Life goes on.

An update of sorts.

A bit over a year ago, the Former Mr. Vixen experienced his all-out relapse. He had been secretly stealing my prescription medication (it can get you high if you take a lot) since August 2010. In January, he decided that after five years of sobriety (quasi-sobriety because of the medication-stealing) he was going to drink a glass of wine to ring in the New Year. I was uncomfortable about it, and told him that I didn't approve. At the same time I recognized that I cannot control other people's actions. He promised it would be just one glass. He wouldn't even try another for at least three months.

The next day I found a nip of vodka (that I'd already had half of) in his desk drawer while I was looking for Scotch tape. He told me he'd only wanted to taste it. I pointed out that he had hidden it. "But it was such a small amount," he said. That, of course, wasn't the point. The drinking and hiding of the bottle was the point.

I came home from work one VERY snowy night in February 2011 and got stuck in my driveway. When I went into the house to ask him for help, I saw a frying pan of burnt cabbage on my gas range, the gas still on. A cooking utensil was on his floor, along with his glasses. When I finally roused him from bed, he was disoriented to time and place. He flew into a rage. I went outside with my dogs and called 911. He ended up in detox and residential placement for about five days.

During my search of the house during that time, I found he had consumed the following: about 60 tabs of Xanax, half a bottle of Bacardi, half a bottle of wine, 11 beers, and one bottle of cough syrup. I packed his clothing into bags. He begged for another chance, and I gave it to him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In April, a repeat of the February relapse happened again. I kicked him out for good, gave him half the savings, and eventually filed for divorce.

In the summer, I started dating again. I learned a few things: Most men in their thirties and forties want children if they've not already had them. I don't. In order to date these days, you need to be willing to text people rather than talk to them. I find this ridiculous. Many men expect women to act a certain way, and when you don't act that way (e.g., play passive aggressive mind games), they think you're hiding something. A friend bought me a eHarmony membership as a Divorce Gift. The few people I went on dates with had lied by omission(like the gentleman who was twice divorced over the course of seven years and had two children he neglected to mention).

In August, a close friend of mind posted an online dating profile on Plenty of Fish and urged me to do the same. I lasted about a week on that site. (Tip to single gentleman: It takes more than "You're beautiful" or "I'd love to fuck you" to get a woman interested in you).

In December, another friend bought me a membership to Match. (My friends, for whatever reason, seem to really want me NOT to be single. I am perfectly happy being a single 30-something woman; apparently no one believed me when I explained this.) I accidentally set my birth year incorrectly so that it listed me as 92 instead of 32 years old. I didn't notice. Suffice to say, they men who did contact me were in their seventies and eighties, and I was a bit creeped out. I would have started to develop a complex if I'd even cared. But when I finally figured it out, I changed my age.

And that's when I got a message from a gentleman that started off with, "I'm probably too old for you, but..." Boredom will do strange things to people. It will make people write back out of nothing more than morbid curiosity.

We corresponded and I agreed to meet him at a local pub for a drink. I mean, after all the horrible dates I'd been on, what was another? We've been together since.

Even though I wished to remain single, to be accountable to no one but myself, to be free to eat ice cream and chocolate for dinner at will, I find myself paired with someone, a year after my nearly-three-year marriage ended.

It appears that no matter what your plans, life just... goes on. And we're just along for the ride.

Euphemism.

Today.

In which I take part in an online chat with a 47-year-old I've not met. He opens with a story of how he's been invited to have sex with a woman and her husband.

An excerpt:

ME: I don't judge people who swing. But sex with near-strangers is NOT my thing.

HIM: I've not experienced that....but would imbibe

ME: "imbibe" means "to drink"

HIM: I know......:)

ME: uh huh

HIM: drink from the secret, forbidden elixir in this case

ME: are you always so prosaic?

ME: because it's not secret, forbidden elixir.

ME: it's just fucking some guy's wife.

HIM: haven't thought of that.....perhaps....

I blocked him; he no longer has the ability to write or chat with me.

The story of my life.

An online stranger told me that I should write an autobiography. He knows nothing more of me than what I've put on some online profile and words we've exchanged via instant messenger.

"No one would read it," I told him.

"I would," he replied.

To which I said, "I was born to a middle class family on Long Island. I had three birthday parties at Hot Skates in Great Neck. Not much of a hook there."

"I have your hook," came his retort. "Are you ready for it?"

"Go on," I sighed, not expecting much.

