Chemistry

If I was asked to list the characteristics I desire in a mate, I’d have no problem rattling off a few choice adjectives. After years in the dating world, you start to hone in on certain things. I look for intelligence, curiosity, independence, height beyond my own and good table manners. I’m sorry but I was permanently scarred by watching Ex lick clean a serving ladle at the dinner table while closing his eyes and making lusty moans of pleasure. Beyond the noted, I expect to end up with someone who is kind, thoughtful, generous of heart, tolerant of my independent personality when it goes into meltdown mode and happy overall. I suppose I’ve walked away from past relationships identifying what I appreciated and now hope to blend my laundry list of likes into one unselfish person who's good in bed. A girl can dream, right?

Interestingly enough, even when all of those characteristics are present, there just might be nothing more than a good conversation with a nice person. Ah, that tricky thing known as chemistry. It’s either there or it isn’t and it doesn’t always appear when you expect it to. I have great chemistry with BoyToy but other than standing taller than my far from statuesque 5’4” frame, he doesn’t have any of the traits I want or at least think I want in a mate. This probably singlehandedly explains why he's my BoyToy and nothing more. Shhh, stop talking and get back down there.

I always see these random articles about what really attracts men and women to each other. There’s the study that explains attraction of the male to the female according to a significant waist/hip ratio. I love this scientific argument because it makes me momentarily believe that I had a good shot at being the Heidi Klum of my generation. Well, if my generation lived in caves. Regardless of the scientific data, I truly question if men or at least the men I've met really subconsciously target females for the sake of child bearing possibilities. I mean, most of the Hollywood hotties are so emaciated, you can't even identify where the waist ends and the hips begin.

Then there’s the study about pheromones, a naturally produced scent that others can detect and respond to. Someone out there even developed a perfume of pheromones and no, I don’t own it. I’m sticking with my Chanel, thank you, and it’s served me just fine. Anyway, I’ll admit that a nice smelling man can make my tummy tumble in a good way. Like when I suddenly lean in, break that personal space boundary and my nose is ever so gently tickled by some of his cologne. As far as I'm concerned, it has everything to do with sandalwood and absolutely nothing to do with pheromones.

So what the heck is it that makes chemistry present between some people but not between others? I know that at the core, we're animals. I have a sneaky suspicion horses, turles and carpenter ants don't bother evaluating pheromones and waist/hip ratios. As the late great Barry White once sang, they just get it on. I was once at the zoo with a friend when all of a sudden we were witnessing the less than graceful efforts of one ginormous turtle mounting another. It was straight out of National Geographic, quickly clarifying any uncertainty I previously had regarding the logistics specific to turtles mating. As an aside, turtles don't have hips.

Maybe it isn't worth trying to figure out. Maybe at the end of the day, we should just be content that the connection is there. Or at least we should be able to rest comfortably knowing there is someone out there in the world with whom we share a like chemistry. The damn trick is finding it.

Double Dip

I double dipped in the dating pool on Sunday. This is so not my style. Not because I don’t have numerous men clamoring to date me (insert fit of laughter here) but because I just don’t have the energy for it. Keeping people straight is too tough and you never want to say something like “oh right, that happened when you were traipsing through China” and he goes and responds with “I’ve never been to China.” Oops. Anyway, desperate times call for desperate measures. Two men I was curious about had Sunday and only Sunday free and I was willing to double up for the sake of seeing both.

My first outing was a third date with Snail, a nice enough guy who redefined the term sluggish. It had been three months since his initial introdcutory email and five weeks since our first date. My friend Jeremy had nicknamed this guy Ball-less Boy and forewarned me it would go nowhere. I'll admit I’d started to lose interest and forgotten what he looked like but on paper Snail still sounded great. I was willing to have a third date, even though after multiple get togethers and phone conversations, I knew nothing about him beyond his slightly concerning addiction to the Yankees. And we all know how much I adore major league baseball. Not.

We met at the Academy of Natural Sciences, his pick. Originally the plan was to just hang outside sharing a blanket and the Sunday Times but with the steady rain, an indoor activity had to be determined. I hadn’t visited this museum since second grade and I’m not a huge fan of venues that cater mostly to ankle biters. Nonetheless, I rolled with it figuring I just might have fun and in all honesty I did. Standing next to the bones of an animal that 100 million years ago towered five stories high simply took my breath away. Anyway, somewhere in the Asia/Africa Exhibit of Animals, I determined this would mark my last get together with Snail.

“Can you imagine being on a first date and telling someone that your job is to arrange stuffed animals for still exhibits at a science museum?” I asked, finishing the question with laughter.

