Relationship Rhetoric

Trash Talking

Fri, 7 Oct 2011 17:48:02 -0500

It has certainly been said before in countless ways that men and women are a divided species. Yes, they are conceived and born in the same ways. They need the same sustenance and habitat in which to live. And aside from the whole issue of chromosomal difference, they are genetically alike. All that being said, men and women are estranged from one another in so many ways.
The one way this may truly be exhibited is through the vast gap that resides in the method and comprehension of language and communication between the sexes. Men and women just don’t get each other when it comes to what to say, how to say it, and what the other sex means when she says, “Honey, can you take out the trash before you go play poker with the boys?”
I can hear the love-struck couples complaining now: “Men and women aren’t that different. It’s all about opening the lines of communication, talking to one another.”
To contradict the lovebirds, I give you the example of Becky and Sam. To get it started, I’ll divulge a little about their relationship.
Sam pursued Becky for months after meeting her, convinced that if he became friends with her, she would fall madly in love with him and they’d live happily ever after. Becky did fall in love with Sam, and probably faster than he’d expected.
They didn’t begin dating, though, for months after they’d both fallen hard, because they were unable to profess their mutual affection. Sam is fairly well spoken; he doesn’t shy away from declaring his opinion. So when Sam didn’t come right out and ask Becky on a date, she assumed he wasn’t interested. This went on for months until, over a few too many cocktails, they started making out in the middle of the patio at a local watering hole, on a crowded night amidst strangers standing a little too close for comfort.
They’ve been inseparable ever since that night. She does his laundry and packs his lunches. He sends her flowers at work just to surprise her and has talked to her parents about marrying her when he finishes taking the bar exam and finds a job with a law firm somewhere in town.
But one night, while driving back from dinner and a concert in New Orleans, Becky got quiet in the car. The weekend had been pleasant for both of them, so Sam was a little concerned that something was going on with her.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Sam asked her as she drove both of them across the Bonnet Carre. “Is something on your mind?”
“I just, I can’t take the junk anymore, Sam. You have to get it out of the house, just do it this weekend, please,” Becky snapped at him. “I just don’t understand why you can’t get my hints. I am just sick of your sh—t being everywhere.”
Sam told me later that he knew he probably should have dug deeper into Becky’s comments, but he was tired from standing all night at the concert and from the heavy, indulgent dinner they’d had at Cochon. So Sam kept his mouth shut.
When they got home that night, Sam told Becky he was sleeping on the couch. Becky told me later that she should have asked him why. Sometimes he did that when they’d had a fight, but he also really hated their mattress, and the couch was a little firmer and thus better for his back. Becky didn’t say anything. Instead, she went to bed without giving it a second thought.
When Becky woke up the next morning, she walked into the living room to find boxes everywhere and Sam moving them into his car. She was shocked. That’s when my cell phone rang.
“Really, Scarlett, I have no clue what is happening right now.” Her words were breathy, and you could hear the congestion that comes from excessive crying creeping into her tone. “I fussed at him in the car last night. I just asked him to take out the trash. There have been pizza boxes, recycling, and garbage bags sitting in the kitchen for three days, and he won’t take them out.
“When we got home last night, he slept on the couch,” her voice cracked. “But when I woke up this morning he was moving out.”
Even I didn’t get it at that point, but that was before Sam called to ask if I knew of any places for rent in my part of town.
“Sorry, Sam. The last rent sign just went down last week,” I told him. I had to hold my tongue and try not to tell him what an idiot he was, that he should just go home, take the trash out, and live happily ever after with Becky. But even I didn’t say what needed to be said.
See the problem here? Becky was sick of Sam leaving junk, aka the actual trash, all over the house. Sam thought Becky wanted all of his “junk” out of their apartment. Neither filled in the gaps between the comments that could have been taken in multiple ways.
The story has a happy ending, though. Sam and Becky actually talked through the entire situation rather than just part of what they meant. Before the end of the week, Sam was moving his things back into the house.
Now Sam takes out the trash every day, just after dinner. And Becky has learned to say “trash” instead of “junk” when referring to that bag of banana peels and egg shells in the kitchen garbage can.
I imagine they’ll live together a while longer, get married, and have tons of annoyingly cute little kids one day. In the interim, they are a classic case of how men and women just speak a different language — not only in terms of vocabulary, but also in the things that are left out of the conversation.

Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing, Baby

Fri, 2 Sep 2011 10:34:42 -0500

There is a moment in every relationship when you have to explain something that you wish you didn’t have to explain, like why you snore. Why you steal the covers in the middle of the night. Where that really crazy nickname your cousins call you came from.
After one particularly horrific breakup, I was suckered into attending one of those “fun parties.” You know the ones I mean, where there are icebreakers that involve games to see how many marshmallows you can fit in your mouth, and others that demonstrate if you can suck peanuts onto a straw and transfer them from one plate to the next — games that are supposed to imply how good you are at sexual foreplay.
So there I was, newly single. I hadn’t gotten laid in months because, well, the sex had ended long before the relationship did. I was desperate for some physical affection, and I was willing to take it in the form of an overpriced, made-in-China, pink-and-cutesy joystick. And I wasn’t going to buy just any little vibrator; I was going to buy the serious one. The hard-core one. You know, the one that looks like a butterfly.
Honestly, I don’t know why these manufacturers think that a butterfly is going to make a woman think of getting dirty, but whatever works. Maybe the appearance is all about making you feel feminine, a subtle way to get you to lay down $200 on a sex toy.
All that being said, it was worth every penny … every last penny. And it got me all the way through my dry spell until I entered my next relationship, when it was promptly pushed to the back of the drawer. It got pushed so far back that I’d actually forgotten about my pink, kind-of-sparkly little friend until my new boyfriend asked me about it one day … at dinner … in public.
That’s right. In broad daylight, the new boyfriend asked me about my vibrator.
Now, if you’ve been reading this column for any period of time before this issue, you probably know by now that I’m not shy when it comes to talking about sex. But the way he brought up the butterfly was so cautious, I thought he was leading us toward the breakup conversation. Instead, I realized that he was shy about wanting to ask whether or not that was what I was into.
Deep breath, Scarlett. Deep breath.
“No, baby. It’s plastic or rubber or whatever. There is no way that it can do what you do.”
I know where your head is going now: “Whatever. You know you like the battery-powered, speed-controlled, pink penis.” And you would be partially correct.
Yes, a vibrator has its place. It helps a girl make it through dry spells when all she wants is to get laid, but she’s not willing to sacrifice her moral standing or her desire to stay as far away from HPV and Chlamydia as humanly possible.
But plastic, even the most expensive plastic out there, can’t replace the real thing. Think about it. All the times you’ve had a really crazy, incredible time under the sheets with a partner, you’ve probably felt completely and totally out of control. You probably felt a little like you were paralyzed except for the fact that your entire body was trembling.
Now think about trying to get to that moment, that incredible moment you only have with your partner, while holding a vibrator, pressing the adjustable speed and intensity buttons, and trying to imagine an actual human being doing what the twirling, whirling, rubber flower or hummingbird or rabbit is doing. Come on. No question. It’s not the same.
And not only does the fancy little piece of battery-powered rubber not “do it” for most women the way real sex does, an expensive vibrator means that simulated “sexual” interaction lasts for a whole 30 seconds. While I realize that may be standard practice for some men, particularly the kind who don’t know what to do with their junk should they ever make it close to any woman willing to sleep with them, but that is not what most women are into. Give us a few minutes at least. Give us time. Let it build.
Plastic, especially the “effective” kind, doesn’t give you any room for excitement. It’s a one-and-done kind of deal. Which is why, when most women get the chance to trade in their rubber lover for a real, human one, the small woodland creatures, butterflies, and birds get shoved to the back of the drawer.
Here’s the bottom line: The rubber is good only when you (or your lover) hit the road. Otherwise, a real, living, breathing man is preferred. It’s about time we all stop comparing plastic to flesh and get back to other horribly embarrassing questions, like how many times you’ve seen the movie Clueless. Like, totally.

Face(s)book

Fri, 5 Aug 2011 08:43:57 -0500

Something has been popping up in my Facebook news feed lately that has me a little on edge: the joint Facebook account.
Now, I’m not trying to pass judgment on this one (although it would be really fun to do so). I’m merely baffled at the complete lack of individuality of the participants. I mean, why can’t these people stand as two separate individuals in the world? Must they be linked at the hip (or the URL) at all times?
Those questions have been eating away at me since I began researching this article. Why can’t they be on their own online? Do they just not know how to operate a computer? Do they have no friends of their own?
But I’m beginning to see something emerge here: the understanding that technology can weigh heavily on a relationship and the knowledge that technology is only good for you in the way that you choose to utilize it.
What do I mean? Well, this: Facebook is a malleable tool, one that was meant to be built into your world to make it better, easier, faster to do all of the things you want to do with whom you want to do them. And if we are naive enough to believe that high school sweethearts don’t reconnect on Facebook before jumping into the sack for a one-night extramarital affair at their 10-, 15-, or 20-year high school reunion, we’re kidding ourselves.
So when does it become OK to share a Facebook account? In talking to folks who know couples who share a Facebook account, I’ve discovered that most were instigated by a single person. Take, for example, Sarah and Ben.
Sarah and Ben have been together for roughly five years. Sarah has a master’s degree and works at one of the nation’s leading healthcare software development firms. Ben is a part-time nurse and is attending night school so he can get enough credits to go to medical school full time.
While Sarah is done with work at roughly 6 p.m., Ben is just getting the second part of his day going. And all those long hours and late nights mean he isn’t getting real quality time with his main squeeze. (Yes, I know that “main squeeze” is out of fashion these days, but I’m bringin’ it back like black, stretchy leggings at a junior high school.)
Why are their schedules relevant, you may ask? Sarah and Ben barely spend any time with one another. While Ben is in class at night, Sarah is out with friends. She goes to happy hour receptions. She goes out to dinner with colleagues. She’s all over the place all the time. And Ben was missing out on that. That’s when Ben and Sarah decided to share an account.
At first, the couple said, Ben just wanted to enjoy what Sarah was able to do while she was out and he was in school or working. Over time, though, Ben became jealous of Sarah’s escapades and the other men who popped up in photos on her account.
That discomfort turned to jealousy, and that jealousy turned into anger that Ben vented in their relationship in the little time that he did get to spend with Sarah. Something that was supposed to bring them closer together ended up ending their relationship.
It’s hard to say that sharing a Facebook account is purely to blame. Maybe Sarah really was flirting with other men, or maybe Ben was simply a jealous individual. No other person can ever truly understand another couple’s relationship, but the joint account may not have helped the situation.
On the other hand, separate accounts can also lead to the opportunity for infidelity. Remember that guy or girl who spurned you in the seventh grade to date the popular kid? If he or she contacted you today just to “see what’s up,” could you say no? Would you be tempted to start a harmless conversation to catch up on old times?
Now I’m not saying that you’re going to drop panties/trou the minute your high school love reaches out to you on Facebook (particularly if you are in a happily committed relationship), but the temptation to revive old memories, and possibly old feelings, is a heck of a lot easier from the privacy of a single account.
Here’s the bottom line: Social media is only good for what you want to get out of it. If you utilize Facebook to build connections, meet new clients, and network with possible employers, you probably still want your own account. And if you’re young and in a relationship, but not married, there’s no point in joint accounts, just like there is no point to joint checking.
However, if you only get on Facebook once in a blue moon to check in with family and post photos of your dog, it might not be super necessary to have individual space on the web. So, rather than making fun of the couples that share space in the post-MySpace world, I’ll acknowledge it and move on.
It’s all about context, though, right? If your significant other doesn’t want you to have something separate, like he doesn’t like you to drive across town alone, you might want to think about fighting to keep your own account — and you might also want to see about getting a restraining order. Just saying.