And then he copied and pasted my own words--words I'd typed to him minutes before--and sent them back to me.

I tell dirty jokes, I don't leave the room to fart, I don't care about designer clothing or being a trophy wife. I clean up really well, but I'm definitely not high society. I'm too scrappy. Oh, and I used to be a slut and I've had sex with women. So there's that.

Perhaps my life is more interested than I'd originally thought.

A note to my hair stylist...

...who has forgotten how much I love the '80s.

So I just made an appointment for October 18th to get my hair cut. I am writing to remind you not to forget your fucking crimper this time. If I am not crimped, I will be very, very angry. Do you really wanna see this broad angry?

Not to worry, though: I'll be sure to remind you as the 18th approaches.

Saucy Vixen

How difficult is it to get one's hair crimped these days?

After my appointment is over, I plan to play with My Little Ponies and Rainbow Bright for the rest of the day.

On addiction and divorce.

Yes, dear readers, it has been a while. A long while. Far, far too long.

My life has changed quite a bit and I suppose those few of you left out there may be vaguely interested to know what's been going on. So I shall cut to the chase: I am getting divorced. I will be legally unmarried in early December. It's been a rather long time coming (almost half the time we've been married), and we've been a part for a while now. I took some time to file only because I was trying to work through some legal loopholes insofar as medical insurance (for him) was concerned.

Do not pity me or tell me you are sorry to hear of it. Be advised that I am quite content and happier than I was. See, marrying an addict can take a lot out of a person. In entries that are years old, you may remember my having stated that I would never date an addict. For reasons still oddly unknown, I overlooked that criterion when I chose to marry The Former Mister Vixen only a month after he proposed; nine months after we met.

When the relapse started in August 2010. There are details. Many, many, sordid and dirty little details that are of no consequence at this juncture. Suffice to say, enough became enough, and I found myself living alone once again.

I am the happiest I've been in a few years. I no longer have anyone financially or emotionally dependent on me. I no longer need to worry about the husband I didn't really love winding up dead in a gutter somewhere. I now have money to spend on myself (for instance, three years after losing 50 lbs, I finally bought myself a new wardrobe this past Saturday). My dogs (expensive as they are) keep me company. I meet new people and make new friends. The shyness of my youth has died and I find myself talking to strangers on an extremely regular basis. I meet people. I have fun. I contemplate my next move.

And as it once was, and is again, I cannot wait to see what happens next. My spirit of adventure has risen again and I intend to put it to good use. If anyone out there cares to join me, you are all welcome.

My soldier.

A few years into the new millennium, a website came out called "Hot or Not." The purpose was to have people post pictures where the entire population of the Internet could rate you on a scale of 1 to 10. You could find out if you were hot. Or not.

Though I don't recall the site having a mailbox feature, I somehow started corresponding with Caleb. Caleb was a first of second lieutenant in the US Army, having graduated from West Point. He had entered on a whim, not ever expecting that there would be a war when he got out of school. He was 24 in the summer of 2004, when we met. I was 25 and had just finished my first year of law school. I was interning at a public defender's office, assisting with an attempted murder trial. I had just broken up with a boyfriend with whom I'd had the worst relationship of my life (before or after).

Caleb did something that kept him up when most of his men were sleeping, and so when he wasn't fighting, he spent his time e-mailing me.

I told Caleb everything. About my promiscuity, my past drug use, my boyfriend, my life. We flirted with each other -- nerdy flirting about such topics as Immanuel Kant (the old "I can't" joke). We talked about meeting up with each other in 2007, when he got out. He told me he was writing a book about life in Iraq, and continued to promise that he'd send me a chapter or two sometime to read over. He never did.

The last I heard from Caleb was in November of 2006. I still write him periodically to check in, see what he's up to. The Internet tells me that he's working in politics and living in Nevada, his home state. He wrote his book. I ordered it, but found it far too boring to read. I recently discovered that he is on Facebook. But with 2,000 friends, I don't particularly feel like reaching out to him in that venue. He's married, too.

I wrote him an e-mail today, though it's been over a year since my last one. I don't expect a response. But I adored him once and appreciate him still, both for his military service and for being my friend.

Death by chocolate.

My mother was diagnosed with Type II Diabetes about a decade ago. She's battled with her weight for the better part of her adult life, so I don't suppose this diagnosis should have been a surprise to anyone. Realize, however, that my mother was never one of those hugely obese people who ate entire chocolate cakes. Her BMI likely straddled the line between overweight and obese for many years until she lost 40 lbs when she was about 49 years old on a highly unhealthy diet (she ate nothing more than four shakes and a gallon of water per day) and dropped down to 135, which was within a healthy range for her height. Suffice it to say, she did not keep it off.