“I heard of a strange job the other day. I hope I don’t offend with this.” He paused, looked down and cleared his throat. “Did you know there are, um, condoms designed to, um, pleasure a woman? Can you imagine being the test person for that product?”

“Oh my God you’re blushing?” All I could think about was (a) how he’d probably pass out from reading my sex romp posts and (b) how could a man get to 38 and only now learn of condoms designed to pleasure a woman? Either way, we weren't going to work as a couple. People, pardon the bluntness but I own nipple clamps. Need I say more?

Fifteen minutes after parting ways with Snail, I relocated ten blocks north for my second date, Scrabble over drinks with a guy I felt rather indifferent about. I sloppily reapplied some face powder, put on a swipe of lipstick and headed over to his neighborhood. Maybe I was too tired to care or maybe this guy was just so laid back I didn’t feel a need to stress. Either way, I figured I’d have a nice time and if we clicked then it was a bonus to the evening.

At some point during our Scrabble game, as I struggled to fit “whore” (literally the only word my seven available tiles could spell) onto the board, the conversation turned toward sex. Not in a raunchy way but in a matter of fact kind of way. He was fed up with women who didn't really enjoy sex and I was tired of men who had yet to figure out that the clit resides nowhere near the bellybutton. Then we talked about traveling. I shared details about my pending European jaunt and he talked about his upcoming solo journey to Australia simply because he’d never been. The conversation comfortably meandered through the basics of life, allowing each of us the opportunity to naturally learn about one another.

“What do you think about some water ice and a rematch at my place?”

“A rematch? Can't handle losing to a girl, eh? Think you'll get me strung out on sugar and just swipe the Scrabble trophy right out of my hands? You're on,” I said as I hopped off the shaky barstool.

We strolled out onto the street and worked our way toward his home. Two blocks in, he reached for my hand and informed me he had every intention of spending more time together and preferably sooner rather than later. Then he just stopped. I did too, though wasn’t sure why. Maybe he'd left his wallet at the bar? Maybe he was trying to remember which way the water ice stand was?

“I want to kiss you.”

“But I don’t want to get you sick. I mean, what if I have mono? Seriously. I’ve spent 17 of the last 36 hours sleeping. That is beyond abnormal.”

“Whatever. I’m willing to risk mono. I’m kissing you.”

And he did.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

When I started my blog, I was hesitant to let people know about it simply out of fear. Fear they’d read something I thought was one inch shy of brilliant only to have someone tell me it didn’t even qualify as utter crap. A few days after mass emailing people with an invitation to stop by and read my musings, my fear subsided. It wasn’t praise from friends that made me feel more comfortable about having an audience. It was when a few people mentioned liking my blog so much that they'd shared it with others. That there marked the moment I exhaled.

Eager to increase my readership, I started whoring my literary self out. Listen, a writer is nothing without an audience. After announcing my online presence to people I knew, I branched out to the people I didn’t know. I noted the link in my online dating profiles and eagerly mentioned my blog in general conversation with complete strangers. Listen, I never once denied being a salesman.

A funny thing happened somewhere along the way to blogosphere stardom, which I define as an audience headcount breaking into the double digits. I soon found myself shying away from certain topics. During our break-up, Ex told me how mortified he was by my a post about picking your nose. He thought it was terribly offensive and lacking in the ladylike deparment. I never claimed nostril spelunking was a classy sport but that wasn't the point. My post shed light on me and according to him an unfavorable one. I immediately shelved potential topics that had the risk of showing my cards too early in the game.

After a little while, I got fed up having to hold off on certain topics so I sought an alternative solution. The result was to become less aggressive about sharing my blog. Instead of limiting what I wrote, I’d just have to find a way to limit who read it. I killed any mention in my online dating profiles and started being less vocal about it in conversations with unknowns. Life went on.

Now I’ve come full circle and I'm back to just rolling with it all. If you want to know about it, here’s the link. Gone are the days of limiting what I say and going out of my way to keep it on the down-low from the people I meet. It's just too hard trying to be anything other than who I am. If someone can't handle a few words strewn together, then they probably can't handle me.

I recently befriended a fellow blogger, J. At first, I only read two or three of his posts. Then, a few days later, when the small window of opportunity for us to meet closed, I sat down and read his posts from the last year. I was fascinated if not intrigued. There's no editing of his thoughts and no limits to his ideas. Ever. J is who he is and he’s quite articulate about it. I started to regret the window now being closed. Not in the sense that J was "the one" but because he was one of those rare finds in the smattering of humanity. He made me think just as easily as he made me laugh.