Sexting for Dummies

Fri, 1 Jul 2011 15:26:40 -0500

I am going to make a wild assumption that, by now, you have heard of Anthony Weiner. For those of you who haven’t, I first ask you to come out from behind that rock (or that computer that has been running World of Warcraft for the last five years nonstop). Now that I have your attention, I’ll bring you up to speed.
Anthony Weiner was a congressman from New York who committed political suicide by tweeting a sexually explicit photograph of himself to a female college student. You can probably guess the rest. The press got wind of Weiner’s foolhardy behavior. He denied and then acquiesced to the allegations. Everyone called for his resignation. He’s no longer in office. C’est tout — for the most part.
Typically, when the idiots who utilize this form of sexual come-hither click Send, they are doing so from their cell phones, not from Twitter. But former Representative Weiner is apparently very tech savvy. So, for the purpose of my argument, we’re going to say Weiner sexted photos of his, well … Google it.
The part about this scenario that baffles me is not that he was sexting a college student who lives across the country, but that he was doing it while his attractive, wicked-intelligent wife was carrying his child. For Pete’s sake, his wife was a key member of Hillary Clinton’s campaign for president; she’s not just $2,000-a-head-fundraising-dinner arm candy. And he was obviously into her enough to get her pregnant.
Still, the truly mind-boggling part of this story is that folks still don’t recognize that whatever you put on the internet or on your phone is likely to leak like a Mardi Gras throw condom in some way, shape, or form. Haven’t the political scandals of our day put the fear of exposure into politicians by now? How is it that they haven’t learned yet? I mean, they were smart enough to get elected; surely they have read the news some time in the last five years.
Aside from the ramifications of Weiner’s actions that I’m sure he’ll be feeling for years to come — I imagine his wife is going to show him the sofa if she hasn’t already shown him the door — this whole ordeal got me wondering what the regular Joe Blow thought about sexting.
The March issue of Sexuality & Culture (yes, I do research for this column — laugh at will) included a study about sexting habits and infidelity. It found that sexting didn’t end when participants clicked Send, but that sexting was a gateway to actual, in-person infidelity. Granted, this study surveyed folks who were members of an online dating site that is meant to start affairs, but it helps to discredit that excuse your ex gave you about it just being a “flirtation” to send photos of herself fresh out of the shower to her college buddy.
“Oh, no, honey. It is just an inside joke,” she laughed. Wrong.
Another interesting tidbit the study revealed was that older men were more likely than younger men to take the flirtation from sending photos of their junk to groping an extramarital partner on the polyester coverlet of a $40 per hour motel off Airline Highway.
I remember the days when texting was a young man’s game, when the idea of anyone over the age of 25 being capable of pushing those tiny keys on his phone to write a whole message was the stuff of comedy. Now, though, not only are folks over the age of 40 capable of texting, they are using technology like a hole behind the toilet paper roll housing in a bathroom stall at a highway truck stop or in a university campus library. Yes, that was a long simile. Just go with it.
The truly terrifying part for me is the thought that, one day, I might pick up my parent’s cell phone to find a nudey picture of his latest conquest. I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat, but for you, dear reader, I’m going to try to keep my lunch down and finish this column.
For those of you Red Shtickers out there who are already engaged in the sexting practice, I’m going to give you a little heads-up: Everything and anything you put on a piece of technology or on the internet (even if it says it is private) is not private. For web-based conquests, there is this little thing called the Wayback Machine, which is a website that can find any version of any website or page all the way back to, well, pretty much when the web was invented.
And for those cell-phone-based floozies out there, know that just because you delete a crotch photo you took at that business lunch last month, it doesn’t mean it is gone. Most cell companies store backups of everything you type on a server somewhere. In the event that you are part of a federal investigation, or if your teenage neighbor is a fairly decent hacker, it can be dug up and utilized in a plea deal/blackmail.
What’s the moral of today’s story? Don’t sext, stweet, or anything similar … ever. If you have to say it or show it, do it in person. Not only will it cut down on the time it takes for you to go from show to tell, but it will mean you won’t have photos of your junk pop up online or in your spouse’s inbox.
Or here’s a novel idea: Don’t cheat in the first place.
That’s all for today, folks.

