The Golden Girls' Guide to Dating

I broke up with my boyfriend two days before Christmas. I didn’t really want to. I had really liked this guy and, hell, who really wants to break up with their boyfriend—no matter the circumstances—two days before Christmas?

But I did, and it sucked. I knew I had made the right decision, but it’s hard to let go of someone even if they’ve done you wrong. And when it’s over, you can’t help but second guess yourself. Did I make the right choice? Did I do something wrong? Had I overreacted to the situation and made it out to be worse than it was?

The answer to all of these questions is, of course, no. But telling myself that only made me feel marginally better. Come Christmas morning, I was still feeling down and was hardly in the mood to celebrate.

Luckily, I had bought my mother two seasons of The Golden Girls for Christmas. If you know me, you know how much I adore this show. Not only do I own all seven seasons on DVD and, as my roommate can attest, watch them repeatedly, but I often quote or reference the show in casual conversation.

While eating cheesecake: “Did you know Bea Arthur hated cheesecake even though her character, Dorothy, is shown eating it repeatedly on the show?”

While walking down the “personal items” aisle of a drugstore: “There’s a great scene in The Golden Girls when Blanche, Rose, and Dorothy are preparing for a romantic weekend with their respective boyfriends and decide to buy some condoms, but when they go to checkout, the cashier orders a price check on all three boxes over the loudspeaker.”

While battling the flu and/or drinking a hot toddy: “In one episode of The Golden Girls, the three women come down with a case of the flu and get mad at Rose for being in a cheery mood after she makes a hot toddy to make herself feel better. Rose, tired of her roommates’ grumpiness, loses it and yells, ‘Do you know how many of these stinking hot toddies I’ve had to make to keep a smile on my face!’”

I’ve watched this show since I was 14. I’ve seen every episode at least three times (many of them more than that). My senior year of college, while I was writing my thesis, I usually watched the show while I worked. The show had become so familiar that I often forgot I was working.

So this Christmas, to help me get over my breakup, I decided to turn to my old friends, Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, and Sophia. I put in season 1, disc 1, and lay down on the couch, ready to be entertained.

In the first episode—one I’ve seen at least five times—Blanche gets engaged to a man named Harry after she’s known him for only a week. Deciding she’d rather marry him—even if it seems impulsive—than lose him, she accepts his proposal and they plan the wedding for the following week. Dorothy and Rose think she’s making the wrong decision—after all, she barely knows the guy—but decide they’d rather let their friend be happy than interfere on a hunch. Everything is set for the wedding, but just minutes before the ceremony, a cop arrives at the house (I guess, due to the short notice, Blanche just decided to get married in her living room) to inform the bride-to-be that her fiance has been arrested for bigamy and has six wives.

Blanche, of course, is devastated, but with the help of her friends (and a slice or two of cheesecake), she picks up and moves on by the next episode. She’s over it. Harry never comes back into the picture.

As I watched this episode, I began to think about how many Golden Girls episodes carry a similar arc. Over and over gain, these women get their hearts broken and dreams dashed by a slew of creepy, dishonest bastards. But every time, without fail, they get over it, and before you can say “Back in St. Olaf,” they’re back in the game with some new beau.

Of course, the girls also know how to take matters into their own hands. In another episode from season 1, Dorothy starts sleeping with Glenn, the gym teacher at the school where she works as a substitute. After one of their hotel-room trysts (why she never bothered to ask him why they had to meet in a hotel room is beyond me), Glenn tells Dorothy he is married. Dorothy is, of course, shocked and upset and walks out of the room saying she doesn’t want to see him anymore. He calls her several times, pleading with her, telling her he loves her and his marriage is in shambles anyway. After a while, she relents and begins to see him again, telling herself that he loves her and makes her happy so it doesn’t matter.

But, of course, it does, and eventually, after Dorothy realizes that Glenn isn’t going to leave his wife for her, she leaves him again. She’s sad, and admits it, but decides that her self-respect is more important to her than this man.

But that’s not the last we see of Glenn. In a later season, he calls Dorothy to tell her that he’s left his wife and he’s still in love with her. Dorothy is understandably, ecstatic. Her dream has come true! The man she loves left his wife and wants to be with her! How romantic! They start to see each other again (this time hosting their rendezvous at his bachelor pad instead of a motel), and things seem to be going great. That is, until one day when Glenn receives a phone call from his ex wife while Dorothy is visiting. He answers and asks, impatiently, what she wants. “Sure, I’m alone,” he says, much to the surprise of Dorothy who is sitting in the same room. When Glenn hangs up, Dorothy turns to him. “Alone?” she asks, the pain apparent in her tone. Glenn makes up some excuse about not wanting to complicate things or upset his already angry ex, but Dorothy isn’t having it. She is no longer his mistress and refuses to be treated like one, so she leaves him, again, just as disappointed as before, but this time disappointed with herself for not knowing better.

This episode in particular resonated with me. The situation was not the same, by any means (I will not go into the details of my breakup here, but I will say, for the record, that I was NOT sleeping with a married man or, for that matter, a divorced one), but the feelings of disappointment were incredibly familiar. Like Dorothy, I had had high hopes for my relationship and had developed excuses for my boyfriend’s behavior. I had told myself that I could handle the situation. Everything would be fine.