Since her diagnosis, Mom has managed her diabetes with a mix of diet, exercise, and oral medication. She tests her blood sugar when she should, and lives a reasonably healthy lifestyle.

Mom tells me that if she is ever diagnosed with any sort of painful and terminal illness, she will go out and eat an entire chocolate New York cheesecake. Death by chocolate, she calls it.

Pithy sayings.

Anyone who knows me knows that I cannot stand pithy sayings. This is why I would do horribly with any sort of 12-step programs. "It works if you work it" makes me want to stick ice picks into my pupils. "One day at a time" makes my stomach turn. "If you don't master your fear, your fear will master you" makes me want to invade a small town with a machine gun. And I'm a pacifist.

More importantly, though, is that most of these pithy sayings are blatantly false. Let's examine a few, shall we?

Treat others the way you would want to be treated.
I want people to be straight up and honest with me. If I ask, "Do these pants make me look fat?" and they actually do, in fact, make me look fat, I damned well wanna know about it. I want people to treat me respectfully, sure, but I don't want them to pussyfoot around like a bunch of waffling douchebags. I'd rather someone be bitchy than be superficially sweet and friendly -- at least those who are bitchy have a little edge, a little depth. If I treated people the way I want to be treated, I would have no friends. I'm more abrasive than most folks; an acquired taste. I understand that, which is why I treat people the way they want to be treated, not the way I might want to be treated if in the same situation.

If someone else jumped off a bridge, you wouldn't do the same, would you?
Hell yes I would. Jumping off a bridge is a fucking good time. A rollicking good time, even. Fun for the whole family. I mean, it would depend on the bridge, or course, and the water beneath it, the tides, how fast it was moving, and all sorts of other factors. But I certainly wouldn't foreclose the possibility of jumping off a bridge. I've seen others jump off a bridge before, and you know what I did? I did it, too. Then I swam to the shore and did it two more times. If I had the chance, I'd do it again.

Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
Yes it does. Bacon. Bacon tastes as good as thin feels. The next person who tells me that nothing tastes as good as thin feels is getting my foot shoved up his or her ass. Seriously.

Things that annoy me.

In no particular order:

(1) Dunkin' Donuts' doughnuts. They always look better than they actually taste. Even if I have but a Munchkin, I am left thinking, "I wasted my time on this???" Once upon a time, they were made on premises. It seems those days are long gone, with little to show by way of quality doughnuts. Shame on you, Dunkin'. I shall be forced to purchase my confections elsewhere. (In fairness, I can't remember the last time I purchased a doughnut; someone brought some into work today, so I tried one. Meh.)

(2) Judges who don't understand the rules of evidence. It's one thing to put your thumb on the scale in order to favor the prosecution. I get that. I'm used to that. It's irritating, but not so bothersome as to cause fits of spavins and heaves. However, I had a judge actually say, sitting as tryer-of-fact, "If you're going to enter this in not for the truth of the matter asserted, you may as well be entering in a blank piece of paper, as I'm not going to read it." The evidence in question was a written statement, entered only to show that the statement was made and available to a certain individual. It was relevant to show how the individual responded upon receiving it. Surely, one would think reading it would be necessary. But not this judge. He just decided to create an appellate issue. For fun!

(3) Taylor Swift.

True confessions of a Snot Eater.

I eat my own snot.

There. I said it. And it's true. I suppose it's something I should be ashamed of, but I maintain that if we weren't supposed to eat our own snot, then the body would not produce something so delicious. It's also quite amazing that we've found a way to survive on our own substances. It's not cannibalism. Not quite. It's more like drinking milk from a cow. Stranded on a desert island, would you rather die or subsist on your own mucousy goodness? Sorry, but if given that choice, I'm gonna go for the snot every time.

Not only do I eat my own snot, but I bite my nails. After I get those wonderful little half-moons off, I chew on them. For hours. I twist them around in my mouth, I chase them with my tongue, and eventually, I bite them into tiny, tiny, microscopic bits. Sometimes, I run out of finger nails to chew on. This, of course, is not a problem. When there are no fingernails left, I move on to my toenails. Before you "eeew" at me, consider how sexy it is that I can get my foot into my mouth. Yeah. I'm that good.