Earlier today, J just forwarded me an email from a gal he was courting but had yet to meet. She’d read his blog and had this to say:

As women suspect…the inner workings of a man's mind are not something we want to see. I did read some of the blog and skimmed quite a bit of it. I can tell that nothing long term would come out of us meeting and I'm not looking for the brief fling thing right now. If you want me to get more specific, I can or we can just leave it at that.

All best,
A

J passed along A's email simply because it supported his theory that sharing your blog, or at least him sharing his blog, is detrimental to cultivating relationships with the opposite sex or at least members of the opposite sex you might want to bed. My response to J was that his writings properly weeded out a woman who would never understand him anyway. Sure, if she hadn’t read about the randomeness currently filling his mind, he might have gotten a date or two out of her but his blog is a direct representation of his true person and if anything was to develop she’d eventually have to see it and more importantly embrace it.

As an aside, I refuse to let this twit A speak on behalf of single women everywhere. I not only want to see but I want to understand the inner workings of a man’s mind. Isn't the mind what truly makes us who we are once we open our mouths? Sorry. Just needed to put that dumbass woman I'll never meet in her place.

I suppose there is some basis to keeping your blog’s existence quiet until a person is out of the initial forest of first impression judgment. I'll admit to intentionally refraining from speaking about my blog with the conservative date-at-a-snail’s-pace boy I’m seeing on Sunday. I just don’t think he’d react well to my post about getting head from a boy I’m using solely for sex. But on the flip side of it all, Snail also hasn’t inquired about my writing. It makes me feel less like I'm hiding something since he himself hasn't brought it up. I suppose maybe I’m sorta living like a gay in the military. Don’t ask, don’t tell. The one big differenice is that if you do ask me (snap, snap while spelling a Z in the air) get ready for a no-she-dih’ent response.

Older Men, Younger Women

In the last few months, I’ve come to learn an interesting thing. Many men I've spoken with prefer dating younger women. Not younger like a year or two down. More like a decade down. From the random men I've met in real life to the 45 year old online guys who note an 18-35 year old age range for their desired female mate. It’s a fascinating phenomenon that’s left me pondering and asking questions as I attempt to get a better grasp on it all.

One guy I know said he likes to date girls in their early twenties because they're more easily impressed by what he’s accomplished so far. According to him, women in his age bracket aren’t awed by the mere fact that he wears a suit to the office. For the record, I'm one of those women. Plus, apparently single women in their thirties make as much if not more than he does and he can’t stand it. Younger girls are startled by the wad of cash he plucks a twenty from to pay for the round of drinks while girls his own age can pull out the same damn wad. He knows he’ll never marry a twenty-three year old recent college grad but he isn’t looking to wed so for the time being he’s trolling the bars for younger ladies.

Another guy I know blames it all on baggage. The single women in their thirties that he meets have life coaches, therapists and lifestyles driven by the corporate culture. She defines success by the hours she bills, the dollars she earns and the condo she recently bought in the chicest neighborhood. Young girls are simpler. They aren’t yet embittered by the demanding and complicated way of the work world and the dating world. For the sake of bypassing complicated women who as he puts it have lived right through life only to wake up and realize they’re single, he's sticking to twenty-somethings. At least for the time being.

I think there’s something fundamentally wrong with a 23 year old anything pairing with a 33 year old anything. Seriously. Life changes a lot between those two decades. You come into your own and start to understand things more clearly. What to fight for and what to let lie. What really matters and what is just plain silly. The ten year spread is less relevant to me when the younger party has at least broken into the third decade. Most people hit thirty with a new outlook on life, an outlook you fail to have any earlier.

I tried to formulate an argument against one of these guys and his basis to date down the age time-line. At the end of it, I wasn’t sure if I was arguing to defend me and my single friends, smart and savvy women who bring much more to the table at thirty-three than we ever could have at twenty-three, or if I was merely arguing to prove him wrong. I do that sometimes. Just go and go and go simply because I forget why I’m arguing in the first place and keep going just to win.

Maybe he’s right. I know plenty of women my age who’ve let climbing the corporate ladder become the primary focus. I also know plenty of women who are still bitter from relationships in the past as they attempt to cultivate intimate relationships in the present. And while I haven’t sought guidance from a life coach, I will admit to turning to a professional for a realigning of sorts as I traverse the road of life. With age comes experiences and they don’t always shape us to be a better person. Sometimes you need an outsider to clarify things and get you back on track.