Who’s in Your Bed?

Fri, 3 Jun 2011 19:18:19 -0500

Woody Allen once mused over his ideas about love and sex. I think it goes a little something like, “I believe that sex is a beautiful thing between two people. Between five, it’s fantastic.”
I have many questions for Woody.
First, how many people in the group are male and how many are female? Does the ratio of male to female matter? There will always be one more of one particular sex — that is, unless one of the individuals is hermaphroditic. Are all of these folks bisexual, or does the sheer quantity of people doing the dirty allow for some purely straight or gay parties to get in on the bump and grind?
Does everyone need to be on ecstasy/cocaine/some kind of psychedelic drug? If so, who is responsible for supplying the illicit substances? Is that the crucial role of person No. 5? Or does that person merely act as the chaperone, like when you trip on LSD? You need someone to make sure that no one runs out into traffic. Never underestimate the value of the chaperone.
I think the most important question, though, is how, exactly, did Woody have the chance to screw four other people in one go? I mean, I like his artsy, black-and-white films about walking around New York City just as much as the next college-educated, art-loving filmophile, but really?
Ultimately, I have fewer questions for Woody than I have for other folks who I talk to about sex. Like, how do you decide to sleep with someone for the first time?
Do you have a conversation with the person that you plan to do the nasty with about getting tested for gross, below-the-belt bugs?
And then there’s the big one: When you decide to get loose with a new lover, do you talk to him or her about being exclusive?
I am a big fan of being completely forthcoming (in more ways than one) with a sexual partner, but I have discovered that there is a true gray area. Everything gets a little fuzzy when you establish a screw-and-be-screwed relationship with an ex-lover — a friends-with-benefits situation, only the grown-up version.
Recently, I was talking to a friend of mine about my new boyfriend (yup, I’m off the market), and she brought up an ex-lover of mine. Apparently, she’d been at a barbeque with a girl who was complaining about how this guy she was sleeping with wouldn’t commit to just her.
Now, I like to think that you should maybe have the exclusivity talk before crawling under the sheets with someone new, but I’ve been known to have a go-to in dry spells.
My friend began asking questions about this girl’s partner for the dirty deed and realized that this tall, handsome man was my standby. She was careful not to say anything to the poor girl, but made a mental note to tell me the next time we talked.
This brings me to a crucial point: Woody may have been on to something. If I was sleeping with my tall, Greek god, and he was sleeping with someone else, I was essentially sleeping with that girl, too. I wasn’t getting fresh with one person, but two … at least. And if that girl from the barbeque was also sleeping with someone else, who was sleeping with someone else, and so on, I could have been sleeping with five people at the same time.
I would have preferred to know this at the time, you know? I’m a big fan of full disclosure. But how well do you ever know the person with whom you’re knocking boots?
That means that any of us, by sleeping with one person, could be sleeping with … many, many people. Gross.
Mais bien sur, I was no longer concerned, because it had been a long, long time since I’d taken a midafternoon lunch break with my Greek god in the back seat of his midsized Japanese sedan, and I’d been tested for anything dirty several times since then. But that poor girl thought she was getting some booty bumpin’ all to herself. Instead, she was splitting his libido with me.
Apparently, he had plenty to go around, but I’m sure we all would have preferred to be privy to his predatory moves. I mean, how many other people was he sleeping with in addition to the two of us?
That brings me back to Woody. Maybe he knew the score. After all, if you are in the same room with all five people, you have a better chance of knowing with whom you’re sleeping when you strip down. And I can’t say it would be a bad thing to have multiple people trying to please me at the same time.
In all seriousness, I’m a one-man kind of woman. But the next time you jump in bed with someone, maybe it’s best to ask whom else he or she is pleasuring these days. You may not get an honest reply, but at least you tried.
If you end up in bed with Woody Allen, though, please send me an email and tell me how it went. Maybe he’s a sex god, and we are all the fools.