And, like Dorothy, I eventually realized that I was compromising myself. I was allowing myself to be miserable so I wouldn’t have to confront the situation head on. I told myself I was overreacting. I told myself I was being insecure. I told myself I needed to be patient with him. But the more I told myself these things, the more I realized none of them were true. So I ended it, just as Dorothy had done.

As I considered the parallels, I began to feel better. Some people listen to sappy songs (“Goodbye My Lover,” anyone?) to get over a breakup. I watch The Golden Girls. There’s a certain comfort in watching four older women (three widows and a divorcee), go through the same painful experiences you do and get through them. It’s like having four different grandmothers—all with their own characteristic brand of wit—sit you down over a piece of cake and a cup of hot tea and tell you stories from their own lives so you don’t feel like you’re going through these things alone.

So, am I sad? Yes, I’m still sad, but I’m also proud of what I did, and I know that, if they were here, Blanche, Rose, Dorothy, and Sophia would be proud of me too. Plus, if three fifty-somethings and one eighty-year-old can still get lucky, I’m fairly confident that I’ll be back in the game soon enough.

Dear Men of the World

In the past few months, I've had ample opportunity to reflect on my dating life up till now. I will spare you the details of why (and save those for another blog post), but during this time of self-examination, I have felt the overwhelming urge to share my observations/thoughts/advice/experience on what I've learned thus far.

I originally came up with the idea for this post sometime in late October when I was trying to get rid of a guy who, for some unknown reason, seemed to want to date me. Of course, it is now mid-December, so for the past two months, instead of writing, I've settled for discussing my musings with friends (mostly girls) of mine. These conversations have led me to realize a few things: 1) Men need just as much guidance on dating as women do. 2) Much of that advice is exactly the same as it is for women. 3) For some unknown reason men seem less likely to actually heed such advice.

As a result, I have chosen to construct this post around specific advice, from my friends and me, to men about how to comport yourselves with young, attractive, intelligent women, like us. I also encourage other people (men and women) to share their own thoughts. This information needs to be dispersed, and quickly.

1) If a girl is taller than you (or shorter than you by less than an inch or two), do not make any snide remarks when she wears heels in your presence. Women care less about your height than they do about your attitude, and in most cases a good-natured sense of humor or ability to exude confidence and authority will make up for any *ahem* shortcomings you may or may not have. Besides, it's pretty difficult to not look like a complete asshole after basically admitting you suffer from a severe Napoleon Complex and only like to be seen with women you can, literally, look down on.

2) If you tickle a girl, and she asks you to stop, she means it. She's only laughing because of a biological reflex, not because she's having a good time or trying to be coy. But, of course, if you want to piss her off and run the risk of getting kicked in the nuts (accidentally or on purpose), by all means, proceed.

3) Never, ever say to a girl, "I want to kiss you standing up." Just take my word for it.

4) If a girl tells you she just got out of a relationship and therefore she doesn't want to date or be intimate with anyone right now, she means she doesn't want to date or be intimate with you. Period. This is not to say she's lying about just getting out of a relationship, but if she genuinely liked you, it wouldn't matter. The same advice applies to the phrases, "I just kind of want to be single for a while," and "Right now, I'm just looking for friends."

5) If you call/text/email a girl and she doesn't respond, she doesn't want to talk to you! If you continue to call/text/email her, you will still never hear from her, and, to make matters worse, she'll start making fun of you to all of her friends (and probably current lover). This rule also applies to ex-boyfriends, no matter the conditions of your breakup and former relationship.

6) It is your job, not ours, to supply the condoms.

7) Have a mind of your own. If you ask us out, make a plan for what to do. Don't wait for us to suggest something. Women want a man who can show them a good time. If we just wanted to go to our usual Thai restaurant and neighborhood bar, we would go with our girlfriends, and, most likely, have a better time than we would with you.

8) If you tell a girl she looks pretty, and she doesn't appear visibly flattered, she doesn't really like you that much.

9) If a girl wears a sexy outfit and then invites you back to your place (or goes to yours), that is your invitation to make a move. This does not necessarily mean she will sleep with you, but it does mean she has already considered it and probably shaved her legs that day.

10) Accents are nice, but they are not an excuse to talk about yourself all night. Actually, there is no legitimate excuse to talk about yourself all night.

11) Never talk baby talk to a girl or call her "mommy." (It's a sad statement on our culture that I even have to write that)

*special thanks to Sarah for some of the above suggestions

"A little butter never hurt anyone"

In the Summer of 2008, I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan. For those of you not familiar with this title, this book examines the American diet and the industries that have structured it for much of the last century. It spends a good chunk of its 400+ pages detailing the problems with the corn industry and the meat industry and even though Pollan never expressly calls for people to embrace vegetarianism, some of the anecdotes will make you think twice the next time you order a burger.

Overall, I found the book to be well written, informative, and thought-provoking, though I ended up skipping the last 30 pages because I had had enough of Pollan’s discourse on his adventures trying to find, cook, and eat wild mushrooms. After I had “finished” it, my boyfriend at the time, who had read the book some time before me, asked me what I thought about it. “It really made me think about what I eat,” I said. “Though, of course, that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to change the way I eat.”

“That was my reaction to it,” he said.

