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.

Untitled.

September 24, 2005--1.40 p.m.

I realized something last night. It never stops. Love. Once you love someone, you don't fall out of love. It's always there and it's a part of you. So instead of trying to desperately fall out of love and stop caring, it's far simpler just to let that love go. Release it rather than fight against it. And remember how good it felt when it was a part of you and not just something that existed in a buried cavern inside yourself. Those people that I have loved... That love isn't gone. It's just faded, and I remember it as I'd remember a trip to the circus when I was five years old. A memory, dull, washed out, yet still alive.

I wrote that over six years ago in my journal. In retrospect, I am not sure who I was writing about. I suppose the most likely explanation would be that I was writing about Mike. Best Friend Mike, who has appeared in my ramblings since 2005. In fact, he appeared in my very first blog entry, Writing Without a Purpose. I wrote about him after our breakup-of-sorts. Apparently, I even wrote about this very journal passage back in 2006.

Mike has been my only love. I don't mean this in a love-is-unicorns-shitting-rainbows sort of way. There are no fairy tale endings. In real life, the prince rarely saves the damsel in distress and teen love grows into 40-something resentment. Life is strange and unpredictable and love follows life's path. Mark Twain put it best when he said, "Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense."

Nothing about my relationship with Mike ever made sense. Since our breakup six-plus years ago, I've gotten married, been diagnosed with depression and anxiety, been medicated, underwent therapy, realized the truth about addiction, kicked out my husband and filed for divorce. For the first time in my life, I am happy. I am content with my life and take solace in the day-to-day monotony as well as the little adventures that happen to everyone.

Mike and I spent this past Saturday together. It was the first time we've seen each other (or even really talked) in three years. It's the first time we've connected since I got married. The talk, the humor, the level of connection was not the same as it used to be.

It was stronger.

He is happy, too, no longer emotionally sapped from a brutal 14-year-marriage and terrible, wicked divorce from the first girl with whom he ever had sex. Like me, he is content with his life. He spends his evenings making art or pondering science and has his own little adventures. In 2005, we spent about a year together, unhappy as individuals and afraid to let ourselves be vulnerable, preferring to be numb, feeling better about it because each of us, in our misery, had company.

We are both happy now and therefore more at ease with ourselves and each other. The took a leap back into the friendship we'd had, but without the negative energy and the need to fight and the need to over analyze ever word we said to each other. We let ourselves be ourselves and enjoyed our time together.

He has tough work hours, though we have promised to see more of each other. We spoke on the phone last night for hours, like we used to, not realizing we'd talked for so long until both realizing it was past time to go to bed.

For the first time ever in our relationship (and perhaps in my life), I have let go of my fatalism. I am not concerned that things won't end well. I'm not looking to define our relationship with any specific labels or agenda. I am simply looking forward to seeing where this ride will take us.

My wish for everyone is a wonderful ride, wherever it leads.

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.

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.

Married and dating.

I miss dating.

Every time I hear a single friend of mine going on and on about the flutters and fabulousness of new lust, I find myself envious. Thus, I set out to get back to dating.

I find, however, that it is hard to date while married. Every now and then I'll try platonic dating. Ya know, meeting new people, making new friends, getting out more. I need to get out more and I love people, so it always seems like a good idea. Because I find that most women are whiny, co-dependent wretches, I tend to gravitate towards hanging out with men. They appreciate my rape jokes more anyway.

I have discovered, much to my chagrin, that men do not understand what "platonic" means. The single ones want to fuck. The married ones want to fuck. The gay ones, not so much, but there's only so much Lady Gaga a girl can listen to in one sitting. And one of my gay guy friends actually did ask me to have sex with him, just to "try it out" with someone he trusted. Frankly, with my track record for monogamy being what it is (i.e, I completely suck at it), it's likely better not to tempt fate anyway.

So after discussing the issue with Mr. Vixen, we decided to start dating together. Having long since been involved in the swingers community starting at the tender age of 22, it wasn't difficult to convince him to jump in. Okay, so it was extremely difficult. Damned scruples. But I digress.