Reconsidering Web Romances

Fri, 1 Apr 2011 09:19:23 -0500

Now I know how to get a rise out of my readers: insult online dating. What does that say about who y’all are? You can judge.
Understanding that I may have slightly ruffled the feathers of some Red Shtick readers, let me follow it all up with the simple truth: I love you. You jump at the chance to send me creepy, sexually explicit emails when I write about new places or ways to get it on (my favorite kind of email to get). You send me diatribes explaining in rather grotesque detail the top 50 reasons that I should pick you for my next boot-knocking session when I’m stuck in the middle of a dry spell. And most of all, you set me straight when I’ve made a snap judgment about a dating tool that has done nothing but provide me with fine men to date and has arguably built up my catalogue of stalkers.
In the last column, I wrote a rather crude assessment of the men available on online dating sites. I recounted flaccid descriptions of the sexually and spiritually deep guy, the mama’s boy, and several others.
There must, after all, be none of these men on online dating sites — and certainly not in vast quantities. In fact, I should be reassured by the 50-year-old bald man (I am, for the record, in my mid-20s) who messaged me daily, despite the cold shoulder I gave him. I’m sure he would have been my soul mate if I’d only given him the chance. Generally speaking, I have no reason to make these assumptions.
What I did exclude from this description are the success stories. Although, until I wrote the last column, I’d honestly not encountered many.
I mean, there is my distant relative who met her current “fiancé” on a dating site. They have been “together” for the past seven years. For six of those years, he was still “married,” but it was the longest relationship my relative had been able to maintain since her last divorce almost 15 years earlier.
There is also the guy my friend in Chicago met and had several dates with. He asked for her valuable input when they went out for cocktails. For example, on their third date, he showed her a small rash on his inner arm.
“What do you think this is?” he inquired as she grimaced at the red, puffy pattern on his wrist.
“Um, I’m not sure,” she managed to get out past the vomit creeping up her throat.
“Hm, I need to figure that out,” he replied, “because it’s all over.” He motioned over his stomach and chest.
She was turned on, of course, and they now have three children in the suburbs of southern Illinois.
And there’s my favorite love story that began online. It starts with my brilliant but slightly shy friend from the Plains States.
She was messaged by an attractive young man on an online dating site; he made her laugh with his witty repartee about his favorite Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. She called home to tell her parents she’d found “the one” immediately after hearing how he liked to hack government websites. They now spend most of their time traveling internationally to anime conventions. I barely ever see her anymore. It’s sad, but true.
In honor of all of the horrible misconceptions I must have fueled with my last column, I decided to give it another shot. So late at night, this time at my dining room table rather than the kitchen counter, I signed up for the free site OkCupid. I mean, writing this column on the side for such an extravagant paycheck does provide me with all the cash in the world with which to sign up for dating sites. I have, of course, no other expenses.
What I was surprised by, however, was the beauty of this new site. There was no façade of happy couples in matching button-down oxford shirts. There wasn’t a promise that my soul mate was just around the corner. There were, instead, snarky comments about dating, humorous instructions from a “Staff Robot,” and insults about the details that I was filling out.
Not only were there not any spam messaging a—holes on this site, there weren’t any creepy old men trying to pick me up. Filling out questions like “How many sexual partners have you had?” and “Would you be willing to perform [insert name of gross, invasive sexual act here] on your partner?” only attract the best folks to your profile.
In all seriousness, folks, this site was the most realistic dating site I’ve ever encountered. It asked questions about your stance on contraception, abortion, gay marriage, children, hygiene, and other deal breakers in most relationships. It lets you rate potential partners by appearance like you would rate a movie on Netflix — select one star for fugly and five for foxy. And most of all, it lets you see the actual answers of your potential matches before going any further.
A deal breaker for me had to do with whether or not my potential matches thought it was a civic duty to vote. Another was whether or not creationism should be taught in public schools. I’m a crazy liberal; I’ll let you figure out what my thoughts were on those.
All in all, there were actually some young, attractive people on this site.
I did have a friend meet a guy she’s been emailing for a while now on OkCupid. It took a while to realize his email style.
At first she thought he was a little off. She received a cryptic email with punctuation marks and editing notations. Immediately, we all thought he was on LSD.
But after a while of looking at the email again, she exclaimed, “He’s not on drugs; he’s just a supernerd.” It was true. He hadn’t sent her random, nonsensical groupings of letters and punctuation. He’d sent her the grammar and spelling edits to his earlier email.
I’m still going to cancel this account, too. I’ve met some really incredible guys lately (in the real world) and I want to see where things go with them. Stay tuned for details. I promise they’ll be juicy.

Online Dating. Need I Say More?