This is the idea I wanted to explore in this post because, since reading that book, I’ve thought a lot about what I ingest. I think living in New York has something to do with it,too. Here, everyone seems incredibly concerned with living a better life, though, admittedly, this phrase means different things for different people. But one way this concept manifests itself is through food. In Manhattan, the only decent grocery stores are wildly overpriced gourmet and/or organic outfits like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, The Food Emporium, and Dean and Deluca. All of these places are, despite their prices, always crowded. It might be one of those chicken-egg arguments: are these stores so popular because they’re the only decent grocery stores in Manhattan or did they become the only decent stores in Manhattan because people preferred to shop there over other, less high-end stores?

Hard to tell, but regardless, the fact that so many New Yorkers are willing to pay more for these products indicates at the very least a desire to cook their own food instead of relying on what would probably be a cheaper diet of take-out Chinese every day. At most, it indicates a real, concrete desire among this population to monitor what goes into their mouths and their bodies. They will pay more for something and wait in a longer line to buy it if they know it’s organic, free-range, fair trade, all-natural, and preservative-free. And they’ll lug all of their goodies home in reusable bags. Bully for them!

I can’t afford to do all of my grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Plus, there isn’t one close to my apartment. For me, it’s more important to eat a balanced, steady diet without going broke, though, I confess, I am more inclined to buy something made from actual food rather than a bunch of chemically altered compounds I can’t pronounce. To be fair, every time I pick up eggs, I think long and hard about what kind I should buy. I know, deep within my conscience, that I should buy the free-range, cage-free, organic brown eggs that cost $3 more a dozen, but frankly, I know that my omelette is going to taste just fine if I settle on the cheaper variety and those pour cooped-up chickens aren’t going to be liberated because I did the “right” thing.

Earlier this year, I was confronted with the issue of my diet even more while I dated a guy who monitored the foods he ate more closely than he monitored the time of day. Though this guy was not expressly allergic to any foods, he had chosen to give up both gluten and dairy because he said he noticed a major improvement in his health once he did so—despite the fact that his doctors had repeatedly told him that changing his diet would not affect his health. He told me this on our first date and because I am, apparently, superficial, my first thought was, “Oh shit. That means he doesn’t drink beer. What are going to do if he doesn’t drink beer?”

“But I do drink beer,” he said, as if reading my mind.

Oh, thank goodness. It turns out this guy, Claudio, wasn’t completely strict about his diet. In fact, that night, after dinner and a couple hours of beer consumption, we stopped at Artichoke for a slice of pizza. Delicious gluten- and dairy-ridden pizza.

For the next few months, as we dated, Claudio and I had several discussions about nutrition. He had studied it quite a bit and had even worked in the nutrition department at Whole Foods for a few years. He seemed incredibly well-informed and introduced me to the idea that undistilled apple cider vinegar is the cure-all for everything (in the six and a half months we dated, I used ACV—his Rachel Ray-esque term for the stuff—to cure an upset stomach and open my sinuses when I had a cold). The first time he came over to my apartment, he laughed at the Target-brand vitamins I had on my dresser and said I might as well not take anything. The first gift he ever gave me was, you guessed it, a nice big bottle of apple cider vinegar.

Over the course of those few months, I learned a lot about supplements, Claudio’s favorite being trace minerals—a compound found in salt water. I once watched him add several drops of the stuff to a glass or orange juice and down the mixture in a couple of pained gulps. “This stuff is great for you,” he said, grimacing. “But it tastes awful.”

But I had fun with Claudio. It generally wasn’t hard for him to find something to eat no matter where we went, and I began to think maybe I should try revamping my diet. I had met other people who had eliminated certain foods from their menus—at least temporarily—and they reported that they’d never felt better. What did I have to lose?

Well, in my case, a lot. I have a roommate, Bridget, whom I love dearly. I especially love it when she cooks, though, and Bridget is a big fan of pasta…and cheese…and butter…and milk, and frankly I wasn’t about to sacrifice her delicious home-cooked meals. One night, soon after we moved in together, I cam home from work to find that Bridget had made pasta. When I asked her about the sauce she had used she said it was from a jar but “I added butter to it.” There was absolutely no need for her to add butter to this sauce, but she had, and it was good. Claudio cooked me dinner once, and while it was pretty good, and I felt pretty satisfied afterward, I wasn’t about to trade Bridget’s butter sauce for tofu, sweet potatoes, and broccoli.

For a while—a couple of weeks maybe—I decided instead to “reduce” the amount of dairy in my diet. I did this by trying to eliminate dairy when possible when I cooked for myself and when I ate out. Admittedly, I held to a very loose definition of the word “reduced” so that substituting soy milk for regular milk in my cup of coffee counted as an improvement. That’s another thing. I took to purchasing soy milk to add to my coffee and cereal instead of regular milk, but then someone told me you shouldn’t drink too much soy because of high estrogen levels or something. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?

I know, it was a lame attempt, and to be fair, it was pretty easy to keep dairy out of the apartment at that time because our refrigerator was broken and all of our food kept spoiling. But here’s the thing: I like eating dairy. I like eating gluten. I like eating things with salt, and sugar, and fat, and carbs. I like ice cream. Actually, I LOVE ice cream. I like cheese (all except the kind that’s blue). I like dunking my Oreos in real milk (and, yes, I know that eating Oreos dunked in anything is unhealthy, but if they’re in the house, I’m going to eat them). I like pizza. I like beer. I like the two together. I like food. I love food. In fact, I love food more than I love having regular bowel movements, hence, why eliminating dairy—or anything else—from my diet has never actually promised much of a payoff for me.