Our standards were high. We are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals. We sought the same. That was our first problem. Following that, we refused to deal with other people's crazy. In case you were unsure, swingers are fucking insane. They're usually trying to fix their marriages, and swinging is the step taken to do so before the more permanent "solution" of procreating.

Due to our high standards, our online swingers profile read thusly:

Turn-ons: polysyllaby, creativity, good grammar, musical and artistic talent, proper spelling, dry wit, emotional stability, sense of humor, curiosity, politesse and general etiquette, a love of good food, aptitude with tongue and fingers, extended foreplay.

Turn-offs (you will be ignored if you display the following traits): ppl who rite txtspk, tipe porely or mispel comon werds, rabid demands for sex now Now NOW!, cheating on a significant other (with or without sound rationalization), those looking to fill the void of their banal existence, those who in ANY way involve their children in the lifestyle (again, with or without sound rationalization).

Polyamorous? We're not. Nor are we interested. Ever. Why? We're still trapped in the conformist monogamist mindset and prone to jealousy because instead of spending several hours discussing the minutiae of our relationship and our "feelings" we watch true-crime documentaries on MSNBC. And really, teenage vampire-cult killings interest us far more than justifying our inability to commit to another person.

Our ideal people would not send us photos of their gaping orifices. Neither of us find gynecological and/or rectal exams terribly sexy, and though intellectually fascinating in an isn't-the-human-body-cool sort of way, we tend to reserve such musing for less lusty moments.

And as a perhaps-surprising addendum to the above, photos of your penises, gentlemen, are not likely to convince us that what we've really been missing all along in our sex-lives is a second protuberance, and that yours would make the perfect addition.

Be aware that single-sentence requests for face pics or to set up a meeting do not merit the dignity of a reply: not even one of our trademark devastating, witty, and clever retorts (ie, "you're a poopstick.") Sorry, but if you want a glimpse of our faces or a chance to meet in person, you'll have to introduce yourself and get to know us first. We know, the suspense is terrifying; I mean, we might be ugly, and then you'll have had an email conversation that didn't lead to sex. Really, we're selfish to demand you type more than "got pics?", but hey... we're evil. We're the reason you can't have nice things.

Bi-Curious? Ask yourself: if my boyfriend/husband/man were not watching me go down on this chick, would I still be interested in doing it? If yes, then perhaps you are genuinely questioning your sexual orientation at this time.

If no, please ask your man to smoke another guy's pole for your viewing enjoyment. After all, fair is fair.

We were in! Because, as I previously stated, we are sexy, brilliant, hilarious intellectuals, we got a pretty steady amount of inquires coming in. Most, we didn't bother responding to. Nope, not even our trademark and witty retort, "You are a poopstick." Many were written in text speak. Many reeked of crazy. Many were by people who were, well, really unattractive.

We met a handful of couples during our year-long experiment, and the dating was, indeed, fun. We had but one rule: No fucking on the first date. Other than that, it was a free-for-all of our combined personalities. Me, the coarse, brash, over-the-top and often inappropriate instigator. (I am "somewhat of an acquired taste," Mr. Vixen tells me, albeit "a bit more subdued" than usual.) Him, the shy, cynical, dry, quick-witted intellectual elitist. (Mr. Vixen insists that he is cynical in the "classical sense," but not in the way our society now understand the word. Reasonable people may disagree on this sentiment.)

We scared people off. One couple actually downshifted into small talk and asked me about my favorite books, which sent me into a discourse upon how John Irving films are crap as compared to his books, and how I've never forgiven John Grisham since reading The Painted House.

Sometimes, people scared us off. Like the loquacious librarian who drunkenly confessed she would sleep with anyone, and then began describing an unsavory scenario involving a first-time meeting with someone else's husband and a bout of vaginal discharge. Contrary to popular belief, I do think there are certain things people ought to keep to themselves.

A few couples were fun and we got along swimmingly with them. However, trying to navigate schedules when it came to other people's children (we don't have any ourselves, nor do we plan to) was tiresome. And so, despite many invitations for more scintillating activities, Mr. Vixen and I spent most of our time at home, watching MSNBC documentaries about teenage vampire cults.

As for me, I began to realize that maybe there's something to be said for not having to date people after all.