I do draw the line, of course. I do not eat other people's snot, nor do I bite other people's nails. Upon reflection, I don't suppose it would be all that awful. I mean, I've swallowed semen. I've had other people's tongues in my mouth. Feet aren't my thing, but if I met someone who was really into it, I don't suppose I'd be beyond suckling someone's big toe.

So I don't understand why people get grossed out by, say, sweat. At the gym. Or sitting down someplace in a skirt after some guy sat there before you. Have you never traced your lover's neck or bicep or chest with your tongue? There's all sorts of sweat there. And don't even get me started on the musky aromatic scents of male in the testicle region.

I am left with a simple conclusion: Women who freak out about germs and are easily grossed out are prudes. I am unashamed of my snot-eating. Nay, I embrace my snot-eating. After all, if a chick puts snot in her mouth, you can't even begin to imagine all the other kinky shit she'll do for you.

Joys of lemon.

Many moons ago, I told you about Citrus Dude, who used and abused citrus fruit. He, for some odd reason, also put a hair clip on his balls. Why? Some questions are best left unanswered. I did not share the photo before, but I feel compelled to now. And so, without any further ado, I bring you, the Lemon Penis.

I never thought I would see a more embarrassed lemon than the one on Citrus Dude's manly protuberance. Look at it. So sad. So alone. So, so violated.

And then I discovered this old Weight Watchers recipe card from the 1970s, back when folks were encouraged to eat liver and make their own ketchup.

Salmon mousse. With lemons.

The citrus humiliation begins anew.

You people (yes YOU!) are fucked up.

A while back, I entered some secret code into the bowels of this blog so that I can track where my visitors come from. I know if you've gotten to my blog via search engines (and I know which ones) or referred sites. I know where you live -- what country, state, and city. I know how many pages you view, which ones, and how long you read. Oh, yes. The Saucy Vixen is watching you.

Far more entertaining, however, are the keyword search results. I get to see what y'all enter into search engines that cause you to stagger across my blog. It seems you're seeking answers. So, I have compiled a list of answers for you, based upon what you've entered into the search engine. No need to thank me. Consider it a free service from someone who cares.

(1) No, you can no longer purchase used women's panties on eBay. That craze died sometime in the late 1990s. I know this because I used to grift creepy men with promises of panties from sexy college co-eds. Really, I just bought a $2 pair from TJ Maxx, packed in in a Ziploc bag (per popular request), and sold 'em for about $50 a pop. I was a very entrepreneurial college student. Mr. Vixen tells me that there are other websites that provide the used panty service now. I wish you luck.

(2) I have no clue how to hydrate beef jerky. It seems like an odd thing to do. I dare say that you'll never get a porterhouse steak from a bag of jerky. Warning: Do not attempt to hydrate jerky by warming it in a microwave after wetting it down. It cases smoke. And fire.

(3) Entering "Who is the women behind the saucy vixen blog" into Google will not magically provide you with my true identity.

(4) "Tiramisu" is not a sexual position. Many of you seem to think it is. This concerns me.

(5) If you're scouring the Internet for information in order to decide whether you should date men with children, you probably shouldn't.

(6) E-mailing with someone does not constitute cheating. I e-mail people all the time. I e-mail colleagues. I e-mail random guys I know. I e-mail my in-laws. I e-mail my parents. It would be foolish to assume that I am having sex with all these people. It would also be really disturbing.

(7) Marconi really does play the mamba. And a city built on rock and roll would be structurally unsound.

Judging the judgmental.

People often claim to be nonjudgmental. This is a bunch of hogwash.

I have never met anyone who is truly nonjudgmental. I will admit it. I judge people. I don't tolerate stupidity or covert racism disguised as economics and politics (this is far more insidious, in my view, than overt racism). I can't deal with people who would prefer to sacrifice civil rights in the name of public safety. And I can't stand those who judge people.

Hypocritical, I know.

Still, I have a hard time judging someone for being a drug addict. I cannot judge someone who has racked up an extensive criminal record because he has not been afforded equal opportunity or education (those who grow up in the 'hood have never learned that it is not "normal" to steal or use drugs -- these notions don't exist for people who have no role models that haven't served prison time). There are many issues on which reasonable people can disagree, and for the most part, I tend to leave these people alone. As long as folks aren't hurting others, I could give a rat's patootie how they live their lives.

