NSA?

NSA. Never Sing Alone? No Silly Answers? Nice Sweet Ass? No, even better…NSA…No.Strings.Attached. In a world where sex is rampant and love is a rarity, are we being led to believe that a love life of No Strings Attached is the new norm? I’m pretty sure it’s a known fact that when a woman has sex with a guy who she even has a smidge of a crush on, that once the deal is done, she likes him more (even if it wasn’t life altering layage). Guys on the other hand seem to have no problem with the chew and screw or wam bam thank you ma’am concepts. Puff.
Granted I’ve known a gal or two who has freely admitted to taking advantage of the male skill of not becoming attached simply because it’s been a while for her…or she just needed to feel wanted, even if just for a night. And typically, she checks her phone for the next week hoping he’ll call…and he doesn’t. Puff. And in the other corner, we’ve got…the guy…the guy who has zero problem having relations with said girl and never talking to her again. Puff. A male acquaintance of mine told me he was contemplating having a NSA encounter with a lady friend of his, but was afraid she would become attached. And then he said this (brace yourselves), “The aftermath isn’t worth my deposit.” (Yes…he said…deposit.) Is it possible for us to rewire ourselves to not become attached once we’ve sealed the deal?Puff.
I become attached to a pair of shoes the instant I buy them, so how are we not supposed to become attached to a cute boy who pays attention to us and gives us an O!? Puff. Do we channel the most arrogant, pretentious guy we know and just convince ourselves that we’ve simply used the guy for their goods and then meet our girlfriends for lunch without gushing? If only we could channel Samantha from Sex and the City and pretend like the double standard of NSA for women isn’t completely different from men. Puff. Guy has NSA lovin with a handful (or more!) of girls and he’s a rockstar. Girl does the same thing…whorebag. What the!? How does that make sense? Is it because society instinctively knows that it takes the exception to the rule girl to change the NSA guy? Puff.
NSA. What a concept. There are those of us who can and will try to embrace it. Some will succeed, while others will cry into their latte the next day because he hasn’t called. Either way, we as women are wired to love, to become attached and to expect an effing call..a text..a smoke signal…something! In an age where love is becoming harder to come by because NSA lovin has become the norm, perhaps we hold on to our strings with all we’ve got. Depuff.

A Conquering Puff.

They say love conquers all. What I want to know is who “they” is and if they were ever in a real relationship. Puff. Romeo and Juliet were in love…and they died…death conquered all, not love. What conquers all is being able to deal with all the real life crapola that is thrown at you in a relationship. This proverbial crapola comes in the forms of ex girlfriends, friends and your significant others less than stellar family members. Puff.
The older we get the more we have to consider that the people who surround the person that we love could potentially become our in laws…and that can be a frightening, frightening thought. How is the guy that you’re totally smitten with possibly the spawn of such a wretched woman? Or how is his brother or sister such a defunct member of society? We’ve all been there. It’s time to meet the parents and while you’re putting together your best outfit for said meeting, you’re also thinking to yourself, “What if they don’t like me?,” or “What if their house is filthy” and of course, “Will these people get along with my family!?” No pressure. Puff.
If these kids were all raised in the same house…by the same parents…how in the effing world did your fella’s sibling end up being such a DISASTER!? No license, no job, no life and sometimes no shower. Holding my nose puff. And while it would be fantastic if the smelly loser sibling were living in California…far, far away…they are, in fact, living 5 miles away and lounging on YOUR couch EVERY Sunday watching football games with your beau. They not only muck off your dream of a perfect little in law family, but then they ask you to hook them up “with any of your hot friends!?” Ick. Puff. Buddy, I wouldn’t hook you up with a prostitute with syphilis for fear that she would be ashamed of you. Puff.
Oh, hello ex girlfriend…ex wife…ex hookup. We hate you. We can pretend to like you because if your relationship hadn’t flopped, we wouldn’t have our current manpiece, or because you mothered the our potential step (or as I like to call them “bonus”) child…but the truth is, we don’t like you…and you reallllly don’t like us. You’re like that ingrown old lady hair that we sometimes grow on our chin (admit it, we all have one!) that no matter how many times we wax, cut, thread or yank out, you keep.coming.back.Puff. Sure we love love love our fella, but we didn’t sign up for this! Puff.
“I don’t care if your friends like me.” Funny, I do. The end.Puff.
Perhaps I am a cynic and I haven’t experienced a love so great that it truly can conquer all, and perhaps it does exist. If love can conquer all, maybe we just take in stride all the things that could potentially conquer love and we conquer acceptance. De-puff.