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.

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.

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.

Online Dating Chronicles: Pickles and Pomegranate Seeds.

Pickles and Pomegranate Seeds: March 12, 2005

Adult FriendFinder bills itself as the biggest swingers community online. This is inaccurate. It's nothing more than a haven for married men and large women who want to get laid. I was introduced to the site in May 2001 by Douchebag Alcoholic (an installment for another day), who bought me a year's membership as a "surprise."

"Surprise!" I wanted to tell him. "Twenty-two year old bisexual women don't need the Internet to get laid." But, as always, I got addicted to the chat rooms. AFF, I found later, is much like the Hotel California: You can check out any time you want, but you can never leave. It's an insidious, vile thing. It stays with you for life.

So when the Evil Psychologist and I broke up in the summer of 2004, and my chronic insomnia became, well, chronic again, I found myself once again in the New England AFF chat room. On that Island of Misfit Toys, no one ever slept. Even when the Yahoo euchre addicts went to sleep, the AFF-ers chatted on. So at three, four, five in the morning, when no more games of interactive cards could be found, I would wander into the AFF chat room.

This is where I encountered Mike, whose user name was WiccaWolf, and whose grammar was atrocious. Though I would chat with him for hours, I refused to actually meet him. He was one of those individuals who, even well into his 30s, wrote in text-speak. I could not bring myself to meet up with someone who replaced "you" with "u" on a regular basis. A woman's got to have standards, after all.

Yet on March 12, 2005, after a few drinks and a crappy night out with the girls, I was bored, suffering from insomnia, and had nothing to do. So when I called Mike on a whim (using the number he'd given more four months prior, but had never called), he invited me to drive out to meet up with him and his two friends, a couple.

“I’m going to keep you on the phone for a while,” I said to Mike. I was in the parking lot of my apartment complex, talking on my cell phone though a hands-free headset, preparing myself for an hour’s drive. The night was chilly, but warmer than usual for a New England winter. It had been a few weeks since the last snowfall, so it seemed that the snowy season was over ahead of schedule. Everyone was excited about the prospect of no more snow. I checked out my reflection in my car window and ensured myself that yes, my teeny-bopper t-shirt really did make my boobs like good.

This strangely comforted me, and made me forget about my curly hair, which had been hastily pulled back and clipped into a messy ponytail. I was wearing a lightweight jacket of pink tweed over the t-shirt, and was perfectly comfortable. Except for the fact that I was about to drive an unfamiliar route at some ungodly hour, off to meet three people I’d never met. Driving at night makes me anxious. So does meeting strangers. “I’m going to keep you on the phone,” I repeated to Mike, “because I’m bad with directions.”

When I got off the highway at the designated spot, I found myself winding along serpentine roads, alternating nervously between the gas and the break. It was nearly 2 a.m., and I still couldn't figure out why I had ventured out. The night was foggy. The clouds seemed to have reached down to embrace my little Honda Civic. Even with my headlights piercing the darkness, I could hardly see a foot in front of me. The occasional oncoming set of headlights startled me, and I immediately slowed down each time a car came in my direction. What was I doing? I tried to look at the directions I’d jotted down, but between the darkness, fog, and hilly terrain, I couldn't make them out.

I drove for what seems like forever. Every minute that passed made me more and more nervous, until I became convinced that I was lost. My knuckles were white from gripping the wheel, and I veered to the right as I saw another oncoming car. My cell phone, resting on the passenger seat, flew out, hit the dashboard, and landed under my seat along with my lighter, cigarettes, and pack of gum. While driving, I reached down to feel for the phone, but only located the lighter. At the next side street, I took a sharp right and pulled over. I got out of the car, located my phone, and get back in, closing the door on the cord to the headset in the process. The battery was dangerously low, but I called Mike anyway. No answer. Crap. I was going to end up in the middle of nowhere, stuck in the fog and unable to contact any humans.

