Everybody poops!

So.

I know this post has been a long time in coming, but that's because I've been thinking a LOT about poop lately.

Ok. Um. Start again.

So (like I said yesterday) I really like Texts from Last Night, even though I fear GREATLY that one day I will appear, because I often say RIDICULOUS things.

Btw, this is also true of Overheard in New York.

But the point is, despite that fear, I am semi-obsessed, which is evidenced by the fact that on my chrome homepage, TFLN pops up as one of the most viewed sites (which was rather awk this morning in my weekly meeting when my boss was using my computer up on the big screen and everyone got to see how I spend my days: TFLN, facebook, gmail and of course, blogger). In fact, TFLN is the only website that consistently makes me laugh COMPLETELY inappropriately at work. This was the case a few weeks ago, when I read the following right after my boss walked by to tell me that her best friend had called off her wedding:

(312): Iced coffee. Banana. Two dumps. Life is good.

W. T. F.

I immediately assumed that this text was from a boy, and while we'll get to why later, it brought up a topic I just need to know about. Why is pooping SO FREAKING IMPORTANT to dudes. I mean, I get it. I like to poop too, especially if the not-pooping has made my life hard. But like, reveling in the time spent on the toilet? No! A coworker of mine, who I didn't (and don't) know very well recently told me at a happy hour that he was so excited to get home after drinking so much beer because he was going to have "the best shit ever". On Scrubs, Zach Braff makes some comment about having pooped twice that morning, and he hadn't even had his coffee yet.

And he says it proudly.

I don't understand. Girls are like, the opposite. I've never been one to shy away from things, but get me into a crowded ladies room when I need to do a number 2, and I freeze up like noooooooobody's business.

Which is uncomfortable.

And I'm not the only one. There are just as many times when I'm in the ladies, doing my thang, and the same chick who was in there when I got in is still there when I leave, and hasn't made a peep since I entered.

Peep. Hehe. Poop. Hehehe.

Also, when I was telling Becca how worried I was to go camping because of bathroom issues (ie, there wasn't one) she told me that she never poops on vacation, not because she doesn't want to, but because she just can't. And again on Scrubs, Elliot makes some comment about being so uncomfortable she hasn't pooped in three weeks.

Which is no fun.

So what belongs to the difference in opinion between men and women on fecal matter? I think we can all agree it's not something we'd want to touch, but at the same time, it's a necessary process. So why do men love it, while women... just don't?!

Things I've been thinking about

So.

I'm sorry guys, I'm too bogged down right now to do much more than say hi, but I thought I'd say hello and also:

• I cried reading the NYT article about Dr. Tiller's death;
• I read texts from last night because it's funny, but also, because I'm worried I'm going to show up;
• Speaking of which, I had to look at my previous texts to check the last time I got a wax;
• I'm annoyed about this Cambridge police prof nonsense. It seems to me (who was not there, did not experience it, and in general is quite good at making generalizations) that both men did stupid shit, and the cop's was more stupid at first because he had the power (and therefore the responsibility) in the situ, but then the prof was a dumbass and kept pushing when he had already won Obama. Obama was dumb in this too, and I love him. Like, craploads. I just really hope I don't have to hear about their beers all week. Get the fuck over it, people. Race and racism in America is so fucking complex, and honestly, reducing it to these two men really REALLY does all the people who have fought so hard and so long to eradicate probs a massive disservice.
• I'm a horrible, horrible employee. I hope that isn't always true;
• My hair smells like mesquite from bbqing this weekend (check back tomorrow/Wednesday re camping);
• It is amazing to me how many talented, insightful and hilARious "joe [jane?] shmoes" there are out there on the internets. I'm looking at you LiLu, Lemmonex, Sarah, Random Esq, Grace, Claire, Conor, Refugee, Snay and so so SO so many others (sorry for um, not mentioning you but see above re: no time). Like for srs guys, y'all should write a book. Or something.

Be back tomorrow with real shiznit lovies. XO.

20-something bloggers BLOGSWAP!! Conor and I deal with Beyonce

Hey guys - I totes magoats forgot that today is 20-something bloggers BlogSwap, but lucky for all of us Conor from Pizza Box to debate the merits of the one, the only Beyonce Knowles. If you want to find me, I'm over here doing... well. The same!