Dairy wasn’t the only thing I had been told was an enemy. The other was caffeine. Now, I’ve never been much of a caffeine addict. In fact, I can go for days without having any and still be completely functional. Bridget and I have a coffee pot in our house. We also have an espresso maker we haven’t used since we moved in together. But a few times a week, I’ll treat myself to a nice cup of coffee, unsweetened, with soy milk while I get ready for the day. And you know what? Those are the best mornings.

Coffee generally has a profound effect on me. Not only does it give me more energy but it also puts me in a really good mood. In college, I could get a small coffee from one of the campus food courts, drink it during a class, and be buzzing for 12 hours straight. I usually had grand dreams for my future during this time as well. One day, after a particular strong cup, I decided I wanted to take a new course in my life and apply to teach English at an international school after I ran into someone who told me he had done it for several years. I went home and filled out an online application. By the time I received a letter from a school in Shanghai asking for my resume, however, the caffeine had worn off and I snapped back to reality. Caffeine is a powerful drug.

So even though I’ve never been an addict, I realized that I didn’t like the idea of relying on any drug—no matter how sparingly—to get through the day, be happy, or be inspired. So, I decided to go without caffeine for two weeks.

Here’s the funny thing about sacrifice: when you go without something unconsciously, you generally don’t notice. I’m sure there are plenty of times in my life where I’ve gone for two weeks without any caffeine, or sex, or a glass of wine, and I’ve been just fine. The second I resolved to give up caffeine, however, I began to crave it incessantly.

But I was good, and I made it a whole 13 days without any caffeine. I would’ve made it 14 but I had a sore throat, and Bridget brought home some iced tea on day 13, and I drank some of it without thinking. Whatever, it barely counts.

But I was also pretty damn miserable during those two weeks. I was grumpy, had less energy, and I missed the comfort of having a nice hot coffee in the morning while I did my makeup and listened to NPR. The thing is, for me, a modest intake of caffeine didn’t have any negative side effects. Because I drank coffee in the morning, I never had trouble falling asleep that night. I drank it sparingly, so I never had stomach problems or got heartburn. I never started shaking uncontrollably. So why not just let myself have it when I want it as long as it doesn’t become a problem? I started drinking coffee again the following week, and I’ve been a lot happier. It also made feel better when I found out, through a book I’m editing at work, that moderate caffeine consumption has been shown to induce processes in the body that scientists believe are linked to longevity. Score one for the coffee drinkers of the world! You may actually live longer than your lower-strung comrades!

I just realized that all of this may sound bad. Maybe I sound like some lucky 24-year-old without any major health issues and a pretty awesome metabolism who doesn’t really care about the repercussions of what she puts in her body. Half of that is true. Yes, I’ve never had to worry that if I eat a peanut, my body will go into a state of shock. And I’ve never had to worry that if I let myself have that donut, I will gain back that pesky pound I've been trying to lose. But I do care about my health. My point is that food—real food—is not dangerous and you should not be frightened of it. Of course, I’m saying this as someone whose expertise comes from dating an amateur nutritionist and reading a couple Michael Pollan books. But even Michael Pollan advocates this message in his favorite “food rules.”

But I’m also saying this as someone who knows that Julia Child lived a long, healthy life even though she added butter to just about everything. I don’t claim to know the secret to Julia’s longevity (it was probably just good genes), but I do know she ate real food…real, delicious food that sustained both her body and her soul. So in honor of Julia and of food lovers everywhere, Bon appétit!

All Grown Up Now

Recently, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of being an adult. I always kind of assumed that I would consider myself an adult after I graduated college, got a steady job, started paying my own bills and rent, and bought a salad spinner. I accomplished these things almost two years ago (though the acquisition of the salad spinner was more recent), but even though I’m 24, I still feel quite trapped in a childlike state.

My obsession with adulthood began with my quest to find a true, adult apartment. When I first moved to New York in October 2007, I lived with a young woman and her mother. I rented a room in their Queens apartment for $500. The room came furnished, which was nice seeing as I didn’t own any furniture. The only problem was, it was furnished with a twin bed and no dresser—just shelves in a closet and a large bookshelf. I made it work for six months but after I started dating someone who lived out of town, I realized sharing a twin bed and having to ask permission to have him stay over was no longer conducive to my preferred lifestyle. So, I moved.

I moved into the first apartment I could find that I could afford—about twenty minutes (walking) away from my first apartment. I shared the space with two other people—a girl and a guy in their early twenties. They had known each other from a previous job but had decided to move in together when they both moved from Long Island to New York. This new place had its faults—my bedroom had no windows and there was no air conditioning. Not to mention the fact that my room was sandwiched between the other two rooms and, due to the obscenely thin walls, I could hear everything my roommates did. I could even sometimes hear the other end of cell phone conversations. But, the place was also a bit cheaper, in a more convenient location (in terms of grocery stores and laundry services), and I could, in a certain sense, call it my own because I shared it with other people and could claim authority over the same amount of common space.