I continued to drive, hoping my directions were accurate. When I finally reach the street where my destination was, I was a frenzied mess. I slowed down, unsure of which driveway to pull into. I made a right turn at the single house that has a porch light on. I called Mike, and again, there was no answer. Fortunately, saw my car’s headlights, and was already standing in the driveway when I got out of the car. He was s tall – at least a foot taller than me – and bald. And tattooed. A tall, slightly-scary looking skinhead. How did I get myself into this? I concluded right then and there in the dark that he was decidedly unattractive.

Mike took me in and led me to the master bedroom suite, where Mike introduced me to Keeks. “Everyone wants to come here," he told me. "So you’re lucky. Everyone wants to fuck my wife." He paused before continuing. "I let Mike fuck my wife.”

“You don’t let me do anything,” I heard Jules yell from behind the wall.

Oh my holy fucking shit. Who are these people?

Jules called to Keeks. From the bathroom, I guessed. “See if she wants a drink.” Keeks looked at me inquisitively.

“Just water,” I responded.

“Water? What are you, a pussy? I thought you were a party girl.”

Both Keeks and Mike disappeared behind the wall for a moment. Then all three of them returned, and Keeks handed me a glass of ice water. I saw take Mike a sip from his own cup, one of those big, red plastic cups you find at frat parties. He cringed visibly. Mike sat down next to me again and lit a cigarette. I noted his chain smoking, and lit one of my own. Without my having noticed Keeks and Jules have disappeared. Mike and I are alone. And then Keeks magically appeared again. "What the fuck are you drinking?" he demanded of Mike.

"Vodka, soda and lime juice. It's not bad."

“Can I try?” I asked. Mike nodded his assent, and I took a sip of the lukewarm liquor and lime. Tastes like crap. “Nope, not bad at all,” I agreed.

From downstairs, came the sound of Jules swearing. “Come help me with the groceries,” she demanded. Mike and I were left alone.

“I’m tired,” I said, shifting into small talk. “The drive was absolutely awful. Fog. I swear, I’m never coming out here again.” I seemed to have broken the ice, and Mike and I began talking. As the minutes ticked by, the idle chatter became more and more comfortable, and we started really – really – talking. I began the way I normally do when I’m with strangers. My standard defense mechanism is to act gruff and hard, the way I’ve come across to him before in our sporadic online chat sessions.

“Everyone has a facade,” Mike explained to me. “It’s interesting to watch. The way people are. I like to break it down early on and see what’s really under the surface.”

“I don’t have a facade,” I quickly retorted.

“Right,” he said skeptically. “Because you’re really cold and uncaring?”

I started daydreaming and before I realized where the conversation had gone, Mike was talking about fantasies. I thought about my own life, my own fantasies, my own disappointments. “Fantasies,” I told him, “are better left unrealized.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I mean, right now I’m fantasizing about pizza. That would be a great fantasy realized.” We continued to talk. He put me at ease. In less than an hour, he’d already seen through me, seen that I’m not the rough and tough girl I pretended to me. I liked that about him. The conversation was light and fun and flowing nicely. The more we talk, the more attractive Mike became.

But it was late – past 3 in the morning, and we became weary from speech. Neither of us really notices that Keeks and Jules have been putting away groceries for the better part of an hour. The space between us on the futon had lessened, and Mike’s hand was on my thigh. He looked at me, and I looked back, mindful not to look directly into his eyes. I’m not sure how, but our lips met in a sweet, friendly kiss, and I hardly tasted the tangy vodka on his breath.

Suddenly, Keeks and Jules come back to the room, Jules carrying a tray of odd foods. Pepperoni, cheese, olives, salami, grapes. Mike reached for the encased meat. Me? I found myself snacking on pickles and pomegranate seeds.

I don't remember how the conversation continued, but I do remember Keeks and Jules getting up, disappearing behind a half-wall, to their bed. Mike kissed me again. I like the way he kisses, I decided. Not too foreceful or pushy. And before long, articles of clothing starting falling to the side of the futon we were lying on. I wasn't sexual aroused, but this was not new to me. At that point, it was rare that my sexual encounters ever resulted from my own primal desired. It was always about the men and their gratification. Most often, I simply consented, and more often that not, I would up merely a masturbatory accoutrement for my partner.