Hi folks, my name is Conor and I’m writing a guest post today for MA. I’m from Ireland and am currently on a short vacation with my aunt and uncle in Kent in England. Needless to say, I’m nowhere near as capable a blogger as the hostess, but the hell with it, let’s see what happens…

I was being a lazy bastard yesterday, reclining on my uncle’s sofa and rotting my little boy-mind with online tv, when I came across ‘Californication’, the Showtime serial about a self-indulgent asshole writer who has the personality of an Uzbek’s Veet-strip and who hop-scotches through life, fucking his way through a plethora of ladyfolk, somehow coming across as an amiable ne’er-do-well, leaving a tornado-effect of emotional turmoil in his wake. It somehow appealed to me.

Guys who write; or guys in general, always seem to build a maze of bullshit hedges around them to detract from the appalling mundanity and shocking disappointment that life as a modern male really consists of. Life as a modern guy is pretty pointless. As I’ve been reminded a hundredfold times by my gleefully ruthless feminist pals, male adults have been defunct since the invention of the turkey baster and the cloned sheep. We’re like toasted-sandwich makers, I’m told; useful and with enjoyable results on occasion, but more often than not, a useless waste of space that can make you feel sick if not cleaned properly. The appeal of David Duchovny’s character for men is obvious, and very clearly a crock of shite. In real life, of course, the guy would be a small beach hut, awash in a tsunami of STI’s and demi-suicidal.

However for this post, I’m going to talk about that oh-so-female phenomenon; the Beyoncé Knowles breakup song:

(NB#1: In a massively ironic piece of celestial time-keeping, the people in TV world have decided to show “Chicago” on BBC1. I just took out my earphones to see a bunch of tastefully under-dressed prison-ladies cavorting whilst screaming ‘He had it comin’ and discussing man murder. My silly boy mind doesn’t know whether to be aroused or become afraid of women and turn gay.)

THE BEYONCÉ KNOWLES BREAKUP SONG.
The Beyoncé break up song can take one of two fundamental themes. The ‘Defiant Sassy Lass’ and the ‘Man-hating Emo Blameshifter.’ In the course of my (increasingly) giddy and excited emails to MA, we thrashed the theme of today’s blog, and decided to dissect and discuss the songs ‘All the Single Ladies’ and ‘If I Were A Boy’ from the perspective of a very smart lady (who is generously writing on my blog) and me, a boy…with jeans on.

ALL THE SINGLE LADIES is a great song, a fantastic song. I’m not a huge fan of pop, or RnB, or any of that hit of the week stuff, but this song is as ballsy as Roger Federer’s gym bag and makes a positive statement about independence and self-respect for young women. When you learn that a huge chunk of the market for Top-20 songs is filled by girls aged 13-18, it’s really good to see that a singer is sending a message through some of her songs that maybe that boy you like ISN’T worth starving yourself over, or that the pains of romance maybe CAN have a positive consequence. These ‘defiant sassy lass’ songs are the type that even guys find themselves singing along to. The lyrics are repetitive and simple, with a slightly blunt, but ultimately positive and self-affirming message for women. Coupled with a well-shot and expertly choreographed video, a hell-of-a-lot of radio play and a tsunami of ‘attitude’, it’s great.

The lyrics, as I’ve said, are no real creative stretch, and deliver a simple message. She’s dancing in a club post-breakup, and her ex is jealous. She tells him where to shove it. A warning for guys not to take their girl for granted, a reminder that, in a relationship, love means more to girls than any material gift, an affirmation that the girl has the strength to move on and enjoy life, unencumbered from this guy’s ‘want it cos you can’t have it’ jealousy and an unabashed embrace of single life. I have a little sister (15 yrs, grrrr; see ‘Irish Big Brother’ in any dictionary of fraternal protectiveness) and this is the first time I’ve really dissected a piece of music that she’s likely to listen to. What can I say? It’s a hell of a song.

IF I WERE A BOY is not a hell of a song. It’s awful. There are a million things wrong with it. First of all, as I’ve said, tween girls listen to these songs more than any other age group. I really have a problem with a song that is so cynical and crassly manipulative to an impressionable age-group that the automatic thought upon listening is “Wow, guys REALLY ARE a bunch of fucking assholes.” I make a lot of fun about the ‘male condition’ in my blog, the fact that guys can be selfish, can be puerile and immature, and often place importance on stupid things – mostly at my own expense. This is because I am a guy, and have a small idea of what guys understand or feel. I’d never say that all girls are manipulative, or bitchy because I’ve had a few bad relationships, to do so would be frankly mysoginist, nor do I try to paint women as ‘damsels in distress’. The ridiculous one-sidedness and misandronist (or misandrist – the jury’s out on the correct word) nature of the song is really quite awful and horrendously patronising.
According to the song; guys are lazy, alcoholic, cowardly and full of shit. They treat women like shit and have no emotion. Hmmm.