The Boy Who Cried Puff

We’ve all seen that guy on the dance floor. He makes drunken eye contact with a girl, thrusts his hands back with his imaginary fishing pole…and casts. Then we see said girl flopping like the sorry little fish she is on her imaginary lure and into the “fishermans” grasp….alll while Bel Biv Devoe plays over the club speakers. In real life, not only do we get suckered into the boys ridiculous lure, but there is no Bel Biv Devoe and we can’t even blame our suckerdom on being drunk…and we are typically not wearing sequins (or at least shouldn’t be!). Puff.
A sucker by definition is someone who is easily swayed to believe pretty much anything. I…am a self proclaimed sucker. Puppies, children, Mexican food and guys who tell me they love me have alllll made me their victim. Getting lost in someone’s eyes is a sure fire way to know you’ve been dooped…it’s like you’re lost in a twilight zone of mushiness and there’s no escape. How can we protect ourselves from the person who tells us they are falling in love with us and then two days later break it off “because they’re scared.” Bullshit Puff.
Spiders. Scary. Southie.Scary. Jail.Scary.Skydiving…obviously scary. Love…feeling ooshy gooshy marshmallowey goodness love…NOT EFFING SCARY! Puff. Love is not the scary part. Commitment is the scary part. As overanalyzers, we ladyfollk meet a guy and within 30 minutes have imagined what our kids would look like and have written our new married name in our imaginary notebook in our head at least twice..once in cursive, once in print!Puff. Guys…in the first thirty minutes they picture us naked and they pray to God that they don’t get us preggers. Puff.
Once in a while though, we have a moment of pure bliss where we find ourselves staring into his eyes and he says it… “I think…I’m falling in love with you.” You, of course are elated and before you can even text the majority of your girlfriends, the dude….cries…wolf. Puff. “I love you, but I’m not ready for a relationship.” “You’re the kind of girl I want to marry, but right now…just isn’t a good time for me.” “My career will always come first and that’s just not fair to you.” So many more BS excuses have been spewed from the mouths of said boys that it all sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher by the end of it all.Puff. However, that’s not the worst part! After you’ve cried, drank 2 bottles of wine and scratched his name out of your imaginary notebook and wrote “DICK” over the top….he’s back…he’s “MADE A MISTAKE!” He’s sorry and wants you back. He’s “JUST SCARED.” In the movie version of your life you tell him to eff off while wearing some amazingly put together outfit and walk away with the real prince charming, but in real life, you cry….again…and say, “Ok, but don’t do it again!” Annnnnd repeat! Puff.
The boy who cried wolf…or love…or scaredy pants…whatever it is, we’ve all encountered him. It’s up to us to decide how many times we let him cry wolf and sometimes that requires closing our eyes to the marshmallowey goodness of a hot staring contest. Sometimes it requires remembering just how awesome we really are and that love, while not easy, is no wolf. De-Puff.

The type.