But something about Mike felt more comfortable than anything I'd experienced in a long while. I realized that it hadn't been sex I'd wanted, but human contact. Even if it’s illusory, the softer more sensual touching made me feel wanted and cared for. No one had cared for me in a long while, and even if it wasn't real, even if it lasted only for a morning, it felt good. I knew that in a day or two Mike will become another asshole I slept with who never called or saw me ever again – who used me for his own ego and gratification. I knew this, but at the moment, I didn't care.

Except the sex never came. Instead, the snow started falling right outside the window. Mike noticed first. "Wow," he said. "Those snowflakes are as big as Cadillacs." Ah, a man of wisdom.

We watched the sky change from black to blue, knowing it would be mere monents before the sun was on the horizon. We wrapped his arms around me. Watching snowflakes in the blue-black sky, Mike and I fell asleep.

Even now, I have no idea whether I slept for moments or for hours. I just remember wanting to wake up and leave before anyone else had risen. I crept down the stairs, and as I was about to let myself out of the front door, I heard Mike's voice. He was calling me from the kitchen. I turned to see him sitting with a heated-up frozen pizza. "This," he said, "is a wonderful fantasy realized."

I told him I had to go. He said he'd call me. I let him tell me this, knowing full well that I'd never hear from him again, and happy that for once, the guy who wouldn't call wouldn't end up being some asshole I slept with once upon a time.

Epilogue: As it turns out, Mike and I had an intersting relationship for the next nine months. If you've ever read any of my blog entries over the years, you'll likely recognize him as "Best Friend Mike." He even did my pinup-esque photo shoot in June 2008. At the end of those nine months, it became clear that while I wanted more, Mike was not ready. The pseudo-breakup I had with him (after all, one cannot have a real breakup with a pseudo-boyfriend) hurt me more than any other breakup ever has, before or since.

To Mike, I am thankful. Prior to meeting him, I was shy and awkward and suffered from severe social anxiety. Mike is the one who brought me, kicking and screaming, out of my comfort zone. He made me fun, not just to the people who knew me well, but to random strangers. He got me talking to strangers. We were partners in crime and our adventures are legendary.

Sadly, it's been about a year since I've seen him. Mike has been unlucky in transport. He always has some crazy story about his broken cars. Seriously. I could dedicate pages of text to his automobile woes. The last I heard from him was May 9, 2009 -- exactly a month ago. My wedding day. He called while we were getting our pictures taken, wanting to know if it was okay if he arrived late. I said of course.

He never arrived.

Online Dating Chronicles: The Beginning.

While talking to my friend about her escapades in Internet dating, it dawned on me: I am a 10-year Online Dating Veteran. My first Internet date was in August 1996; my last was in May 2007. I suppose I should be ashamed or embarrassed because of this. Truth be known, it has provided me fabulous fodder for story telling. And so, I begin the Online Dating Chronicles (ODT). These will come in no particular order, except for this one.

The Beginning: August 1996

I don't remember his name. All I can remember for sure is that in August 1996, the day before my senior year of high school, I was an American Online chat room junkie. Back then, there were no unlimited plans, and so my parents were smart to attempt to limit my use to something like ten hours per month. Many of these hours were spent alongside my best friend, Jane Smith (her real name, folks), as we chatted to horny teenage boys far and wide.

I don't remember his name, but I do remember what I was wearing. I was halfway through my middle-class-guilt, I-only-shop-at-thrift-stores-and-dress-ridiculously phase. This means I hadn't quite started wearing the polyester brown leisure suits with the fly-collar pink gingham shirts. Not yet. I was only starting to look freakish. That night I was clad in men's jeans, size 29, pressed with creases down the front, and a white, blue, red, and pink short-sleeved knit number with a belt at the waist and a Peter Pan collar. This, I believed, was high fashion.

So in that, I headed to the Waffle House parking lot, 45 minutes away from me, with Best Friend Jane in tow. I knew nothing of this 18-year-old boy we were about to meet, except that he was a huge Insane Clown Posse fan, and that he drove a black, 1995 Honda Accord (I had told him my vehicle make and model as means of identification: a 1983 Nissan Maxima).