But what irks me are those with highfalutin ideals who feel people should follow suit. I recently encountered the music videos of someone I went to high school with. I will ignore, for a moment, how grating her voice is and her two-dimensional-yet-trying-hard-t0-be-evocative lyrics. I will discuss, instead, the "message" she attempts to send.

In one song, she talks disparagingly about those who get by on their good looks and who are vain. What she seems to fail to understand is that not everyone in this world is smart. Not everyone can go to college or get an advanced degree. Not everyone, like her, came from White suburbia where knowledge and education were valued. And so, people are forced to get by on what they have. If someone has nothing more than good looks, what's wrong with getting by on them? Getting by on good looks is probably safer than turning tricks for crack in a back alley (which many of my and my husband's clients have done). If a person wants plastic surgery and can afford to get it, why should she give a fuck? Why should she care that people don't concentrate on expanding their minds? Some people honestly don't have that much of a mind to expand. There should be no shame in being intellectually average or less-than-average. If you got it, work it. Do what works for you.

In another song, this singer/songwriter talks about how she was called a "human Barbie doll" in high school because she was so delicate and slender. Oh, horrors of horrors! I wonder if anyone ever called her "fattie." Or "kike dyke." Or "retard." I got all of those, and yet I don't lament about it over a decade later. In the same song, she states how she was "hurt" and "irked" (newsflash: these words don't fucking rhyme, Ms. Not Getting By On Her Looks But Using Her Mind) when boys told her that cheerleading wasn't a sport. And then she states how she was a cheerleader because she "didn't know better."

I have several friends who were cheerleaders when they were younger. Perhaps they didn't know better, either. But they are damned good people now. The self-deprecation regarding cheerleading status is interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the fact that the worst thing that apparently ever happened to this girl was being called a "human Barbie doll." Lady, if that's the worst thing that's ever happened in your life, consider yourself lucky. You are wholly judgmental.

But so am I. I'm just not so fucking self-righteous about it. And I don't pretend it's something it's not. It's judgment.

Update.

What is going on in my life (for those who've asked):

(1) Trials and the prep that goes along with them.

(2) Chris goes into surgery on August 11, 2009. He has two weeks of post-op recovery in a wheelchair, during which time he will be living on a futon in the living room (our room is upstairs). After Labor Day, he goes to school to earn his Master's in Social Work.

(3) The associated stress from numbers 1 and 2 is causing bad skin and weight loss (I tend not to eat when I'm under stress).

(4) My hair is growing out and I look like a troll. The Jewfro shall reach epic proportions by fall.

That's all the news that's fit to print. Over and out.

On being a boss (and a father).

My father was the type of boss everyone loves to have. In his heyday, he worked as Vice President of Purchasing and Procurement for large food corporations. As I understand it, the folks who worked under him were commodities buyers. My father was of the position that his company paid the people who worked for them a good salary to do what they did. They were hand-picked, and would not have been hired if they did not know how to do their jobs. Thus, he articulated a standard, and he let them work. He gave them enough space to do their jobs. He did not micromanage. Were mistakes made? Sure. But as Dad likes to point out, mistakes are part of the learning process. When his folks asked him for help, he was more than happy to lend a hand. And on top of that, he kept a small portion of the direct work himself. They need to know that the boss is keeping up with the industry and the trends, Dad would tell me. They need to know you can relate to what they are doing -- do as I do, and not just as I say.

The way my father managed his employees was not dissimilar from how he treated me when I was growing up. Expectations were brightly articulated. Empty threats did not exist in my household. For example, on a family trip to the Bronx Zoo, Dad told me and my sister that if we argued with each other in the car, he would turn around and take us home. We made it all the way to the parking lot of the zoo, before I exclaimed, "She's touching me! She's touching me!" Two hours after we had set out, in the parking lot of the zoo, Dad turned the car around and took us home. We learned at a young age that when he said something was unacceptable, he meant it.

At the same time, my parents once told me that kids reach a certain age where you have to trust that you raised them well enough, and let them make their own mistakes. As a teenager, I was never grounded. My parents were savvy enough to know that if I really wanted to go out, I'd find a way to sneak out. They granted me my independence when it was appropriate, and stood back to watch as I muddled my way through my later teen years and early adulthood, making all sorts of foolish mistakes. They pointed and laughed at these mistakes, too.