I've dated down a few times but more often than not I date up in the age range. Ex was seven years my senior, though he'd be the first to admit he had a ten year lag in the maturity department. Which in turn, technically made him younger than me but that's another story for another post. Anyway, I tend to prefer the companionship of an older man. They come across as more self assured, more established, more aware. There’s comfort in those characteristics. At least for me and apparently for all of the twenty-three year olds signing up for dates with the thirty-three year old jet setting men.

Nonetheless, I'm not willing to accept that simply living a life, having experiences and finding yourself shaped by such experiences is a bad thing. Writing off an entire age group because they've simply lived life is wrong. Sure, there's pleasure in innocence and ignorance. It’s nice to sometimes forget about the reality of mortgages, healthcare and life overall. Maybe that's why guys strive to date down. Not because of innocence or baggage but because these men look at women their own age and only see reflections of their own culturally defined failures. Failures someone younger is too naive, too green to identify.

Listen, the bottom line is simple. You have to be able to relate to your mate. Maybe men are biologically destined to date younger women. Maybe it has to do with maturity. Or maybe it has nothing to do with maturity or common sense and it can’t be or shouldn’t be explained. All I can say is this - If you make a joke about Grease and she’s thinking about what's left on her fingers after eating a cheesesteak, well, you're never going to see eye to eye.

All About Me

In honor of this being my 100th post, I've pulled together 100 random tidbits about none other than moi. It felt fitting and, to be honest, I've been sick so not having to be eloquent was a relief.

I think Spaghettios not only tastes good but tastes best when eaten straight out of the can * People who order bottled water at restaurants are pretentious * Every morning after I shower, I throw my hair up in a turban, put on minimal clothing and lounge on my sofa in front of the TV for a good ten minutes. I need the time to cool down before blowing my hair dry * I'm addicted to using my tweezers * French pedicured toes look like little fingers and it really freaks me out

Whenever I see footage of the second plane crashing into the World Trade Center, smoke and flames billowing from the neighboring building, I clench my jaw * I like the rain unless I'm heading to a black tie event and need to find a way to keep my dress out of the puddles * At the end of the day, I just don't understand all the hype about rising gas prices. Maybe it's because my daily commute is 1 mile. Round trip * I have this idea in my head that one day I will live in Connecticut on the shoreline * I suffer from random moments where I feel I'll be nothing more than a complete failure

It drives me bonkers when a friend takes a cell phone call that isn't pressing and starts gabbing for too long. I'll get an apology afterwards and I'll then fib an "it's okay" * Ex convinced me driving to NYC was the best way to commute to and from. Now that he is out of the picture, I'm back to loving the train. Sure it smells but at least I have the time to read * Sometimes I peruse the real estate listings and dream about what I'll buy for my second and third homes

I've never had braces * I hate when skinny women say they can eat anything and neither work out nor gain weight and then they go and giggle like the confession is cute * My current cut off for reasonably priced indulgent purchases is $300. My need-to-be-replaced Prada sandals cost me $295 two years ago. The new version runs $315. I can't get myself to buy them * I only buy designer face cream because the two times I downgraded to pharmacy chain selections, I broke out in a hideous rash

As much as I want to be a writer, I refuse to sacrifice my current income level to properly pursue my dream * Most men I know fail to do even basic gentlemanly things like holding a door open or letting the lady enter first, making me sadly conclude that chivalry is pretty much dead * Making someone else happy is more enjoyable than making myself happy. I'm in the process of figuring out a better balance on this one * Having a first date with a strange man in an unfamiliar spot makes me a little nervous. The only thing that throws me is the unfamiliar spot.

Every watch I own is fast by anywhere from three to ten minutes to avoid being late, though it doesn't really prevent tardy arrivals * Every so often, I sit down and evaluate my friendships, determining which ones I should try to grow and which ones I should just let lie * I'd rather listen to nothing than be forced to listen to Bob Dylan or Jimmy Buffet (sorry Hope) * New Yorker cartoons can be hysterically funny but more often than not, they just make no sense and it isn't because I'm not getting it

Wearing tastefully low-cut shirts makes me feel sexy * I don't mind dating but I detest that I-like-him-but-can't-tell-if-he-likes-me phase * I'll only eat chocolate cake slightly warmed with a dollop of vanilla ice-cream on top * I'm comfortable talking and writing about sex and don't understand what the big deal is * After I go to the bathroom, I always look to see what I left behind. Same goes for blowing my nose. Before saying "eww" to me, be sure you can confidently state you never peek. Yeah, I thought so