You must understand, of course, that I was even more culturally retarded at 17 than I am now. My taste in music included Cat Stevens, Billy Joel, Elton John, Sting, Paul Simon, and Joni Mitchell. I had no idea who ICP were, or that they did, indeed, dress like insane clowns. If I had known anything about their music or fashion sense, I may have run the other way.

We arrived at the Waffle House parking lot at about five to midnight. Jane and I got out of my car, cranked up our Simon and Garfunkel, and sat on the trunk, waiting for my gentleman caller. At 12:15, a black Honda Accord with tinted windows, and huge speakers sticking out of the back came rolling in, two inches from the ground, hubcaps spinning. Not only did this boy look as if he had a good three thousand dollars worth of stolen stereo equipment in his car, but he had totally pimped his.... Honda.

I don't recall the content of the conversation. Only that this boy looked like a troglodyte. Based upon his conversation, his only passions were ICP and his speakers. He went on and on about his stereo set-up and sound quality, while looking disapprovingly at my AM/FM stereo and tape deck. He asked Jane and I inside for waffles. We declined, explaining that the next day was the first day of our senior year of high school. After about ten minutes of discussion, we were on our way home.

Jane was spending the night, so we changed into our pajamas before giving my e-mail address one last check. Right as I signed on, up popped an Instant Message from ICP Boy.

"I'd really love to take your virginity," he said. Wow. What an opening.

"I'm not interested," I typed back.

For the next half hour, he kept insisting that he was "only being candid." I kept insisting that he had no clue what the definition of "candor" was, as I was giving it right back to him. Why Jane and I continued to talk to him for so long, I do not know. Perhaps it was the novelty of the situation, or the inherent addicting qualities of the medium.

He wrote me about two emails a day for the next month before finally giving up. The numerous Instant Messages he sent during that time period went unanswered.

And I learned my first valuable lesson when it comes to Internet dating: Never, ever, under any circumstances, use your primary e-mail account (especially one with your full name in it) or Instant Messenger user name to correspond with potential suitors. This one lesson served me well in the years that followed.

The fallacy of "true" love.

You know what drives me crazy? People who wax poetic about true love. Or those who profess to be "meant for each other." Every time I hear someone announce this incredibly trite cliche -- it's true love; we were meant for each other -- a small party of me wants to punch her (as it's usually a "her" as opposed to a "him") in the trachea.

(Ed note, Before I continue, it is imperative to understand that I do not believe in love as a feeling. I believe that love is an action. However, I am in a very small minority, and love as a feeling vs. love as an action is not what this entry is about. Today, we are discussing "true" love. Perhaps tomorrow we can delve into feelings vs. actions.)

I don't believe people know what they mean when they say love is "true." So I've started where all good lawyers should start when dealing with matters of statutory interpretation or matters of the heart: the dictionary. Some of the definitions didn't apply. Here is a sample of some that did.

(1) real; genuine; authentic. True feelings.

(2) loyal; faithful; steadfast. A true friend.

(3) reliable; unfailing. A true sign.

When most people speak of true love, I believe they speak of fluffy, bunnies-and-unicorns, hearts-and-stars, fields-of-clover, poop-tastes-like-candy and farts-smell-like roses love. They imagine flowers and fountains of chocolate. Happy endings (no, not THOSE happy endings, you perv) and chick flick fantasies, where the fat girl drops the weight, can afford Lasik and dental veneers and a tummy tuck, and gets the guy. Happy endings where the fat guy... well, the fat guy never gets anything; he's the comedic foil to the Prince Charming. But that's a diatribe for another day.

There is nothing pre-destined about love. God does not have a master plan. People aren't born with set soul mates -- they're not "meant" to be together. And while romance is nice, it takes a back seat to more important matters, like laundry, mortgage payments, and lawn mowing.

Yes, love can be true. It can be genuine and real, loyal and steadfast, reliable and unfailing. It can be. But it usually isn't. Applying those adjectives to love implies that romantic love is unconditional. It is not. Guess what? Fuck someone around enough, and he's probably not going to love you anymore. Loyalty lasts only so long when someone's being a right prick or stepping out on you. Ascribing the adjectives above to the word "true" does not describe love.

It describes co-dependence.

Memories of turquoise ink.