Chris did not have it so lucky. His father was also in upper management. An extremely Type A sort of fellow, Chris's dad kept a keen eye on everything that was going on. Unfortunately, he ended up micromanaging his children the way he micromanaged his workers. He would lament that Chris was not learning responsibility, but would forbid him to get a car. He dictated those decisions that should have been left to Chris. And worse, he never let Chris fail. Chris began drinking alcoholically at 17. When he crashed his car after a night of drinking, he was "punished" with a brand new car. After Chris was kicked out of his first college for drug use and told his folks that he wanted to get a job and move out, they told him no. (I've often argued that if Chris had really wanted to move out, he would have anyway.)

Because Chris's father managed Chris's life to the extent that he did, he never let Chris fail. I do not blame Chris's dad for Chris's alcoholism, drug addiction, or related paralysis. Chris made his own decisions and is left to live with them now. But it occurs to me that if Chris's father had been a different sort of boss, Chris would have ended up with a different sort of upbringing.

After my brief analysis of these starkly different management styles, I am left with the notion that one can tell a lot about a person's parenting by looking at that person's management style.

An observation.

Look at that nose. That cute, little boyish, Peter Pan nose.

Now, let's compare.

Michael Jackson. Same nose.

Coincidence? I think not.

ODC: When life gives you lemons...

Citrus Dude: 2002

I don't know his name and I don't know where he came from or how he found me. I only know that he really enjoyed citrus. And when I say he enjoyed citrus, I mean he enjoyed citrus. Biblically.

You don't get it yet?

Hmmm. How shall I put this? The man violated citrus. Grapefruits. Limes. Lemons. I never actually replied to this man. I never said, "I really dig how much you love this fruit." Not once. Perhaps if he had used a key lime or a kumquat, I may have responded. That would have been impressive.

What did I learn from this experience?

Clearly, when life gives you lemons.... put your cock in 'em.

Baby on board?

On my way home today, I saw a "Baby on Board" sign on the station wagon driving in front of me. And I wondered: Does that really make anyone more cautious? Perhaps, in this age if litigiousness, people would be far more cautious around a car that had a sign proclaiming "Lawyer on Board." For while lawyers are a loathed group of folks, the consequences of careening into a lawyer could prove far more dire.

ODC: Sweater Man.

Sweater Man: Winter 2000

Everyone has a kink.

Some people are turned on by leather and lace, whips and chains. Other people get off by inserting inanimate objects and phallic-shaped fruits and vegetables into their various orifices. Still more get all hot and bothered by watching and being watched in compromising positions.

Matt? Matt's kink was sweaters.

No, really. I met Matt back when America Online personal ads were free. Bored one night during my junior year of college, I found myself perusing the ads for kicks. He seemed to be everything I could ever want in a mate: a good-looking Jewish journalist. Just like me! So I added his screen name to my buddy list and promptly forgot about the ad.

Several months later, I saw the name on my list, but had no recollection of who he was. So I Instant Messaged him. As soon as I learned that he worked for Boston's Jewish newspaper, it clicked: Yes! Matt! The good-looking Jewish journalist. My thoughts spun wildly out of control and before I knew it I was daydreaming about starting a life with Matt. Two Jewish journalists traveling the world and the stumbling upon entertaining adventures -- the type of adventures that would provide us with years and years of personal anecdotes with which to write columns about. Could anything be better??

I came back to reality to see that Matt had asked me about my hobbies. Hmmmm. Hobbies. Other than partying and sleeping? I had to think fast. "I knit," I told him. And it wasn't altogether false. I had taken up knitting when I had tried to quit smoking. The knitting had given me carpal tunnel syndrome, so I'd gone back to the insidious cancer sticks. But every now and then I'd pick up the knitting needles and knit a friend a mangled, uneven scarf.

"Do you make sweaters?" he asked. Sweaters? Um. I paused, thinking of how to respond. Matt continued: "Because I have a lot of sweater patterns. I have a cabin on the Cape. Maybe we could go there this winter and knit together. I'd love to make sweaters with you."

I cabin on the Cape. It sounded good to me. I could agree to knit sweaters in exchange for a romantic weekend in a cabin on the Cape, complete with romantic, candlelit dinner for two in front of the roaring fire. "Sure," I said. "I'd like making sweaters together."

We exchanged numbers and it wasn't long before Matt called. We chit-chatted about the weather, life, Boston culture, and journalism in general. And then it came. "Do you wear lots of sweaters?" he asked.

"Well, I have lots of sweaters. I mean, this is Boston. But I don't tend to wear lots of sweaters at the same time."

"Oh," he said. And a pause. "Are you wearing a sweater now?"