My beverage of choice at 35,000 is tomato juice * I'm right handed and I think left handed folks usually hold the pen in a funky crippled way * People have called me a bitch, a snob and an elitist. They're all probably right and I'm a-okay with it because as far as I'm concerned, it just means I know what I like and I don't have a problem asking for it * I know that it's what's on this inside that counts but then why do all of my guy friends still only want to date skinny girls, preferably ten years younger than they are, who can't add 2 + 2 without a calculator

I'm planning on buying more life insurance on my dad. He's already sick and has outlived both of his parents. It's purely an investment and he thinks it's brilliant * When my mom stopped talking to her family 20 years ago because of a disagreement, I stopped talking to them too. I didn't know anything about the disagreement but I just decided I should side with my mom. Leslie secretly maintained contact and I admire her for that * I've spent the better part of my life assuming my dad won't be around tomorrow

I hate when people preface a statement with "I'm not complaining, but" because it's such a waste of four words. Just complain and let's get on with it * I love my condo and being a home owner but it sometimes saddens me that buying my first home wasn't a married couple adventure * I've never slept with a married man and I don't judge those who have. Two people showed up for that tryst and isn't he the one who's acting out of line * Sandwiches always taste better when another person makes them

Seeing someone else fail sometimes makes me feel better about my missteps * I'd rather be alone than entangled with the wrong person * I've never thought I was ugly but I almost always think there is someone nearby who is prettier * I'm currently reading Any Place to Hang My Hat, Rick Steves' Guide to Spain and a pile of not-yet-read issues of the New Yorker * I cheated on a twelfth grade, do-over of a calculus exam and scored lower * I also scored lower the second time I took the LSAT * There's a brown freckle that dots the upper right corner of my right eye

I've already had two mammograms. I cried the first time out of fear and I cried the second time from hitting my head on the machine * I have to look away when I'm having blood drawn * I get angry when my dad gives me directions when I could navigate the car to the destination blindfolded * Sometimes I get scared I'll never let my guard down enough so that a man can truly love me * I co-authored a (since updated) book about Sexual Etiquette and was still a virgin * Sometimes I am stubbornly independent to a fault

I don't like red wine * I rely on humor and ice-cream to get through stressful situations * If I could live anywhere, I'd pick Paris * I think putting Ikea furniture together is fun * Sometimes I get myself off simply because I'm bored and can't come up with anything else to do * I've left a message of me having an orgasm on a certain guy's voicemail. Twice * Only one man has been able to make me moan the way my battery operated toys can and I haven't been with him in over ten years

I have zero patience for people who are homophobic * I always have rainbow sprinkles, AA batteries and low-fat microwave popcorn in my pantry * Though I find Rachel Ray to be a hyperactive nimwit who tips poorly and raves inappropriately about mediocre food, I still randomly watch her on the Food Network

The first preset radio station in my car is WXPN and the last is NPR * I can read Hebrew but the only non-prayer sentences I can speak translate into "My name is Paige" and "I want to go home" * I want a dog * I don't know if I want kids * If it was okay to eat dessert for every meal, I would * I love giving head but am not the best at receiving it. I get impatient and fidgety

Unless the goal is to leave the clutch ten feet back, I can't drive a stick shift * I own a road bike and a mountain bike and I haven't saddled up on either in around two years but I still have my helmet and lock in my trunk just in case * Rollerblading scares me because I fear I'll face plant and knock out all of my teeth * When using a Q-Tip, I always clean my right ear first * I've only recently stopped saying "whatever" as a response to compliments and started saying "thank you" instead

Sometimes I'm scared I won't have anything to write * I declined the offer to inherit the family business because it meant having too many strings attached to my mother * I tried to smoke pot only once. Felt nothing other than extreme hunger which was probably unrelated to the drug. Never tried it again * I lost so much weight with pills that at one point, two friends threatened an intervention because I appeared frail * After Phen-Fen got yanked stateside, I called a Mexican pharmacy to try and buy an illegal stash. The language barrier was the only reason I didn't follow through

I think weddings are silly * I think bachelor/ette parties are even sillier * I don't understand people who rule out all seafood. Shrimp and seared tuna taste nothing alike * I'm jealous of my sister's figure * I always assume any man I like will think I am fat * Black men and hispanic men love my ass. Actually, black women compliment it too * If no one is around, I let the dishes pile up in the sink