Two boys ever professed their love to me. I am married to the latter of the two.

The first, I met at a football game on October 15, 1993. I was fourteen years old. I don’t remember how it was we started talking, or exactly what it was we started talking about. I was painfully shy back then, so I’m sure we’d spent a few hours in close proximity without exchanging more than a few sentences. I can’t recall how or why, but for some reason, I found myself sitting alone with Dan McCue on the bleachers behind our high school's marching band.

Every school day thereafter, I’d find a way to see Dan. I accidentally ran into him in the lunch line. I altered my path between third and fourth periods from Speech class to Geometry so I could bump into him on his way from Latin IV. I started leaving school each day at 3:10 from the front door, rather than the back door, knowing his regular route home.

Every day we’d chat with my friends in front of school before walking home together. My friends all adored Dan. He was sweet, funny, and nice to us. He always smiled, always had something to say, and always made us all feel like people, instead of like freshman girls. They envied the time I spent with him on the way home. We would separate three blocks from my house and go our separate ways. Yet by mid-November, he was walking six blocks out of his way to bring me to my doorstep. He often did not arrive home until after 5:30.

Christmas came and went. He attended my New Year's Party, where he was the only boy. On January 2nd, he called me.

"I was wondering if you’d consider starting a relationship with me," he asked.

Consider starting a relationship? Not quite the way I would have said it, but it worked.

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone and emerged from the bathroom I’d locked myself into. A friend who was visiting was talking to my mom in the kitchen. “Dan asked me out.”

“Where?” my mother asked. Silly Mom.

“We’re together now.”

How simple. He asked, I accepted. Why can’t life always be so easy? Nothing -- before or since -- has ever been so easy. We were a couple. We started holding hands on the way home from school. For the first time in my life, I smiled on a regular basis. Our nighttime conversations began to get longer. He wrote me notes in turquoise ink that he passed to me in the hallway between Speech and Geometry. I still have all of them.

On Valentine's Day, he presented me with a stuffed hedgehog and professed his love for me. In February 15, 1994, I dumped him. Love? Who can fall in love so fast? I needed to to be, to grow, to learn, NOT to be tied down to Dan McCue.

I broke up with Dan because he told me he loved me. Truth be known, he was the best boyfriend I ever had. He gave me a hedgehog on Valentine’s Day. He penned me notes in turquoise ink. He walked me home and kissed me on the cheek.

Things were simple with him. I liked him a lot for the six weeks we were together, but I don’t know if I loved him. I can’t remember. I wasn’t very nice to him in the months after we broke up, but can chalk it up to being a 15-year-old girl. I remember him fondly and want to have loved him. I enjoyed talking to him and hope we stay in touch, but I don’t want to see him again. It’s easier to love someone from memory.

Epilogue: Dan McCue found me last week on Facebook.

Email cheating?

I am having a relationship with a man not my husband.

Incidentally, I have not me this man. We only know each other in that quasi-anonymous way that many people know one another these days. We know each other only via the Internet. How we met is not important. Suffice to say that in the beginning, we only exchanged passing pleasantries. Nothing substantive was ever exchanged. We knew the other's geographical location, and basic biographical information, such as marital status and occupation.

As time went on (and it always does), more personal information was exchanged. Nothing huge. Nothing major. Simple things. Opinions. Not even opinions on big issues such as the death penalty or abortion. No dialogues involving legal theories were exchanged -- the sort of dialogues that really get my juices flowing. Instead, we spoke more generally, painted rather broad strokes about inane, inconsequential things. So inconsequential that I can't even think of any.

Recently, however, things have taken a more personal turn. We've discussed the more detailed intricacies of our respective lives. Again, nothing earth-shattering. Topics tend to revolve around basic human interactions and relationships. Yet we've come to understand the flavor of our separate personalities. We are different, of course, but we've recognized our similarities.

Nothing I've shared with this man is anything I've haven't shared with Chris. Nothing I've shared with this man is anything I haven't shared with friends. Hell, nothing I've shared with this man is anything I wouldn't share here, in another quasi-anonymous forum. I've even 'fessed up to Chris about my Secret Internet Boyfriend.