Why yes, I was, in fact, wearing a sweater. "I sure am," I said. At his request, I described the sweater to him: a lavender, v-neck merino wool J Crew sweater. Very soft. A lovely hue. And oh-so-very comfortable.

The next day, he caught me online and Instant Messaged me. He asked me if I owned any mohair sweaters. I told him I did not. We chatted a bit more and agreed to meet for coffee two days hence.

I showed up at the coffee place about ten minutes early. Being early is a compulsion of mine. Apparently, it was a compulsion of his as well. We ordered our drinks and sat down. I noticed the Banana Republic bag at his feet, and asked him whether he had been shopping. He smiled shyly. "You could say that," he said. Okay then. So he's shy about paying too much for Banana Republic sweaters on Newbury Street. Hell, I would be, too. We talked for about an a half hour longer before I told him that I needed to book it if I was going to make it to my evening class on time. He asked if he could walk me to class. I told him I'd prefer if he didn't. With that, he awkwardly shoved the Banana Republic bag at me. I gave him a quizzical look. "It's for you," he said.

Oy vey. I gift on the first date. I opened the bag, unwrapped the tissue paper and found an absolutely gorgeous purple (my favorite color -- had I told him that?) medium-cabled mohair sweater. "I figure it would look good with a camisole on under it."

"Um. Thanks." I mean, what does a person say to a man who brings her a sweater on the first date? I left took off with the sweater and left him there without a hug or kiss. I didn't expect to hear from him.

I got an e-mail later that evening. He had a request. He wanted sweater erotica.

Why not? How harmful could sweater erotica be? So I penned him a letter about sitting in front of his fireplace in his cabin on the Cape. How he ran his fingers over my shoulders and down my back, savoring the feeling of my thick, delicious cashmere sweater. I wrote about how he slowly undressed me, peeling the cashmere off my supple, nubile body, revealing what lay beneath. Another sweater! This sensual erotic writing continued for four more layers of sweater.

Matt loved it! He ate that shit up. He complimented my writing style and told him I was the only woman he'd ever met who wrote so lovingly of sweaters. "The other women," he complained, "only ever write about one sweater before they are topless. Boobs are nice and all, but sweaters are where it's at." He continued, spinning yarns of women in full-body sweaters.

Then he hit me with his ultimate fantasy, and asked if I would comply. Matt wanted me to take all my sweaters (I had about 20 at the time), and and lay them out of my bed. He wanted me to toss the sweaters about like a salad, put on a full body knit suit, and lie in the middle of the bed, draped in sweater.

That's when I called it quits. I'm all about providing people with their fantasies, but I couldn't envision myself prancing among sweaters and being able to keep a straight face. After only a single date, we parted amicably.

About two years later, I was eating dinner with my roommate, her friend, and his fiance. I began retelling the story of Sweater Man in full, fluid detail. When I mentioned the publication he worked for -- before I got into his sweater fantasies -- the fiance stopped me. She asked, "Is Sweater Man's name Matt?" She explained how she had gone on a date with him about a year prior. "He kept eyeing me and rubbing his hands over my shoulders." I asked her what she had been wearing. "A brand new cashmere sweater." I then proceeded to tell her about the sweater erotica.

"Wow," she exclaimed. "That explains a lot."

ODC: Bathroom Boy.

Bathroom Boy: Summer 2001

Men are pigs. It's true. What women don't realize, however, is that men are pigs because we allow them to be. At the tender age of 22, I had not yet come to this realization.

I don't remember how I met Darren or how he convinced me to come over to his apartment at 2 am some hot, sticky June morning while I was recovering from a urinary tract infection. But there I was, in the bedroom of a self-proclaimed 20-something entrepreneur (what he actually did, I can't say), making out. As he went to put his hand between my thighs, I stopped him. "No," I said. "I'm shy in the beginning." Ha! "Next time."

Apparently, "next time" couldn't come fast enough for Darren; he called me about three days later, on a Friday evening. I explained to Darren that I was going out with some friends that night. He assured me that what he had planned wouldn't take much time. After all, he also had plans that evening. But perhaps we could get together for a little pre-game, as it were. I would have had to be a complete moron not to realize what Darren was really after (which, given my state of idiocy at the time, was a complete possibility). He was relegating me to the opening act of the evening. Not particularly special, but interesting enough to pass a little time while waiting for the main event.

I don't recall being very taken with Darren. He was extremely hot, yes, but he reeked of doucebaggery. Yet with nothing better to do, and apparently with fairly low standards, I agreed to meet him at his place at about 6 that evening.