Fri, 4 Mar 2011 23:09:00 -0600

Actually, I probably do. I had a weak moment. I know, I can hear you already, talking about how only supernerds and pedophiles are into online dating, but a little something happened last month.
So there I was, at home alone the weekend before Valentine’s Day. My roommates were both out and about — one on a grand safari in an exotic country, the other working (as always) on work outside of work at her favorite local coffee shop.
I’d hunkered down in my house, trying to avoid the gooey, romantic allure of the “Dinner for Two” menus, red confetti, and well-arranged flowers that pop up around town on what some of my friends like to call “Singles Awareness Day.” However, television programming had something else in store for me — a weekend of apology-free romantic comedies on every channel imaginable and endless commercials for Match.com and eHarmony.com.
I admit it; the couples in these commercials look so happy, so blissful, and so normal. So, sitting alone at my kitchen counter, watching the tiny TV screen mounted beneath the cabinets that hold my good crystal glasses that would get taken out if I had a dinner date to cook for, I joined the millions of Americans turning to online dating. (Wait; that line may be part of the commercials’ scripts. See! It gets to you.)
What I found, however, was nothing like the people in the advertisements shot by candlelight or in studios with pristine white backgrounds and gentle wind blowing through their perfectly highlighted hair. Instead, what I found were men who simultaneously talked about their profound devotion to religion in their profiles and showed off their poorly toned abs, steroided-out biceps, and half-naked female companions in Gulf Shores vacation pictures. I also found men with drunk pics as profile photos and commentaries about how they were looking for a woman who was, above all else, truthful.
We’ll put it this way. I’ve already cancelled my account on both sites.
But in order to save you the $45 or so that it would cost to sign up for one of these dating sites (and actually see the profile pictures of your “matches”), I decided to outline exactly what you’ll find online (with, I’m sure, a few exceptions). I did this only for the ladies out there. I can’t speak to what kind of women are on the sites, because, well, I checked the box that said I’m seeking men. Here goes:

The Wannabe Model
He has at least eight pictures of himself associated with his profile. No, they don’t show off different parts of his personality. There isn’t a golf photo and one with his niece and nephew; there are merely eight different versions of him smiling at the camera, chin tilted up to show us that he doesn’t care to look polite, just cool.
In one of these eight photos, he is not wearing a shirt. “Why wear a shirt?” you may ask. Because this will forever live online in some capacity — even if you delete your account.
And there are other reasons for wearing a shirt. One might be the fact that not everyone wants to see your barbed-wire tattoo that only goes halfway around your arm because you were too much of a sissy to do the whole thing.

The Mama’s Boy
OK, so there is no actual evidence that this stereotype is fueled by the fact that he loves his mother more than is healthy for an adult male, but his profile says it all. One of his profile photos likely includes a photo of his mother. In the section that asks “Who inspires you…,” he has written 500 words on why his mother is the most phenomenal person on the planet.

The Sexually and Spiritually Deep Guy
In the section that lists his priorities, he describes his belief in the afterlife — not associated with any one particular church — and his ravenous capacity in the boudoir. His photos often don’t involve him smiling, but rather his hand on his chin, propping up his head or wrapped around a wine glass because, you see, he is “deep.”

The Sexual Predator
These are the easiest to pick out and, by far, the scariest.
His profile photo was taken either using his computer or his cell phone and his bathroom mirror, because (let’s be honest) he doesn’t have any real friends. If he did, he might actually have a photo or two of himself that he didn’t have to take alone in his basement.
He isn’t smiling in these photos, because he has forgotten what it is like to be happy. And he will “wink” at you every afternoon at 2 p.m., while he should be at work. He isn’t at work, though, because he doesn’t have a job.
That’s it, really. All the men of online dating in a nutshell. Yes, there are the occasional emergency room doctors that don’t have time to go out and find the loves of their lives, but let’s face it: They probably won’t find someone using online dating, either.
I, for one, have closed out my accounts. Online dating was effective for me, but in a different way. It convinced me that looking for love did not need to happen in a place where I couldn’t actually hear someone’s voice or feel a spark of chemistry that comes from meeting someone special.
Now, instead of waiting at my computer to see what life has in store for me, I’m going back to living my life. When that someone special appears, I’ll be ready. And if I want to wink at him, I can do it with my eyelid, not with my mouse.

Dear Relationship Rhetoric Reader,

Fri, 4 Feb 2011 17:50:34 -0600

In honor of Red Shtick Magazine’s seventh anniversary, I wanted to thank you for sticking with our relationship. For the last four years, we’ve made it through the ups and the downs. Together, we’ve talked about what it means to be single, to get laid (or not), to put up with bad dates, to fight off crazy, obsessed single men (or women), and to wonder what is coming next — are we in for a happily ever after or a house full of cats?
To try to understand where we’ve been, I took a look back through the archives. If you haven’t pulled the back issues lately, it is totally worth a few minutes of your day. I recommend breaking out a six-pack or a bottle of wine, kicking back, and getting ready to either laugh your ass off or reach for your little black book.
In the event that you don’t have a few hours to spend reading my old columns, I decided to break down four years of sex, dating, and drama in this issue.

The Modern (Spoiled) Man
Modern men have been blessed with modern women. I don’t mean to say that they are lucky just to have women who get bikini waxes, keep their own stash of condoms, or understand that Valentine’s Day can be reciprocated with Steak and a Blow Job Day.
No, what I truly mean is that modern men get the privilege of modern women who know what they want and will go for it. In decades past, men have been hindered by social norms and the failure of women to possess the confidence to ask for what they want or make it happen themselves.
The downside of the modern woman is that the modern man (at least, most of them) has gotten supremely lazy — lazy and spoiled. There is no longer much of a chase. There is no longer a real necessity for a man to be decisive, ask a woman out, or call her if he wants to see her.
He can sit back, relax, and take what comes to him. And even once he manages to get lucky enough to be in her bed, he may not have to lift so much as a finger as long as he can get hard and the woman is into being on top.
Yup. The modern man is spoiled, like a 5-year-old in a candy store with his grandmother. He doesn’t have to behave that way, though. Continue reading…

Casual Dating Has Become … Too Casual
I’m not even really sure how to tackle this one (even though I already have at least once), but casual dating is really just code for easy sex with strangers.
Be it on the internet via Match.com or PlentyofFish.com or the Craigslist.org Missed Connections section, men and some women are out there saying they want to meet new people, have a good time, and look for a partner. What they mean is they’d like to go out for cocktails or coffee then get busy between the sheets. Once they get off, they’re out the door.
For the record, although I’m pretty sure you already know this, I like sex. But I’m too big of a fan of safe sex to condone the hit-it-and-run style that the online world allows.
Here’s the deal: Take the time to get to know someone long enough to know if they are lying to you about the last time they got tested, and always, always wrap it up.