I am not doing anything wrong.

Yet something feels a little "wrong." A tad bit naughty.

Chris and I email flirt with other people. We joke about it. "You're totally email flirting with that girl," I'll say to him, as he writes to someone on okcupid dot com. Then the next day at work, he'll attempt to email flirt with me, with such romantic tidbits as, "I'd like to drive it into you like a railroad spike." (He's so poetic, my dearest darling.)

Despite the knowledge that I'm not doing anything, I've identified why it feels a bit off: I like this guy. I get little flutters when I see emails from him. I like that he's admitted to staying at work ten minutes past his usual departure time just to wait for my emailed response. The giddy schoolgirl in me giggles when he writes that he's logged in to check his email just for me (even though I know it's a lie). In short: I love the novelty.

In real life, he'd be all sorts of wrong for me, even if neither of us weren't married. He lives a gazillion miles away. He's all family-oriented. Though I've not actually asked (and how did I miss this?) he's likely a -- gasp! -- Republican.

I'll could continue rationalizing away in this post, if I so desired. But my self-indulgence is starting to get overblown, even for me. So I'll stop now.

And go check my email.

Hitched.

You heard it here first. I totally got hitched today. My newly-appointed husband was wholly inappropriate and tried to make me laugh during the civil ceremony. And speaking of inappropriate...

The Town Clerk not only awards marriage licenses, but doles out hunting licenses. They had posted a flyer with drawings of different birds. The husband may have been inappropriate during the ceremony, but I was the one who laughed at at the bird name "woodcock."

I'm such a child. Thus, I find it amusing that people depend on me to get them outta The Pokey.

My fiance is handicapable.

My fiance cannot feel his feet.

This, of course, has been a bone of contention, because when he says he cannot feel his feet, what he means is that he cannot feel his feet in space. He can, however, feel pain and temperature. How do I know this? He once kicked me under the table while we were sitting at the diner. When I told him he had kicked me, he shrugged it off, saying, "I can't feel my feet."

I contemplated this statement for a moment and got a brilliant idea. "Excellent. Then at the next poker night, you should light them on fire. Or throw swords through 'em. Awesome party tricks."

He sighed, and responded: "I can feel pain, you know."

A lie! "So you can feel your feet," I said. And that's what happens when you date a trial lawyer. But I digress....

In addition to not feeling his feet (thus making him handicapable), Chris is also a recovering alcoholic. These two things are his two best qualities. And why?

(1) I always have a designated driver when I go out.

(2) Not only do I have a designated driver, but we get a parking spot up front.

I love that my fiance is handicapable.

Look at my freakishly large hands.

In this photo, my freakishly small hands look freakishly large.

But for those who asked, it shows the engagement ring.

Engaged. (That was fast.)

I had a bad day yesterday. My medication gives me heartburn and it was in full swing. Chris and I were arguing about ridiculous things via text messages. Pathetic. I wanted to get home, eat an egg, and crawl into bed.

No such luck.

When I got home, I came in through the kitchen door. I saw candles lit in the kitchen and my first thought was, "Great. What the hell is my house-mate doing with my candles?"

When I got inside, I heard music. A song from a mix CD that Chris gave me on our second date. "I Want You" by Holly Cole. (Cue "aaaaaaaaw" sound.)

In the middle of the circle of candles was a huge chocolate cake with "Marry Me" written in green. It's pictured above in mirror image (because it was taken with a web cam). A ring was sitting in front of the cake. My mother's engagement ring setting set with my birthstone, a garnet -- semi-precious, just like me.

I found Chris upstairs, where I said yes.

Then proceeded to tell him that I had a stomachache; seems we got the married couple but down already.

The cake was delicious. We're engaged. I love him.

Enlarge your penis.

I'm trying to convince Chris to take penis-enlarging drugs.

Why?

Because I think it'd be awesome if his penis shot lasers. Like the Monster Cock.

Clarification: No, I don't really want Chris to get a penis enlargement. He already has a Monster Cock. Really, folks. He's hung. Hung like a jury with a seriously nagging doubt. (I love you, Chris. Thanks for putting up with me discussing your genitals in a public forum.)