMMM!!" (I know I know, but he didn't exactly inspire me to be particularly eloquent)
So, I just sat there, willing for the phone to disappear (maybe if I just stared hard at the leftovers on my plate, it would just go away?)

What is it about two single women that makes it okay for them to be hit on by random skeezy guys. Our waiter had been perfectly polite before this, no sketchiness…that I detected anyway…and then suddenly he felt the need to exchange numbers? (Gotta give it to him though, it was a ballsy move, I guess)…still, why can’t women just walk around, chill out, relax and just BE without being hit on for no reason. It is not like we did ANYTHING to invite the attention either… we were dressed fairly conservatively (not that that should have anything to do with it….I should be able to wear whatever the hell I want, but that’s a whole different post/rant!)…we were not particularly giggly or flirty…sure, we were being polite and courteous to the staff, smiling, saying thank you etc…could that somehow have been twisted into some kind of “OMG! SHE WANTS ME” message in this guy’s head?
Whatever it was…it definitely left me with a bad taste in the mouth…and while the experience overall had been fairly decent, this incredibly uncomfortable experience has me wanting to stay away from the resto, if only to avoid the sketchball waiter.

Needless to say, he did NOT get my number or a tip.