My mom says I’ve picked up strays since I was three years old. First, it started with worms. I would find a worm on the sidewalk and felt bad that there were no little wormy friends around to keep it company…and in my shoebox filled with dirt it went (and it would promptly die in 2 days). Then, I moved on to dogs, cats and bunnies. As I reached my twenties, my fascination with strays quickly diverted from worms to people…mostly men…fixer uppers..a different kind of worm. “But, they have potential!” Famous last words. Luckily, I learned rather quickly that this was a guaranteed detour to heartache and distrust and have since moved on to bigger and better things…like being single! But, it made me think…is the “bad boy fixer upper” my “TYPE?” Puff.
I effing hope not. Most girls are attracted to this type. Rough around the edges and soft and warm like a cookie outta the oven when you’re all alone snuggled up on a couch. Usually, the soft ooshy gooshyness of this tough guy cookie becomes a hard, concretesque, blob of douchebag who breaks your heart. So, in recent years, months, I’ve decided…I need to…change…my…type. Granted, not every guy I’ve been attracted to has been a total a-hole, but it’s like they have a honing device and can find me and sucker punch me and BAM, I’m hooked!Puff.
I’ve know girls who want the geek.Lovvvve the geek. Clark Kent…who turns into Superman once the lights go down! Reoooow! But then, once they have the geek, do they wish that they would be the tough guy if some guy gives you a tough time at a club? Do they want said geek to become a puffer fish himself and explode into a vengeful wrath of fury and protect his woman!? Puff.
Are we ever fully satisfied!?
We want the guy who will dance at a wedding, but split another dudes lip if he needs to. The guy who can practically recite Catcher in the Rye (or at least knows what it is!), but can mount our TV because he owns every tool on earth. The guy who will buy us tampons and then change the oil in our car…god bless dirty “I work for a living” hands!Puff.
Someone recently said to me that girls want men to go to work and make the money and be the “big man of the house” and then go home and put on an apron and “get in touch with their feelings.” He promptly then said that this concept was bullshit. Puff. We can’t have it all for one human being, but luckily we have friends who fill those gaps that said manpiece doesn’t quite fulfill.
For instance….take a dear friend of mine. Married to the “perfect guy.” He has a great job, great family and they all play trivia on the weekends. However, when they sit at a table together, the only thing perfect is the oven roasted chicken between them. They barely…even…like…each other. But he is her “type” and she is his. They look faneffingtastic on paper and most people think they are the quintessential couple. The problem is… neither one is the others type in reality. While she loves to hike, he likes to play video games. While she watched HGTV, he watches porn. But by golly, they look smokin hot in their wedding pictures! Such a “perfect” couple. Puff.

So once upon a time, we all created the perfect mate, but maybe if we just open our eyes a little more to the important things like love, respect and loyalty and look for those things instead of the “good on paper” bull…then maybe having a “type” doesn’t matter so much. And please, don’t let your daughters play with worms. Depuff.

A Table for Puff

Welcome to the world of singledom. Table for one…uno…two minus one…one plus zero…so…lo! Sure being single has its perks, but the “let’s get back into the dating pool” world totally, 100%...blows! Yesterday I was told that I’m naïve for believing that real love actually exists and that one can be in a relationship without cheating. I’m sorry, did I miss the memo that people have turned into complete dbags in the past 5 years!? Puff. So with those thoughts in my back pocket, I reluctantly accepted an offer to go “grab a drink.” Now, stop me if I’m wrong, but typically on a first date, if you’re asked by the dude, should maybe, partially be planned? Oh no, not this charmer…Not only did I have to pick the place, but I had to pick the time, what HE drank, and had to tell him what was acceptable to wear! I didn’t even have my hair dyer on before I was ready to bail. Puff.
So Prince Charming shows up in his lame Mustang…clearly an extension of what he may be ehhh hemm…lacking annnd not to mention my least favorite car of all time…. and as I’m watching this tall piece of hotness get out of his car, it happened…he grabs his red solo cup from the console and there, right in front of me…a huge, black, nasty wad of chew came spewing from his mouth into the cup! Retreattttt, Rettttreeeat!!! Oh God, it’s too late, he’s already seen me…if this dude even remotely thinks I’m kissing him goodnight he is sorely mistaken. I’ll more likely be checking to see if his lower gums are even intact! Barf! Puff.
45 minutes,17 yawns (on his part), one bud light, one glass of wine and a $13.00 tab later… I sat there wanting to morph to anywhere else but there, and finally it was over. I sat in my car for a minute and thought to myself, “Is this as good as it effing gets!?” Has dating become so casual that it’s OKAY to not expect chivalry and even some decency!?Puff. I gave said dbag a one armed hug and promptly drove home.In my quest of not settling I suddenly felt empowered and realized that no, indeed I am NOT naïve. I have every right to believe that there’s a “good one” out there for me and that the guy won’t cheat…or dip. I I curled up on my couch in my snowflake pajamas and thought to myself, that wine bar was really great, but next time, I’ll take a table for one. Depuff.

FacePuff!