Beyoncé says that SHE would make a better man because she understands women better and would never treat them badly. What a pile of ballrash. The guy she is softly berating in the song, she promises, will ‘someday wish he were a better man.’ Wow, I hope she doesn’t mean it…he’ll be gutted, I know I would.

Okay, maybe it’s true that guys are immature. They’re biologically slower the emotionally mature than their female peers. They have less physical upheaval to deal with, less growing up to do (because lets face it; guys usually just get taller and learn hand-to-ball contact) and can be stupid and hurtful. What the fuck? SO CAN GIRLS!!.

One of my biggest pet-hates is listening to a girl say “Men are idiots, they don’t know anything about pain” or “He’s a man, of course he doesn’t understand”. Usually said by the sort of armchair hypocrite who we all want to shoot in the back of the head with a harpoon. It’s the same ire I feel when a girl is branded a ‘slut’ for not being ashamed of her sexuality. The guy (or girl) who says that is often the type of specimen who can balance a pint of beer on his beergut and has a tattoo above his happy trail with an arrow pointing to his crotch with the words ‘lucky you’. A mook.

(NB#2 This is starting to sound rather preachy. Which sort of makes me a hypocrite. Anyone out there who wants to right a song called ‘If I were an Irish male blogger with too much opinion’ it would probably be more interesting than this blog)

Anyway…I’ve far surpassed my time and word-limit. Hopefully this post has given you slight insight into the male perspective. That said, you might just as well think that I’m a preening twat. Go raibh míle maith agat (a 1000 thanks) to MA for the blogspace, and her patience. I hope to have you visit soon. Con x

Isn't it romantic? Not quite.

So.

I know this was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I was at work until Evil Corp hours last night, so I apologize. But in OTHER, more IMPORTANT, less DEPRESSING news.

Entertainment Weekly put out (hehe) a list of the 25 best romance movies of all time, which is stupid, because the American Film Institute did the same thing a few years ago, and honestly? I trust an organization that is all about films, and you know, has a fancy word like "institute" in it far more than something that can't think past the next 7 days.

Regardless.

Since I am a lover of all things romcom, I had to read it, right? And then? I had to judge it. Harshly. Because this list is crap, friends. Super crap. Super duper freaking crap. I found the list via Jezebel (love it) who was making fun of all the Notebook fans who were angry that film didn't make it on the list. And no, I'm not here to claim that the Notebook was the greatest romance of our time. But it sure beats the "Wedding Singer".

Like a LOT.

I mean, I like Adam Sandler as much as the next non-teenage-boy but honestly? The WEDDING SINGER? Um, no. And MOONSTRUCK? Yes yes. Cher won an Oscar. And Nick Cage didn't suck yet. But has anyone ever seen Casablanca?! What about a Romeo and Juliet in there?

To be fair, I haven't seen "The Piano," "Sid and Nancy," or "In the Mood for Love". But I HAVE seen Lost in Translation, and then I DID need all sharp objects pried away from me because I wanted to STAB myself in the EYE at the MISERY of it all.

And I'm sure that's some people's version of love?

But it's a sick twisted version. Yes. It is. And honestly, I think the whole problem with the list is that while they include like, two movies made before 1990, they are SHITTY ones. And there are just so many GOOD ones. And I'm not saying that movies post-1990 aren't amazing, (because EW deserves props for including When Harry Met Sally, Pretty Woman, Amelie and Say Anything) none of those make the top 5, and hello, they are super. Fucking. Romantic.

Esp. when compared with stupid "Room with a View".

So Entertainment Weekly, plz stay out of the romcom business. You suck at it. Yes, Beauty and the Beast is LE AWESOME. But no, it does not belong on a list that is missing "Breakfast at Tiffany's," "Two for the Road," and "The Philadelphia Story."

Because quite frankly, it is a tale as old as the early 90s.

Freak out

So.

Here's the situ: in 10 days I am moving in with Grad School BF. No no. Not moving in with. Crashing at his bedroom. For approximately 2 months. For a variety of reasons that boil down to, I have quite literally no money (as in, I'm so broke I literally just stopped myself from buying a diet coke) and yes, I like him and wouldn't mind a nice little trial living together experience before taking a full plunge somewhere down the road. Add to that the fact that I could not find an apartment (to my specifications and within my rent requirements) and that come fall I'm never EVER going to see him, and we decided to "crash" with each other. And I've been pretty blase about the entire thing, much to the chagrin of many of my friends.