My hair was short at the time, in the beginning of the growing-out phase where I look more like a troll than a person. However, my biting with and charm and big boobs always tended to make up for my hair issues. So I threw on my favorite casual outfit: greenish khaki-ish pants with a very deep scoop-neck, flimsy black tank top that showed off my ample cleavage. I mean, REALLY showed off my ample cleavage such that a person could drown in it. I drove to Darren's place and rang the bell. As I expected, my outfit had the proper effect: he never once looked at my sprouting head of straw-hair.

"I have to take a shower before I go out," he told me. "Come." I knew from last time that Darren had a bathroom upstairs, adjacent to his bedroom. But instead of going up the stairs, he led me to the back of the house, to a bathroom off the kitchen. He turned on the shower, disrobed, got in, and motioned for me to do the same. I was hesitant at first, but figured, eh, fuck it. Why not?

There was nothing erotic about showering with Darren. Banish any thoughts of having a good time under the cascades of water, as we lathered each other up and caressed each other's soapy bodies. That is not what happened. Instead, he inelegantly pawed at me, and I was too bored with it to say anything. The only thing I really remember of the experience is that my cell phone started ringing mid-shower. I made a mental note to check my messages as soon as the asinine bathing activity had ended.

The shower didn't last long. We got out and toweled off. Darren wrapped a towel around his waist and stood at the threshold to the bathroom. "I'm going upstairs to get dressed. You -- you stay right here. Don't leave. Don't open the door until I knock." He was very clear on this point, and repeated it. "Do NOT open the door until I knock."

Fine, whatever. But seriously? Even then I wondered who he was hiding me from. A roommate? A girlfriend he had stored away in the bathroom upstairs? What was the deal with his piggish behavior? Though I questioned it, I didn't question him. Instead, I subserviently waited in the bathroom. Well, to be fair, waiting wasn't all I did. I toweled off my hair which had already started to spring forth from my head in its trollish manner, and I put on my underwear, bra, pants, and sandals. It was humid and I was sweaty, so I left my tank top sitting on the toilet seat as I checked my cell phone messages.

Checking my messages, however, proved to be a difficult task. There was only one tiny corner of the room that had cell phone reception, so I found myself standing on the commode, crouching right under the top of the window, so I could hear what the plans for the night were. I had to re-dial my message box about three times to get the gist of it. Near the last go-through, I heard the knock at the door.

Thank God, I thought. I'm tired of waiting in this fucking bathroom. I opened the door to find a sweaty (albeit extremely good-looking) rugby player standing there. "Um. Hi."

I stood there, speechless, in my black push-up bra, my phone to my ear.

"You...?"

Oh, right. Apparently it was my turn to say something. "Hi. I'm, uh. I'm a friend of Darren's. Yeah. Right. And I'm..." I looked at my watchless wrist before continuing. "I'm totally running late. See ya."

And with that, I bolted off in my pants and bra, cell phone in hand, and lucky that my keys were in my pants pocket. I didn't even pay attention to the kids next door who stared at me as I jogged out to my car. Once in my car, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was out! I was no longer held captive in the bathroom! Hallelujah! It was only at this point that I realized I'd left my shirt behind. My favorite shirt from two seasons prior that had been discontinued. Alas, I drove off without it.

As for Darren? I never heard from the bastard again. Prick. I mean, really, if you had banished some woman to your bathroom and she had disappeared after your roommate had knocked on the door, wouldn't you at least call to make sure she had gotten home okay? Wouldn't your sense of curiosity make you call? Unless, of course, the bathroom-roommate-discovery game was something they played often. Could it be? Was I on candid camera?

I've scoured the Internet and bad "reality" TV joke shows since and have never found footage of myself running topless out of Darren's bathroom. So at least I'm safe in that regard. Though I'm left to wonder how many women Darren did this to. Just how much of a pig was he, really?

For years I thought about what a dick Darren was. It wasn't until a few years ago that I realized, hey, Darren was a dick because I let him be a dick. What self respecting woman goes over for a booty call at 2 am? Moreover, what self respecting woman meets up with a guy who only makes enough time in his day to shower with her? Not one. That's it. None one self respecting woman would ever meet up with a guy who only makes enough time in his day to shower with her.

A few years later I ran into Darren at a bar. He asked my friend over to to his place. Even though I warned her, she went anyway. And got left in his bathroom.