I'm Jewish and belong to a synagogue but I don't know if I believe in God. I at least don't believe God is some bearded guy on a throne * Sometimes I get similar sounding but completely different meaning words confused and I feel like a total idiot, though nowhere near as silly as Leslie felt when she told the story about a jelly fish with huge testicles * Personally, I think the size of a man's eh-hem does matter. Any woman who says otherwise is being polite and lying * My first live concert was none other than the Mormon rockers du jour Donnie & Marie Osmond. I screamed when he flashed his purple socks * The last live concert I saw was KT Tunstall in Boston. I saw the show with Chicken and she's now a fan too

No matter what I'm eating, I save the best bite for last * I always have an opinion about something. Not responding to Blog comments I disagree with has taught me that sometimes saying nothing is more of a statement than any combination of words * I wash my face once a day, using whatever is in the shower, and I have great skin * Sometimes during sex I'm scared I might fart, not that I ever have

I thought about killing myself in sixth grade, figuring I'd use one of my dad's guns. I then realized I didn't know which bullets went to which gun and, more importantly, I didn't really want to die * I bought a fake gun when I was seven because I wanted to be one of Charlie's Angels but my mom made me return it * When I don't like the outcome of a conversation, I sometimes spend hours replaying it in my head with alternate endings * If someone I knew called me at 3am and said they absolutely needed me, I'd do whatever necessary to transport myself from here to there

Coochy Coochy Oooh

On the upper right corner of my blog is a “Next Blog” button. On more than one occasion, I’ve been tempted to see who comes after me and who comes after them. It's in random order or at least it's random to me. Half the time I load something in a foreign language. Sometimes I come across a religious website, which ironically is usually followed by young and sexy girls on display. And then there are the blogs by moms.

I want to say at the get go that I have no problem with the mommy set. Can’t maternally relate right now but that's just me. It took several months after my nephew Anders was born for me to understand the attraction to little kids. I’m still turned off by dirty diapers, mini-meltdowns and look forward to the day he outgrows his train addiction. But I have two voicemails saved indefinitely at home that Leslie helped him leave.

“Say Happy Hannuka and blow kisses!”

“Kaka. Mwah!”

What's not to love? Right?

Nonetheless, there's something about some of the blogging moms that makes me wonder how blind a mommy is to her child's appearance. Anders was a cute baby but he had the biggest darn head I’d ever seen. One time I spent ten minutes trying to fit that damn thing through the normal sized, stretchy, cotton neck of a onesie. Think basketball aiming for the hole on the 9th green. Except remember, this basketball contained a brain and future functionings. I sweat through my t-shirt trying to successfully dress the little pumpkinhead, eventually giving up and swaddling his diapered bum in a blanket until Leslie got home.

Olivia, Anders’s sister, is adorable too. But she had a funny, Donald Trump-esque comb over look going the first few months. Some strands of hair were short and others were long beyond belief. No matter how much you tucked it behind her ears or tacked it with a bow, a piece popped out. With time, Olivia’s hair grew in more and Anders’s body caught up to that monstrosity of a head. But at the end of they day, there were some odd features they had at the onset.

We used to have an annual holiday ugly-baby-contest tradition at my Banana Republic outpost. He who identified the ugliest baby first won. Managers rotated sales associates through the greeting assignment positioned at the front of the store so we'd all have a fair shot at spotting. When word spread that we might have a winner, staff randomly walked around in search of the prospect. "What an adorable baby," I said as I peered into the pram only to be met by a mini troll. With that, we had a winner. There was this guy Ben who'd come back to the area from college in December. He had the best eye for spotting an ugly baby.

People tell me that when the child is yours, you don’t notice the flaws. Leslie would be the first to admit Anders had a big head and Olivia had a comb over. She doesn’t love her children any less than the delusional people who think their alien-esque tots are Gerber baby models. Either way, I just hope that I never pop out a freak of nature. An ugly baby is an ugly baby, no matter how you slice it.

Sexual Education

Up until the early fall of my junior year in college, I was a virgin who never had a boyfriend. I claimed I was holding out for someone I loved because there was something so appealing about giving my virginity to one special man. Oh my God. Writing those words at thirty-three makes me want to barf. Anyway, the real deal? I was just too self-conscious about my appearance. I couldn’t fathom why any guy would want to be with me.

I spent my formative years being reminded by my mom that my ass was a shelf. Then I'd head off to school where I was surrounded by preppy girls with no curves. Boy classmates always went for the girls with barely there chests, blonde hair that stayed straight regardless of the humidity and an ass as flat as a pancake. I'm half Sicilian and half Russian. There was no chance in hell I'd escape inheriting some version of a peasant woman's build. Sure I could carry a basket of bread to market, resting it on my hip that (gasp) jutted out beyond the width of my waist but I couldn't squeeze my ass into a pair of trendy Levi 501's to save my life. I was convinced no boy would want me and so no boy did.