Until today.

I started looking at storage units for my crap, and trying to figure out how to get said crap there, when all of a sudden I found myself in full-on panic mode. Somewhere between trying to figure out the density of my mattress and box spring, and looking at the calendar and realizing I'm supposed to go CAMPING this weekend when REALLY I need to move all my EFFING SHIT.

Well. Right. Freak-out.

WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING. Seriously, this is how my conversation with GSBF just went:

Me: Do you need any of my furniture?
Him: Nope, I'm good.
Me: Not even my TV? It's a good TV.
Him: No, I'm ok, thanks.
Me: What about my clothes? It's not just me you know, it's me plus.
Him: I know, there's lots of room.
Me: And pots? And pans? And plates and cups and utens? Do you have those? Cause I don't think you do.
Him: Babe, I need to go work. It's going to be fine.

Except I don't believe him.

I'm not good with this stuff. My DAD is good with this stuff, but my DAD can't KNOW that I'm CRASHING at a BOY'S house because then my DAD would come to DC and MAKE SURE that that BOY was anatomically a GIRL from then on.

And that kind of ruins the whole point!

And I'm literally sitting here with tears in my eyes freaking out about whether or not I should just junk/Craigslist the bed frame I've had for about 20 years, that I've BEYOND outgrown, because it won't fit into a storage unit but why would I bring it with me ANYWAY. This is not what I thought "problems in the bedroom" would mean.

Seriously.

Anyway, do y'all think I'm crazy? Not about the bed. But about moving in with GSBF? And if not, then freaking out about storage issues? And also, do any of you know someone who has a basement they want to lend me? That might currently be filled with anti-anxiety meds?

A telephonic invasion

So.

I have two different ring tones on my phone: the normal one for everyone but my fam, and then "Sweet Caroline" for the four people (Grace, Michael, Mamain, Papa) who have to love me no matter what BECAUSE THEY ARE FAMILY so it will never hurt to hear that song again because they can't - CAN'T - reject me.

Whew. Got into it already.

Um, anyway. So I often don't pick up my phone when the "general" ring rings, because either I'm cooking or in the bathtub or it's really far away (ie out of hand's reach), so unless I'm expecting a call I just let it go and check it later. But the thing is that I always absolutely 100% want to pick up the phone if it's Grad School BF. No offense to the rest of my friends, but he hates the phone, so if he's calling there's a reason.

Sex is, of course, a reason.

And so, in this day and age of internets and tecnología, you'd think, "MA, sooooooooo easy! Just change his ring tone!" Right?

Wrong.

As you probably guessed from above (or um, any blog post I've ever written) I am a relatively insecure person. With boys in general (and especially Boys who I like a LOT a lot) "relatively" turns into "scarily, obsessively, cripplingly". And the fact of the matter is, I really don't want to ruin a perfectly good song that I currently LOVE by putting the GSBF's name to it and then one day, if we break up (see how I said if? That was massive progress right there. I seriously am anxious about not putting when. Itsokitsokitsok. Haha anybody remember that commerical where the guy was like collect calling his parents and he was like "first name wehaddababy, last night itsaboy"? That was funny. Idiotic, because like, why wouldn't his parents BE there? It's their grandchild! But whatever. And we've successfully distracted myself from the "when").

I digress. And use humor as a defense mechanism.

So that's problem number one. And I could probably get past it (ha, lies) if it weren't for problem number two, which is highly superficial and yet equally decimating:

WHAT SONG?!

Sweet Caroline is my family's theme song. Seriously, every time I hear it, Grace and Michael get texts saying, "Sweet Caroline is on at XXX". And I often get messages from them with the same idea. And Grad School BF and I don't have a theme song, per se. I mean, I was going to put the songs here that make me think of him, but they're so embarrassing the mere fact that I can't PUT them in WRITING to people I DON'T even KNOW (well some of you) shows that they certainly couldn't be a ringtone!! Not when I'm on mass transit with like, Reggie Love!

Mmm. Reggie Love.

Point is, what do I do? Pick a boring song that I just know will mean it's him? Go balls out and put Peter Gabriel, "Book of Love" on my phone? Just start answering every call?!

Haha never gonna happen.

Help me my friends. What do I do?!

Feeling like Gwyneth... in "Shallow Hal"

So.