Reciprocate
If you’re lucky enough to get a modern woman in bed, keep her interest, and get her to live with you, there are only a few things you need to do in order to keep her happy, which will keep you happy. Reciprocate.
She cooks dinner; you clean up the dishes. She does your laundry; don’t throw your laundry on the floor.
It’s that simple. Really, it’s that simple.
Relationships can be tough, so the easiest way to make life easier on yourself is to reciprocate. Respect each other’s space, privacy, and efforts in and out of the bedroom.

White Knights Have a Modern Role
Chivalry is not dead. Open the car door and the restaurant door for your date. At least try to pick up the check.
And if you do anything, anything at all, respect the women in your life. At the end of the day, if you can’t be good to the women in your life, you probably won’t have any around for very long.

Anger/Sadness/Frustration Are Normal/Healthy
Emotion, believe it or not, is healthy. While this must be tempered with an “everything in moderation” clause, I think you get my drift.
Being happy all the time to make your partner happy isn’t healthy. Crying when you’re upset will help you begin to feel better, and letting someone tell you not to get upset is the surest way to ensure that you’ll be upset — you just won’t be able to control it when it does happen.
One of the hallmarks of an honest relationship is the disagreement a couple may have now and again. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to follow up that disagreement with hours of agreement in bed, or on the dining room table, the kitchen counter, the front porch, or the guest bedroom at a horrible work party.
Fight a little every once in a while, and you might just find yourself feeling better about your partner. Staying angry is a good way to end up single.
Ultimately, being with another person is about being a good person. Treat your partner well, love and respect him or her, and you’ll get to reap the benefits.
How you treat the person across the dinner table — or across the bed — from you is an indicator of the rest of your life’s experiences. Healthy, happy individuals make healthy, happy couples. And healthy, happy couples (hopefully) make good partners in bed.
Relationships don’t have to be pure rhetoric. They can be real, emotional, fulfilling experiences. And the hip-thrusting, heart-pounding, sweat-inducing moments that fire up your days and nights can be the evidence you’ve found one worth keeping.
So thanks for reading all these years. I’ll try to make it worth your while moving forward. Until next time…

The Drought

Fri, 7 Jan 2011 19:39:23 -0600

How does the saying go? Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.
Living in Baton Rouge and having male friends (some of whom could be more than friends) is kind of like being a diabetic kid in a cupcake shop. There are all kinds of cute, chivalrous men walking the streets, standing at the bar, wandering the aisles of the grocery store, but none that seem datable — or none that are asking me out right now.
Enter the drought.
No sex in (deep breath) many, many months.
Some of this is self-imposed. The rest is circumstantial. I want back into the dating scene and the world where sex is part of the regularly scheduled program. However, I’m not going down that road just for an easy lay.
Sure, sure. I can hear you sigh and say, “Scarlett, that’s bullsh—t. Women can get laid whenever they want.”
And, for the most part, you’re right. But I don’t want just any sex. I want the good kind. I want the heart-throbbing, all-night, all-morning, and (why not) all-afternoon kind of down-and-dirty getting it on.
So I’m waiting. I’m not sure if it is getting older, having been burned in the past, or simply being ready for something that feels more authentic, but I’m holding out for a full-fledged relationship before I get tangled beneath the sheets.
Being sexless for so long has made me desperate for some level of pleasure. Don’t get me wrong; I have a vibrator. What modern woman doesn’t?
But even a vibrator gets boring after a while. I mean, it’s not like it can surprise you. It doesn’t lift your skirt and ravage you the moment you walk in the front door. It doesn’t surprise you while you’re cooking dinner, pushing aside place settings on the dining room table to work up an appetite. After all, it’s just a little motor with those crazy spinning beads in a pretty, usually pink, package.
Thus, having fully entered the longest dry spell of my life, I’ve had to get creative. Translation: I’ve learned to take pleasure in other aspects of life. That’s where I found myself one afternoon…
It took over my limbs for just a minute, my eyes closed gently, warm waves rolling over my body. I’d craved this moment for months, indulging when the workday was too painful or I couldn’t resist the urge anymore. I wanted it. I needed it.
Yes, I’d replaced sex with orgasmic food. (Cheese, in this particular case.)
Don’t get me wrong; I still want to get laid. But in the meantime, I’ve rediscovered a pantheon of culinary indulgences.
Suddenly, I’m anxious to leave work to get home for another gastronomic tryst with incredible, mouth-watering flavors. A filet, cooked rare so juices spill across the plate as a knife cuts through the pepper-crusted flesh, is a true indulgence. Soft, creamy goat cheese spread across crisp orange-water-and-olive-oil flatbreads that beg to be eaten on late afternoons alone on my front porch, glass of wine in hand.
While I can’t get all worked up over a man, I can look forward to trying a new cheese, chocolate, or bottle of wine, roasted vegetables, or a juicy, organic, grass-fed slab of beef.
I was discussing this recently with my roommate on our way back from Whole Foods. Between the two of us, we purchased seven — count that, seven — different kinds of cheese.
“Do you think we’ve replaced sex with food?” I said.
“How many kinds of cheese did you get?” she asked, giving me a look that implied I was guilty of going overboard.
“Four, and not for cooking, just for eating while standing in the kitchen, with crackers,” I chirped back.
“And I got three,” she laughed. “Clearly, we’ve chosen cheese.”
That’s not to say that I’m swearing off sex; I’ve just found a way to get by in the kitchen while there’s no one in my life to keep me satisfied in the bedroom. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll find someone soon who can enjoy both with me.