Dear Facebook-
The past two years I have had a severe love/hate relationship with you. Sure, you’ve connected me with high school compadres and my third grade boyfriend who kissed me in his pool, but you have also morphed me into a jealous click happy raging lunatic. Puff. Because of you I have checked the status of the ex girlfriend of the ex boyfriend, then clicked on a picture to read the comments, only to click on the name of the ex boyfriends sister to find out her profile is private (Damn it!). Because of you I have wasted precious work time perusing pictures of my seventh grade friend’s ugly baby, all because it’s better than an Excel spreadsheet. Puff. You have made the phrase, "I face book stalked you" an everyday thing...I mean all you need is an e-mail address or a location and BAM!Puff.
And Facebook, here’s a little piece of advice…how about you don’t suggest my ex-husband and ex-boyfriends as people I “May Know.” Yeah, facebook, I know em…I’ve effing seeing them NAKED! I’ve been their facebook official girlfriend, been deleted and been blocked…SO NO FACEBOOK, I DO NOT WANT TO ADD THEM AS MY FRIEND SO EFF OFF!!!Puff. You have invaded my otherwise peaceful existence with a tagged picture of one friend who is friends with an ex and then there… on my home page is my ex…happy, half naked and smoking with some fat chick on his arm. No thanks. DELETED. Puff.
You have made me make life decisions about who should realllly be on my friends list…I mean, does my “friends” list mean I’m friends with these people, cause if it does, I’ve been a horrible friend because frankly facebook I barely talk to any of them!Puff. You have made me question my own life by showing me everyone I graduated with and their sweet little babies…and then there’s me…divorced and babyless. If only I could live in my own little single world without babies and houses and perfect little lives invading my bitter existence.Puff.
Yes facebook, you are my, and the rest of the worlds guilty pleasure and I love you for showing me how fat my middle school bully is now (haha suck it meany!). I adore you for keeping me busy at the doctor’s office and for making my blackberry’s little red crackberry light go off when no one is a textin, but facebook…you bitch…get your effing act together!!!! Depuff.
Love, me and my awesome click happy girlfriends

The art of Puff.

“This is MY party…MY house and MY birthday!!!!! I just want to screammmmmmm!!!!!”
Last weekend I was hired to be the nanny for an 8 year old girls slumber party…and the above statement..is what I witnessed. This tiny girl threw a temper tantrum so gargantuan that I thought she was about to morph into the Incredible Hulk and take down everything in her path.
At first, I watched in disgust as this little girl screamed and sobbed at her own surprise birthday party. Puff. Some of her friends, who of course were cheerleaders (side note-if I were 8, these girls would have been my worst enemies!) continued to do Russians and splits on one side of the room, while her other friends watched in horror as the birthday princess had a complete effing meltdown….and I…found myself being jealous. Puff.
When we’re eight we are completely entitled to a meltdown…a temper tantrum if you will. It’s like she got a “get out of life” free card just because she was eight. Granted, her issues were slightly less trivial than mine…if she got the flower frosting on her cake, and who was going to be lucky enough to sleep next to the birthday girl. But it made me think…wouldn’t it be nice if we, as twenty or thirty somethings, were entitled to a temper tantrum!!?? Puff.
The whole concept of being a puffer is that we hold things in until we can no longer stand it, and we puff. But how great would it be if we could scream “BUT this is MY life! And I want HIM!!!!” about the boy who we liked and didn’t like us back. Or, if we aren’t being paid enough…we could walk into our bosses office, tears running down our face, cheeks red, and yell, “BUT I’M NOT GETTING PAID ENOUGH! GIVE ME MORE MONEY! NOWWWWWWWW!” Even writing that is therapeutic. Puff.
As adults, we are supposed to be poised and graceful. We handle rejection in the solitude of a bathroom stall or in the car listening to Sarah Bareilles. We are certainly not entitiled to have a meltdown the instant we hear something disappointing to us. Puff.
Birthday girl’s meltdown lasted a good ten minutes…and by the end of it all, she was left with tear stained cheeks, a piece of cookie cake…and in time out.
Would it be worth having a time out if we could just have a little temper tantrum once in a while? I left the next morning and practiced in my car…and it felt damn good. Depuff.