I stayed there for ten more months and then moved to my current place—an apartment I absolutely love that I share with Bridget, a girl I went to college with. Upon moving in, Bridget and I immediately began to furnish the place. She had brought a sofa and some other furniture from home; I bought a TV and wallpapered one of the living room walls with book jackets Bridget and I collected from work. (She also works in publishing). Little by little the place came together. I bought a desk, which was a very big deal seeing as I work a lot from home. Granted, the desk didn’t really match my dresser or the small bookshelf I brought from my mom’s storage unit upstate, but it functioned. I hung up some pictures, though we never got around to painting and, after a while, we admitted to ourselves that we would never have the energy to paint the apartment now that it was so lived in. After seven months of living here, I finally bought curtains, which arrived today (hence what brought this blog topic to mind). They are yellow and, I think, really complete the room.

When I ordered the curtains a week and a half ago, I was extremely excited for them to arrive. Grown-ups have curtains! This will make my apartment look like that of an adult!

Then, over the weekend, I attended a wedding for one of my boyfriend’s friends from high school. It was a lovely wedding and I had a lot of fun even though I only knew about four people there. The wedding was in New Jersey, and before the ceremony, I had to kill time at the best man’s girlfriend’s apartment while Claudio (my boyfriend) went to the groom’s house to take pictures (he was in the wedding party). The girl I stayed with, Leigh, is incredibly lovely and I’m very thankful that she didn’t think it was strange when I took a nap on her couch—her brand new couch.

You see, Leigh recently moved into her own apartment and had had to furnish the entire thing from the bottom up. So, as she told us, she went around town and bought a bunch of furniture including a bedroom set, a dining room set, a living room set, and a host of decorations. I have to say, she did a lovely job, and when I walked into her bedroom, I was immediately envious. First of all, it was spotless. If you walked into my room right now, you would see stuff strewn about my desk and dresser, a pile of bags on the floor, and books aligned on the windowsill because I don’t have any shelving in my room right now. You’d see that I don’t have a headboard for my bed, my nightstand is broken, and I use that tiny little bookshelf as a makeshift dresser using canvas drawers that barely fit. I still use the bedspread I used in college even though I have a full-size bed and the spread is twin. I haven’t been able to find a bed skirt I like, so you can see all of the boxes under my bed (though, to my credit I went to The Container Store and bought storage bins so that area wouldn’t look so tacky). But, hey! I have curtains!

Leigh’s room on the other hand was adult. All of her furniture matched, and she had selected curtains and decorations that matched the bedspread perfectly. She had one plastic storage unit, but she had placed it discreetly under her desk so it was barely noticeable—much more grown up than the stacks of files I have beneath my desk.

I made myself feel better by reminding myself that my apartment was small and that I didn’t make a lot of money and had been forced to purchase my furniture piece by piece—hence the hodgepodge of items I’d collected and why I still used bed sheets I had in high school.

But my reassurances became moot when I changed into my dress for the wedding. I had selected a black spring dress I’d purchased for $30 at New York and Company my senior year of high school. I’d worn the dress to my high school and college graduations (though you can’t tell from the pictures since the dress was hidden under my gown) and probably a handful of other times. The dress still fit and was in good condition and it hadn’t really gone out of style. Plus, it didn’t wrinkle, which made it perfect to shove in a bag for a weekend trip to Jersey. Low maintenance—very grown up.

Compared to what Leigh wore, it was a rag. She had purchased a brand new, black, strapless dress especially for the occasion (though she said she had to because everyone at the wedding had already seen all of her other clothes), and when she put it on, she was a knockout. I felt like the high school kid I had been when I first wore my silly little floral-print dress next to Leigh in that superb adult number. I reflected on my own wardrobe—I owned not a single piece of clothing remotely like that one in style or class. My wardrobe was completely juvenile.

I’d been thinking this for a while. I haven’t gained or lost any weight, essentially, since I stopped growing taller, so I rarely, if ever, outgrow clothes. Hence, I have a habit of keeping clothes in my closet because they still fit, are in good condition, and I may want to wear them again one day. The result? On most days, I look like a schoolgirl. Every morning when I pick out what I’m going to wear to work that day, I want to immediately rush out of my apartment, take the N train to 59th street, and buy out Bloomingdale’s. Though, let’s be honest, we all know I can’t afford to replenish my entire wardrobe with clothes from Bloomingdale’s.

My dress was fine. No one complimented it, and I ended up looking sort of fat in most of the pictures, but whatever. I’m never going to see 98% of those people again, so who cares? Of course, as soon as I arrived at the wedding, I was met with a whole new batch of insecurities.

I love weddings. I really do. I’m actually sorry my friends haven’t started getting married yet because I haven’t been able to go to many. Weddings are celebrations. You get to dress up, eat until you’re constipated, dance until you pass out, and drink until you vomit. All in the name of love. Of course, ever since the last wedding I attended (my cousin Jennifer’s in 2007, during which my older female relatives kept telling me how I was “next”) they’ve also been something else: a reminder that I have still not settled down.

I realize I’m 24. Twenty-four is too young to get married—at least for me. Granted, this probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve never been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than six months (though I’m about to be). Even so, when you’re surrounded by people who seem to have their lives planned out, you can’t help but feel a little immature.

And as lame as I think some adults are (must you become a homebody and a crappy dancer just because you’re married and have kids?), I still want to be like them. I want to have a husband, and a home to share with him. I want to have kids (I keep having dreams that I have a young son, though they’re super disturbing and perhaps more appropriate for another blog post where I examine my psyche), and I want to take pictures with them and send them out on Christmas cards (not really). I want to have a grown-up house, with a grown-up mortgage, and a grown-up dog. I want to have matching bedroom furniture. I want to paint the walls of my living room, and I want to paint them yellow. I want to worry about retirement and life insurance and my will. I want to lose my ability to hold my liquor. Screw Toys R Us! I want to grow up.