Fast forward a few years. On a random night in 1993, my Smithie chum Samantha and I wandered down to Packard's. We threw back some Guinness and before I knew it, we were chatting with five U Mass alums passing through town en route to Vermont. One of the guys came home with me and a few hours later, I was no longer a virgin. I got up at 6am the next morning to ready for a quick Philadelphia trip. Clifford, yeah I gave it up to a boy who shared his name with a red dog, asked for my number but I intentionally forgot to give it to him. We parted ways and that was it. Or so I thought. Cliff tracked me down through the apparently unguarded college directory and left a message. His parents had a home in the Catskills and he thought it would be a nice weekend if I joined him. I declined. Cliff's deflowering efforts were greatly appreciated but I just didn't want anything else to do with him.

As soon as I entered into the club of the sexually active, Samantha took me under her experienced wing. From vibrators to the essence of an orgasm, I was taking notes, buying supplies and practicing non-stop. Even though it wasn’t technically a department, I could have easily majored in Sexual Education. Samantha and I would huddle together in my dorm room with soda and Smartfood and just fall into a conversation about sex the same way you might talk about a popular movie or a favorite book. I liked this. I didn't like that. And what on earth was going on there? It sounds so raunchy but it really wasn’t. It's not like we sat around with our toys and tried them out on each other. I'm pretty sure I've officially now sent my entire male audience off on a visual tangent that will distract them for no less than five minutes.

One of the most important things I learned during those chats was that I had to understand myself. What I couldn’t respond to was just as important as what I could and if I couldn’t relay this to the guy I was sharing a bed with, I was destined to forever be disappointed. Girls might have similarly designed bodies but not all clits were created equal. It was my responsibility to know my own, and well. As I set out to become familiar with my body, I also became very comfortable discussing what I learned.

It's because of my Sex Ed with Samantha that I’m now so open about sex. In fact, I’m fascinated by it. Why do some women love giving head and others would rather have a root canal? Which women are multi-orgasmic and why aren’t all? Why are so many men gung ho about entering a woman through the backdoor but so quickly repulsed and freaked out by two men doing the same thing? There was an interesting study completed a few years back that observed gender responses to various types of porn. Straight men responded only to straight porn. Gay men responded only to gay porn. And women responded to all of it. More importantly, many of the women in the study couldn't even recognize that they were being aroused. I'm sorry but how can you not find all of that fascinating?

While I still have many questions, it seems I also hold many answers. I've now become the educator for many of my friends who want to talk about sex but lean toward shy when it comes to discussing bedroom behaviors. I'll be out to dinner with one of them and a few bites into her crab pad thai, she'll put down her fork, lower her voice, lean in and ask me a sex question. I'll then lean in, provide a response and off we go talking about sex. At the end of the day, each and every one of those friends has told me that I'm the only person she can be so open with when it comes to sex. It warms my heart. If I can help just one woman get that much closer to experiencing the orgasm of a lifetime, well, I've done my part in giving back to society and making the world a better place.

Distorted View

Caralyn and I followed the rest of the theater going crowd out onto Christopher Street. The rain had stopped at some point during the matinee performance of Some Girl(s) but the sidewalk was still damp and the ominous clouds above were hint enough to keep the umbrellas handy. We turned left and meandered up Bleeker Street, popping into storefronts with Magnolia being the ultimate destination. It might have been June but the chill in the air made it appealing to retrieve something warm like hot chocolate or tea.

“I couldn’t get over Fran Drescher,” Caralyn said as we stood in front of an antique store glancing through the window at items for sale.

“Totally. Of all the actors in that show, she was my favorite.”

“She was really good. Oh my God, and her body?”

“I know! She's one brave woman to step out on a stage with a body like that donning only underwear and a bra.”

“Brave? What are you talking about? She looked fantastic!”

“Are you serious? All I could see was her cellulite and lack of tone.”

“Oh my God. For a woman her age who’s been through what she’s been through, she looks amazing. Ooh. Let’s go into InterMix.”

Caralyn went right in but I lingered on the sidewalk outside the shop for a few moments. I was admittedly a little intimidated by the store. Not because of the New York chic staff but because I was still thinking about bodies and I was pretty sure mine wouldn’t fit into any of the clothing this trendy shop sold. I eventually worked through my fat moment, stepped over the threshold and started rifling through the racks. I even found a great jersey dress I needed to talk myself out of buying.