Sharing the Love

Fri, 3 Dec 2010 00:38:34 -0600

Going home for the holidays comes with some guarantees. There is bound to be an awkward cousin/aunt/grandparent with embarrassing photos to pass around. There will be some delicious food that will run out before you get a taste. And there’s always that one kind of pie you are forced to eat that tastes more like cardboard than dessert. These are things on which you can rely.
Another thing guaranteed to arise during the winter holidays is the talk of relationships. Are you in one? What happened in your last one? Do you want one? My friend at church has a great son/daughter that you absolutely have to meet.
And then there’s the classic question, the one that is kryptonite for the single person, the one you just can’t escape: Why aren’t you married yet?
It is as if the question itself carries a dose of anthrax, lying in wait in some holiday card envelope somewhere to gently coat your hands, your face, and your lungs to knock you out cold. And when a single gets it, there are a few typical responses.
• Change the subject as fast as humanly possible, i.e., “Wow, you look great! How did you lose all that weight? What kind of diet are you on now?”
• Start crying. After all, if you’re bawling uncontrollably, no one can expect you to form a coherent sentence.
• Fall back on the “Um, I don’t know. I guess I just haven’t met the right person yet.” After which, the inquisitor nods in agreement and reassures you that “He’s out there somewhere. I’m sure you’ll find him soon.”

I found myself facing this question for the first time in a long time when I returned home to the Northeast for Thanksgiving recently. It was the first in a long time, since I’d spent the past few years in a serious relationship that was on the “marriage track” but fell short of the goal line.
But when I got the dreaded question from friends, relatives, and even a few strangers, I suddenly had a reasonable answer. “You know, I thought I was going to be married. Really, I thought I’d found the one, but I was really very wrong. Luckily, I found out before I married him, and I am so relieved that we didn’t get hitched.”
Makes sense, right? Wrong. Instead of calm, reasonable nods in agreement, I received one of two options each time I repeated my sensible answer:
• Confusion mixed with a little bit of shock. It was as if they weren’t expecting an honest answer, but a chipper platitude about finding the right person one day soon; or
• Disgust at the suggestion that I wasn’t devastated to still be single. A person can’t possibly be happy alone, you see, even if it isn’t forever.

As I clocked nearly 2,000 miles on my drive back to Louisiana, I realized something about the relationship question at the holidays. We spend so much time working to get together as families, to make extravagant meals, to organize the days in perfect visits for each set of family members that can’t possibly get along with the others, so no one overlaps and gives rise to awkward conversation. The simple idea that holidays are about families means that a single person’s family members will do everything they can to point out that it is time to create one of her own — and not so much to put her in a box as to make sure that she has as much love and happiness in life that can be provided.
(I know, I’m going sappy on you. What can I say? Too much eggnog.)
I used to believe it was about fitting the single person into a neat little box, a category, but I don’t think that is really it. We work so hard to bring joy and love to those around us from Thanksgiving through New Year’s Eve that we just want to make sure everyone has the same share of pleasure and comfort. If that means singling out the single person, so be it.
The difficult thing to point out is that the single person isn’t the only person that needs a little TLC when it comes to her love life. In fact, most families have at least one married couple at dinner in December that should be asked about their love lives, too:
• “So, Sally, are you and Bob making love as much as you used to when you first married?”
• “Do you feel that you have an intimate relationship these days, or are you strangers living in the same house?”
• “When are you going to be really happy?”

I don’t believe those questions would go over well, but a girl can dream, right?
At the end of the too-much-wine, too-much-togetherness, too-little-personal-space holiday, the dilemmas still remain. The single person will get grilled about her status and will have to think up a new, creative way to explain why she hasn’t yet tied the knot. The unhappy couple will give each other death stares in the corner as they try to make it through dinner without fighting.
The key to making it through the holidays alive if you’re single is just to remember that, once January 1 rolls around, you have roughly 11 months to go before you have to tackle the question again while fighting off drowsiness from too many biscuits, turkey slices, cranberry sauce servings, and slices of pie. And hell, maybe next year, you won’t be single.