Growing Up Geeky

Twice in the past week I have been called a "geek" by superiors at work. I'm sure each of the men (yes, it was two different men) who said this to me meant it in an endearing way ("Oh, Brooke, you're such a geek. How adorable!"), but it got me thinking. I am a geek--a straight-up, straight-A, straight-laced geek.

And I'm not offended by this notion. First of all, I'm self-aware enough to know that even though I may harbor some geek-like sensibilities, I have never owned a pocket protector, I don't snort when I laugh (often), and I've never had any desire to learn Klingon (though I once had the desire to learn Welsh, as evident by past posts). I also know that I don't wear my glasses because I think they're sexy; they're just easier on my eyes.

In the past few weeks, I've had ample time to reflect on my geekiness. A few months ago, my boyfriend and I were hanging out with a couple of my girlfriends who were actively and eagerly discussing the upcoming release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (the film). I, naturally, was also thoroughly engaged in this conversation, and I had more than a few words to say on the subject. ("I really never liked the whole Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley thing. Am I the only person who feels this plot line was just sloppily contrived?") Several hours later, after the conversation had waned and my friends had gone home, my ever-patient and mild-mannered boyfriend said, "So, those are your friends, huh? You guys are a bunch of nerds."

Thanks, sweetie. I'll consider that your version of a term of endearment.

A few weeks later, I went to Nashville for a week to visit the city I'd lived in for ten years as well as some old friends I hadn't seen since I moved away. I stayed with my friend Jana--one of my best friends since the sixth grade--and at one point, we began discussing high school.

A side note, if you will. My experience in high school was very similar to my experience visiting the Museum of Sex for the first time: it's fine while you're there, but once you leave, you never feel the need to do it again. I definitely was a nerd in high school--straight-A, AP, Honors student, valedictorian of my class, member of the drama club and the speech and debate team, and, to top it off, one of the lead violins in our school orchestra (as it happens, Jana was the other lead).

This was my existence in high school; it was all I knew. But that was perfectly fine because it was all my friends knew too. Our typical Friday nights consisted of a small group of us getting together for cheap Mexican food at Las Palmas (a place I visited a total of three times during my recent visit), a trip to the Starbucks across the street for a Frappucino and some girl talk (though occasionally our friend Tien, who also happened to be my junior prom date, attended), and occasionally, a late-night trip to Walgreens where we once bought a three-pack of condoms just for shits and giggles. (I ended up unwrapping one and placing it conspicuously in our bathroom trashcan so my mom would see it and think the worst. Of course, she knew me well enough to know that I was not getting laid and actually thought it was hilarious.)

I've heard urban legends about how kids nowadays get together and have "rainbow" parties (a concept that, I must say, I desperately hope is a mere myth) and have drunk sex with one another. I'm sure this happens somewhere, and I'm sure plenty of kids in my high school got together on weekends, drank, smoke, and copulated, but, as Jana and I both noted during our recent conversation, this lifestyle was completely foreign to us. In fact, it wasn't until I got to college and actually met people who had already lost their virginity that it dawned on me that, perhaps, my high school classmates had done just the same. I didn't have my first kiss until my senior year of high school. It had never even occurred to me that thousands of 17-year-olds had already "done it"--for realsies.

Sleepovers were particularly fun for my friends and me. In the eighth grade, my friend Stacy had a birthday party where the tradition of the traveling story was born. We had recently been given an in-class assignment where each person started a story and then passed it to the person who sat behind them. That person would add a few sentences and then pass it further down the row until it had reached the hands of about five or six people. The result was a full-blown nonsensical story that some students were asked to share. (I have vague memories of one involving a cheese man.) I found this whole thing fascinating.

So, I suggested we try it out at the party. We each took sheets of paper and developed some rules. Each person would start their own story and pass it to the next person. After every person had written something in each story, the person who started the story had to read it out loud to everyone. Just imagine what you might have to say!

For some reason, this caught on like wildfire among my friends and me, and we continued doing it at basically every sleepover until we graduated high school. As time went on, the stories got more and more raunchy, and my friends would often describe PG-13 sexual scenarios between one of the members of our group and some unsuspecting male peer whom we all pretended to hate but secretly had a crush on. The entire process could take hours depending on how many people were participating. At my 15th birthday party, about seven friends and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning churning out stories, one of which generated the classic line, "There's always the horse." Trust me, it was funny in context.

If this wasn't geeky enough, I still have about 80 of those traveling stories stored in a Trapper Keeper somewhere. They really are timeless, let me tell you, though I have to say that all of those hours of free-writing gave me the preparation I needed to start this blog, which, I hope is a bit more articulate. You should consider yourselves so lucky.

My geekiness did not leave me upon entering college, mostly because I ended up attracting more geeks into my inner circle. My freshman year roommate watched so many Law and Order and Star Trek re-runs that, for a while, I thought she must be majoring in it. One of my closest friends initiated conversation with my roommate and me after he walked past our dorm room and heard that we were watching Lord of the Rings (my roommate had a Tolkien poster on her closet door and a shirt that said "I went to Middle Earth and all I got was this ring"--or something along those lines). My other best friend throughout college made the two following comments at different points during our freshman year: "The Economist is my favorite magazine" and "I want Tim Russert's job." Some of my favorite pastimes from college are lip synching to "Goodbye Horses" (the song in Silence of the Lambs that the serial killer sings to when he's dressing up in his skin costume) and doing an interpretive dance to "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie at a campus bar. My senior year, I hosted a Golden Girls party, and the summer after graduation, my two friends and I made fake wands out of sticks and glitter and went to the midnight release party of Harry Potter and the Dealthy Hallows (see picture above).