Around an hour later, we parted ways and I found myself on the train heading back to Philadelphia. I turned on my iPod to distract me from my surroundings and settled in for the ride home. Before we even made it out of the tunnel and into New Jersey, my focus had shifted from figuring out where to put the last nine on my current game of SuDoKu to pondering how two people can so clearly see the same thing but see it so clearly differently.

Listen, I realize I see things according to how my brain interprets or perhaps distorts them. Past experiences, personal insecurities and a crapload of other factors contribute to it all. My eyes merely take a snapshot so that my brain can evaluate and compute. But that was one sucky computation I’d made there about Fran Drescher. I was jealous that Caralyn’s brain concluded the actress looked amazing. And I was equally grumpy that mine didn’t even come close to that perspective.

Hanging above one of my dressers in my bedroom is a mirror. It's an antique frame that once acted as the border to a painting my mom bought at auction. She reframed the art, had a mirror put into the original frame and gifted the refurbished left over to me. I stand in front of it every morning as I prepare for the day. Interestingly, every person who's ever been to my residence and done a double check in front of that mirror before heading out the door claims it's wretched. Something about it distorting the image. One friend went so far as insisting I replace it. To her, it isn't any wonder I still struggle with body issues when I've got a funky image staring back at me day in and day out. I've disregarded everyone's complaints because in all honesty, I've never once looked at my reflection in that mirror and thought anything about me looked distorted.

Then I started to wonder how many other things I see my way when others easily see it, well, better. Have I spent most of my life missing out on general human beauty because I’ve been so conditioned to acknowledge the flaws first? Is it even possible to deprogram my brain so I can start seeing people without a critical eye? It got me thinking that maybe I’d be better off blind. Work with me for a second. Maybe the world would simply be a better place to me if I saw it through other people’s eyes. I could loop my hand into Caralyn’s arm and she’d lead me down the street randomly sharing the visual displays according to how she saw it all. That being said, I have no intention of poking my eyes out. Instead, I'll just continue to closely surround myself with friends so they can keep me in check. And maybe I'll replace that mirror after all.

Itch Scratch

A few hours into the day, I realized things below the waist just weren't right. You know what I mean. Life is good but your body isn't quite acting normal. So, I picked up the phone and called my older and wiser sister. Between the two of us, Leslie has more experience when it comes to girly things. She's my go to gal when I'm in search of the season's latest shoe trends and which fruit juice is supposed to offset the crummy symptoms of a UTI.

“Les, can I ask you an unpleasant question?”

“I’m eating my lunch. How unpleasant? If you’re going to make some crazy inquiry about anal sex, I’m out,” she said in between bites of her food.

“No. It isn’t about that. Well, not directly.”

“Oh God. Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my little sister. The one who’d fart in the bed and then waft the smell by billowing the sheets like a mainsail.”

“Ah, proud moments of my youth. But seriously, how can you tell if you have a yeast infection?”

“Have you taken a recent look at your jzuzgie in a mirror?”

“Um, no. And of the two of us, you think I’m the cuckoo one? Why on earth would I do that?”

And so Leslie put down her turkey sandwich on rye and started listing the symptoms. There's itchiness, redness and other unpleasant side effects. I shut down when the words “foul odor” came from her lips. I was suffering from some of the adjectives she named, though luckily funky smell wasn’t one of them.

Did I have an STD? Would I ever be able to have children of my own? Should I ring my ob/gyn with an emergency call? When something's wrong with me, I go and research the symptom up the wazoo. At the end of the day, it's either something minor that can be cured with over the counter meds or I have two weeks to live. I always assume the diagnosis is two weeks to live.

“Drink some cranberry juice.”

“Isn’t that for a UTI?”

“Now that you mention it, I'm not sure. Well, drink it anyway. I mean, if it helps down-there, it helps down-there. Can't hurt. And eat yogurt. Something about the cultures? Then buy some Monistat at CVS on your way home. Just be prepared for a goopy mess. Wear crummy underwear and expect to remain horizontal and unsexy for a good three days.”

“Okay. Thanks. Sounds like fun. I'm so glad these female issues are relatively foreign to me. By the way, what lube do you prefer when using the ole back door? Giddy up!” Awaiting her reply, I shifted my hips around in my seat, subtly or not so subtly itching a scratch in a place you can’t touch in public unless you're two years old or a pervert.

“Was that really necessary?”

“I’m kidding. Seriously. I’m kidding. I know, I know. Exit only. ”

"Speaking of exits, the time has come for me to make one. I think my manager is starting to wonder if I actually work when I'm at my desk. Gotta go look like I care. Catch you and your itchy eh-hem later!"