I kind of hate shopping. Like, a lot. I never really understand the whole "ooo now I get to stand in awful lighting and feel fat" thing is appealing. We've discussed this particular peeve before, and so I suppose my point is, it's still true.

But with a caveat.

I love shopping for underwear. I LOVE shopping for underwear. And not just pretty underwear, I like buying EVERYTHING from crappy cotton panties for running to lacy thongs to make my ass look AMAZING post-running.

Which btw, it does.

Anyway, in this category also comes lingerie. And I love lingerie. While I am definitely a huge t-shirt kind of nightwear girl, that is almost entirely out of convenience. If my life was a different one than the (lazy) one I live, I would sleep in luxurious Cosa Bella nighties.

Mmm. Comfy, but delish.

And since there is a BF now, this presented me with a whole new opportunity to go lingerie shopping! Having exhausted what is currently in my drawers, I set out yesterday to go find something new and fun.

And hit a wall of skinny.

We've discussed my um, heft, before. But I'm not obese. My bra size is in the 30s, as is my waist. My hip measurement is in the 40s. I should be able to walk into a Victoria's Secret, or a freaking FILENE'S BASEMENT, and find something sexy to wear. Right?!

WRONG!!

I spent my lunch hour (plus) looking for ANY kind of under garments that weren't maternal (or even worse, intended for pregnancy), that didn't smush my boobs into cup sizes that I can only assume were intended for toddlers, or that didn't make my hourglass (well, ish) figure into a scary Dolly Parton impersonation, with rolls of breast pouring out the top and chunks of thigh sticking out the bottom.

Yum. Ew. Ugh.

I was depressed amis. I don't feel particularly fat lately. I've been riding my (brand spanking new) bike up to 10 miles a day, every day, and my thighs, thanks to the combination of biking, sex and Arlington hills are fucking amazing, for the first time in my life since high school soccer. And yet, everything was just too. Fucking. Small.

Sigh.

I would like to end this story on a happy note, so I'll go ahead and say - thank you Macy's, so much. At least you had larges in your store. Sure, the larges were intended for girls who are large around the middle and not so much around the top, but I'll take it. Half the point in lingerie is getting someone to take it off, and if looking like the cover of a romance novel makes that happen sooner, so be it.

But honestly. Big girls can have sex too, I swear. It might be jigglier than small girls. But it happens. Why can't we look pretty while doing it?

I'm not watching the Michael Jackson memorial

But I haven't posted yet. I will super soon. But I wanted it to be clear that there was absofuckinglutely no connection between the Michael Jackson let's-ignore-that-he-molested-little-children-and-was-a-scary-scary-man-with-no-accountability Love Fest.

Blech.

I might be the only person born in 1983 (duh, the year o' Thriller) who feels this way but I am So. Over. This. He's dead. Who cares. Not me.

Still, new post not quite yet. but soon.

My Big Fat Greek Break-up?

So.

I know I said this wouldn’t be about weddings, but I lied! But these are FAKE weddings, not real ones, and it was either this or me talking about how my grandfather emailed me in broken Italian last week asking when Grad School BF and I were getting married.

I shit you not.

Instead I thought we’d deal with the slightly more humorous topic of wedding movies! I saw the Proposal yesterday with Anna, and it was AMAZING. No seriously, I too thought it was going to be utter shit (which hurt me because I love Sandra and Ryan. Also, Coach) but it was SO GOOD.

Of course I cried, why the hell are you asking?

And then today I was talking with Chelsea’s bff about her bach party which is coming up in a few weeks, and she mentioned she was thinking of bringing wedding-themed movies to the interim, dinner/games portion of the evening. And she (let’s call her Marie) mentioned that Chels had vetoed all movies about weddings breaking up. So she was like “which leaves out runaway bride, made of honor, bride wars” and then I was like “well I own My Best Friend’s Wedding, which is kind of about a wedding being broken up but not really, and While You Were Sleeping which is… well, same. Oh and the Wedding Singer! Oh, no. Hm” and it occurred to me – c’est impossible to think of a wedding movie that doesn’t risk breaking up!

Well not entirely.

So My Big Fat Greek Wedding doesn’t really ever break up, and in a similar (whatever, Greece) vein neither does Mamma Mia!. But Sweet Home Alabama? 27 Dresses? Sleepless in Seattle? The Wedding Planner? The Philadelphia Story?? In & Out, the Princess Bride, Four Weddings and a Funeral?!?!

Sigh.