Part of me wonders what it would've been like to have lived the more rambunctious teenage experience. Most of my peers who did turned out just fine and don't nurse any drug habits or venereal diseases that I'm aware of. But, to be honest, if that meant I would have to give up my life as a geek, I would say "No thanks," and go back to watching my DVDs of Quantum Leap (I own all five seasons!).

Eventually, no matter how tame our youth, we meet the real world where we all have to take the same responsibilities and suffer the same hardships as everyone else. We realize that our world isn't the only one out there and that loyalty is much more rare than it was in high school. Soon enough, we become disillusioned by the world (hopefully not completely) and we need copious amounts of caffeine to help us wake up in the morning. Knowing this, I see nothing wrong with occasionally escaping into a bubble where you get excited about things like a new book coming out or taking your weekly trip to Las Palmas with the same three girls you saw earlier that day. I hope that the day I stop deriving joy from these things is the day I die. Long live the geeks of the world, and God bless.

Camaraderie through Hate

I like a lot of popular things: Harry Potter, pop music, skinny jeans, The Office, and Barack Obama to name a few. But sometimes I find myself in the quite awkward position of deciding whether or not I want to admit to a group of people--generally comprised of a group of friends or people I want to impress--that I don't like something that they do or that is generally held in high-esteem in our culture at large.

For example, I don't like Seinfeld. In most cases, there's never any reason to admit this to anyone, but with this show (and also Family Guy since we're on the topic), I find that so many of my friends and acquaintances quote or reference it on a regular basis that I'm forced to admit that no, in fact, I have not seen that episode or, I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of George's friend to whom you are referring. With more avid fans, after I've fessed up to not particularly caring for the show, I'm met with wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed expressions followed by an exclamation of "What?!" Also, the people who do this tend to be taller than me, so it can be quite scary.

What I've found, however, is that, in general, friendships aren't busted or ruined just because one person admits to not loving the other person's FAVORITE THING EVER. And I've also found that great friendships can be formed when you discover that another person shares your distaste for something that everyone else seems to find appealing.

No one put the feeling of finding a new friend more succintly or accurately than C.S. Lewis who described the forming of friendship in his book The Four Loves:

Friendship arises out of mere Companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till the moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, "What? You too? I thought I was the only one."...It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision--it is then that Friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.

Admittedly, Lewis is speaking here of friendships forming over a shared like or interest rather than a shared contempt or loathing, but I think the sentiment still applies. Now of course, long-lasting friendships are better formed through common likes instead of dislikes. Obviously, it's easier for two people who enjoy skiing to share a meaningful experience with one another by going skiing than it is for two people who hate skiing to share a meaningful experience by not skiing. That is, of course, unless a large group of companions is on a skiing trip, and the two non-skiers decide to spend their time together in the hot tub or getting drunk on hot toddies in the lodge.

Those of you who know me well and have spoken to me in, oh, the past nine months, might know that, since that time, I have been trying to read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Okay, so that's a lie. When I say I've been "trying" to read it, what I really mean is that I read it diligently for a couple of weeks before realizing that I kept falling asleep while reading it on my morning commute and I would be better served by finding some material that would keep me awake. So I put it down for a while, and then after several people kept telling me how much Ayn Rand had changed their lives (The Fountainhead is my boyfriend's favorite book), I picked it back up with no such luck. This is an 800+ page novel that I do not like and find extremely pretentious and boring. I understand that a lot of people disagree with me and that these people tend to disagree with me strongly. When met with such people, I generally tell them that Rand would probably be proud of me (though she might think I'm an idiot) for refusing to pretend I like something just because other people do. Touché!

But I've also found that Rand is a rather polarizing figure and there are just as many people out there in the world who don't like her writing as there are people who love it. I can think of several people with whom I've been able to bond after finding out that they agreed with me on this issue. Sure, none of these people have become my best friends because we have this one thing in common, but it's nice to have something to share. It makes me feel like part of a team. Or, I guess, an anti-team.

The other night I had drinks with a man whom I've known since my junior year of college. Our relationship is strictly professional, though we do meet every so often just to catch up with what's going on in one another's lives. He's several years older than I am, so our conversations don't generally stray far from the general "What's new with you? How's the job? Where are you living now?" line of questioning.

The night began with the usual updates on each of our lives--what was going on at work and in our personal lives--the usual small talk. At one point we came around to the topic of books. Since we both work in the publishing industry to one degree our another, this wasn't too odd of a conversation to have, but, surprisingly, it was one we hadn't had before. I told him that I tend to read fiction in my spare time and that I tend to prefer contemporary fiction over classics. He was the opposite, saying he normally couldn't stand the stuff that was written today and opted for classics in most cases. We then discussed our favorite books--he gave me recommendations of classics I should read and I told him about some of my favorite, more modern novels.

I tend to enjoy plot- and character-driven narratives to more analytical or expository novels (hence why I still haven't made it through The Fountainhead). I enjoy thinking when I read, don't get me wrong, but I hate pretension and the feeling that the author is trying to be deep for the sake of being deep. Give me a good story, dammit! If I wanted an essay or a treatise, I'd read one. But I digress.

The gentleman I was with works with very prominent and very highbrow writers on a regular basis--it's part of his job, so I figured he was probably into that kind of stuff. So, it was with some hesitation that I admitted I didn't like Ian McEwan novels. Okay, I've never actually read a whole novel of his, but I tried reading Saturday and couldn't get through it. I ended up giving it away because I had resolved so strongly to never even attempt to read it again.

"Me neither!" he exclaimed to my sheer joy and amazement. "I can't stand his writing."

Oh thank god! I was afraid he would tell me that Ian McEwan was one of his oldest and dearest friends and that he considered him the greatest novelist that had ever lived. He told me that, in fact, he has met Mr. McEwan on a few occasions and that he was actually impressed by his eloquence and speaking ability. I have no doubt, but it was so nice to know that a man I respect and like immensely shares my distaste for a novelist whom most consider prolific and profound.

After that discovery, the evening's conversation flowed even more freely than it had before. He even high-fived me when I told him that American Psycho was one of my favorite books of all time. I had earned some street-cred. Nice! At the end of the night, we hugged goodbye and resolved to "Do this again soon sometime." He said he had had a pleasant evening, and I could tell by the exuberance in his voice and the wide grin on his face that he meant it, and I truly believe that the turning point in what had already been up to that point a very lovely evening, was the discover that Yes, he too felt that same way

Confessions of a Workaholic

In The Shining, one of my favorite films of all time, there's a classic scene in which Wendy, played by Shelley Duvall, discovers a stack of typed papers left on a desk by her husband, Jack, played by Jack Nicholson. Throughout the film, we have been led to believe that Jack has been working on his latest book, but instead, Wendy finds that the only thing written on the page is the phrase "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." This is a very frightening scene and is pivotal in the development of Jack's character. Although Jack starts out as a rather odd and unsettling character, this scene occurs just before he goes flat-out bat-shit crazy.

There's absolutely no point in me bringing that scene up except that I wanted to introduce the phrase "all work and no play" before I begin my examination of the topic at hand, which, if you haven't guessed by the title of this post, is workaholism.

For those of you who know me, you might be familiar with my deep-seated perfectionism and my inability to not overreact to the slightest stresses in my life. I will be the first to admit that this has posed some problems in my life--not any major ones, thankfully--but I'm not proud of it and sometimes I really wish there was something actually called a "chill pill."

My mother is probably more familiar with this side of me than anyone--mostly because I know I can freak out to her about the stupidest little thing and, not only will she make me feel better, but she'll still love me at the end of the day and won't seriously wonder about my sanity. My mother will be glad to know that yoga has done a good job of filling in for her since I've moved out on my own. But I digress.

Last weekend was the first weekend in several months where I haven't had any work to do. I'm not complaining about my workload. It's not like I'm the only one at my office who has to work on the weekend. In fact, it pretty much comes with the territory, and, in general, I enjoy the work, but it is kind of a pain in the ass to have to sit inside in front of your computer on a bright sunny day line-editing a book. But last weekend was perfect. The weather was gorgeous--highs in the mid-eighties on both Saturday and Sunday--and I really had not one ounce of work to do. I went to brunch on Saturday with some friends, lounged around Central Park in the afternoon, bought a box of strawberry popsicles at a Duane Reed and split them with three other girls, and later had dinner with my boyfriend. On Sunday, my boyfriend took me for a ride on his motorcycle outside of the city, and even though it was like 90 degrees or something, and I was dressed in a heavy jacket, jeans, and leather boots, I had a fantastic time. Later I came home and read for fun. I cannot complain.

Then Monday came. Monday's are fine. Today was rather busy, but nothing too crazy. I got everything done I needed to get done. But, one of my authors owed me a chapter of her book today and she never sent it to me. I emailed her to ask for an update, and even called her at the end of the day to ask her to send it to my personal email address if she was ready to send it that evening so I could start working on it tonight. I wanted to start working on it tonight so that way I could get it done by the end of the week so I could, maybe, if it's not to much to ask, have yet another work-free weekend. But I never got it, so now I'm left to NOT do work on a Monday night. This greatly disturbs me.

When I plan on having work to do, I want to have work to do. I want to get it over and done with so I don't have to worry about it anymore. When I think I should have work to do and I don't, I start to think of all of the other work-related things I might do to pass the time. Is this normal? I feel like most people in my situation would just say to themselves, "Oh well. One more free night. I'm going to watch a movie." Not me, instead, I feel the need to write about it. I haven't done work outside of the office in FOUR DAYS (I was sick on Friday, so I didn't go into the office). I feel unproductive. I feel lazy. I feel like I'm falling behind. Plus, I'm a little pissed off that the longer I wait, the more work I'll have to do this weekend. This, I believe, is a normal feeling.

So, in essence, I think that Jack and I are very different people. Where working all of the time makes him dull, playing all of the time makes me crazy. Lord knows what I'll do when I retire.

So, it's 10:16 p.m. It doesn't look like I'm getting this chapter tonight, which is fine because I'm kind of tired. I guess I'll take some deep breaths, read for a bit, and then go to bed. I'll just work some more tomorrow.