We settled on Fools Rush In, 16 Candles, While You Were Sleeping, License to Wed and MBFGW of course. But it got me thinking. WTF is it about weddings that make us want to watch them get broken up? Is it merely because without that, there wouldn’t be dramz to be reconciled? Or is it something deeper and darker, like women who enjoy these movies (cough cough, moi) take schadenfreudic pleasure out of watching happy couples get SHATTERED into little teensy BITS of miserably single GLASS.

Hm. Repressed issues, much?

I don’t know ladies and gents – what do you think? And am I completely wrong? Have I missed an entire genre of happily ever after romcoms that end with white weddings? Or even just snarky elopements? Help me out.

And if any of you know my Nonno, tell him to back the eff off. I heart GSBF, but there is no white wedding in MY future. Nor snarky elopement, not even when drunk.

Just not that into you? Eff 'em.

So.

My friend DC Laura and I were talking this morning about an email she had sent regarding a trip to see the new Harry Potter movie in 2 weeks that sounded like one of those math proofs from Geometry. Given that the books & the movies, but given also that I need a refresher, I would be willing to see the old movies with the caveat that I am not thrilled about it.

Which has nothing to do with today's post.

EXCEPT that I have a few "givens" for this post. Given:

1. I love Jezebel
2. I love MoDowd
3. I never wrote that post forever ago about Domino's: DiFara is CrappyBFbutinarelationship: Good relationship

I have absolutely no qualms about writing this post today.

And awaaaaaaaaaaay we go!

With this Mark Sanford shit going down, all that crap we went through last year with Spitzer is getting mad rehashed. Except because the Sanfords are not um, anywhere even remotely thinking about touching how classy the Spitzers acted post-affair (hello, Silda, je heart you) we get to watch the even more painful complete and utter stomp down of a wife. Let me just put this out there: if I'm ever married, and my husband cheats on me? Make sure the first person I go to isn't the ASSOCIATED PRESS.

Srsly.

Maureen Dowd takes on this particular aspect in her funny yet even more so, awesome, piece in today's Times which is a "Practical Guide to Help Spurned Political Wives Survive Old Problems in the Era of New Technology." My favorite?

9. Don’t slam his girlfriend for lying when you know she’s telling the truth. Don’t refer to the baby your rival had with your husband as “it.” Don’t trash a mistress, as Hillary and Elizabeth did, as a wacky stalker. No one — except the wife — blames the girlfriend as much as they blame the husband. Besides, you invite The Other Woman’s retaliation, as when Rielle decided — after watching Elizabeth spill to Oprah — that she might want that DNA test after all.

We'll get back to that.

Jezebel also had a fantastic post on the Sanford tragicomedy courtesy of Megan Carpentier (who is not fantastic BECAUSE we are friends on fb, but that is why I friended her. Her fantastickness. Not my weird desire to be friends with people I read. I'm not friends with Gail Collins on fb, fyi. Although, I kind of want to be because I have a massive girl crush on her).

Um, anyway.

My favorite part of THIS one is when Megan says, "His wife must be thrilled to hear that for the sake of the Baby Jesus he's decided to forgo the love he actually feels and try his mightiest to fall in love with her again, so they can be not-completely-miserable together until the end of time. His mighty self-denial must make her feel great about herself."

This brings me to my point.

Which is, I've been in my fair share of shitty relationships. Really crappy ones, where I held on because isn't that what you do when you're committed to someone? And even though I'd like to think I wasn't ever one of those girls who stayed with crappy boys just so that I wouldn't have to own up to being single, it doesn't take a lot of introspection to see that there were boys I clung to for that very reason.

And that's um, not good.

And maybe this Jenny Sanford thing is what gave me that Bridget Jones, "That's not a good enough offer for me" moment (duh, when Hugh Grant says, "If I can't make it with you then I can't make it with anyone") and maybe I had this moment long ago, and maybe it's really down simply to the santimonious superiority that comes with being in a new relationship (although I really hope not) and it especially doesn't hurt that Grad School BF is really, just, ridiculously lovely.

I know, I'm a sanctimonious bitch.

But the bottom line is, don't do it ladies. Just say no to bad relationships, and men not loving you enough, and not doing cute things like meeting your urban family and bbqing for them, and just say FUCK no to men who say their soulmate is the Other Woman but they're willing to kind of try to fall back in love with you.

Ugh.

Because you're better than that. A whole HELLUVA lot better. And sure, I don't necessarily know you and your situation. But imagine that in real life I do. You could be the next person I blog pitingly about. And that's no fun for ANYONE.

Unless Gail Collins is the one doing it, of course. Cause she's awesome.