On sleeping with Republicans.

It began on a warm sunny afternoon in late November, 2005. Wait. Let me back up just a bit. It began on a hot, relatively muggy afternoon in early September, 2005. I at the beginning of my final year of law school and was ecstatic that I’d made it off the waiting list and into the criminal trial clinic. I sat in the over-air-conditioned room and chatted with Steph, a girl I’d met during orientation two years prior. As we chatted, in walked the cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever. (Remember that most law school boys are decidedly unattractive. Thus, to be the “cutest, dreamiest law school boy ever” isn’t saying a whole lot. Though even on a normal-non-law-school scale, this boy was pretty cute.)

For narrative purposes, and to protect his privacy, I will call the boy “Charlie.” Charlie sauntered into the room and struck up a conversation with Steph. I decided at that moment that Charlie would be mine. Sadly, a week later I found out that Charlie was engaged to his high school sweetheart. Even worse, Charlie was a Republican. My morals took over, and I cast aside the dream of even attempting to seduce Charlie, his boyish good looks aside.

But in mid November, Charlie began emailing me frequently. Though friendly at first, the discussions quickly turned to talk Catholic-school-girl fantasies and other sundry improper topics. Quickly realizing that Charlie had led a very sheltered life (his girlfriend didn’t like him to (1) go out; or (2) have any friends), I decided to make him my project. We began going out, spending time together, and I showed him what it was like to have fun.

In late November and early December, we both began preparing for our mock trials – our final exam for the clinic. He was the prosecutor in his trial and I played the part of his star witness. I was the defense attorney in my mock trial and he played the part of my defendant. For the three weeks spent preparing for our trials, we spent hours together each day. On the evening of November 28, 2005, I made the mistake of kissing him.

That mistake would have been bad enough on its own. But of course it didn’t stop there. I had to bring him the Penthouse Boutique. By the first week of December, we were sleeping together. Not one of my better moments.

By the first week in January, I had put an end to the affair. Even though I’d been the seductress, I’d lost respect for him. Even though I was also at fault, I couldn’t deal with someone who was being so dishonest with the woman he was to marry in less than a year’s time.

By the end of January, Charlie began falling behind in his clinic work. His office visits were becoming sporadic. He was missing more classes than he should have been. He was looking tired all the time, which was to be expected: in addition to school, he was working a 30 hour week and commuting almost every day between Hartford and Bridgeport. It was February in Connecticut. I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t looking well.

By the second week of February, Charlie was still looking rather peaked. So I asked him what was wrong. And it was then he dropped the bomb: “I think I have AIDS,” he told me. But why would he think that?

He explained: “At first I thought I had herpes. So I went to a free clinic.”

What did they tell him? Well…

“They told me I didn’t have herpes. But I didn’t believe them, so they gave me Valtrex, which I took. Now I have a flu that I can’t seem to shake. And WebMD says that flu-like symptoms are common in the early stages of AIDS.”

I tried convincing him that he was crazy. It was February. In Connecticut. He was in school full time. He was working too much. His body had been busy fighting a virus he didn’t have (herpes). And while he recognized that he was crazy, he could not be dissuaded regarding his having a fatal disease. So I urged him to get tested. Which he did.

The results? Negative.

You’d that that would be the end. But not. “The incubation period is six months. It wouldn’t show up this early.” I tried to tell him that with his symptoms, he seemed to have skipped HIV and gone straight to AIDS. I tried to tell him his symptoms (or lack thereof) were wholly psychosomatic. I even became enraged, telling him that I didn’t appreciate his perception of me as a diseased slut. He would not be convinced.

Thus, at his urging, I got myself tested, not just for HIV, but for the entire range of STDs.

For an entire two weeks, he bothered me every day. Why weren’t the result back? When would the results come back? I finally got them.

The results? Negative.

Did that end it? Nope. From February until April, he went through the entire list of sexually transmitted diseases he may have. He told his mother the entire story. He visited his regular doctor. When nothing panned out there, he went to a urologist. His guilt about cheating on his fiancé was taking a huge toll on him: he was going insane.

I haven’t heard from him since the beginning of May. He passed the Connecticut bar, and I’m told he got married to the dumb girl. So tragic. And with that experience came a very important lesson: No matter how cute they are, never sleep with a Republican.

I have a secret.

I have a serious crush on someone. To be honest, I've had a crush on this person for a very long time. There's nothing I can do about it except enjoy the giddy, school girl-ish feeling I get when I think about him.

Sometimes unrequited lust is the best kind.

When is a kiss just a kiss?

I have been known to say that when it comes to monogamous relationships, "cheating" is defined by the person who is being cheated upon. For some, it may be as little as a conversation or mild flirtation with another person. For others, anything short of full out vaginal intercourse is not considered cheating. The interpretations run the gamut. In my own life, I find it best to discuss with my current romantic partner two things: (1) The expectation of sexual mongamy; and (2) his definition or interpretation of "cheating." It is often not a pleasant conversation to have.

Sometimes people do cheat, in whatever way the word is defined. And so we must rationalize our actions.

"I was drunk."

"It didn't mean anything."

"Only once. Never again."

With all these definitions and interpretations of infidelity, and the mechanics and difficulties inherent in romantic and sexual relationships, one quesiton remains: Can a kiss ever really be just a kiss?

How is love like the circus?

A friend of mine recently got screwed over by his girlfriend. This is par for the course not for this particular friend, but in general. All the time, people are getting their hearts broken. At best, we get hurt and get over it. At worst, we become numb and forget what it is to feel. The solution? There really is not a good one. But thinking about this did remind me of something I wrote over a year ago when I was in a contemplative mood and caught up in my own ongoing relationship drama:

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 desperately to fall out of love and to 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 exists 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.

The world of Internet dating can be a mighty dangerous place...

Alright. I admit it. I have a profile on OkCupid. Why? I'm not sure. In large part because it helped pass the time when I was working at a job that didn't have enough work for me to do. Now I enjoy logging on occasionally to take their assinine quizzes. Which is exactly what I was doing tonight when I got an OkCupid Instant Message. And what with my morbid curiosity to see what happens next, I responded. I have included the conversation below. I've left his screen name the same, but have changed mine for narrative purposes:

hott7inces: ur 3rd pic is super hott!

Me: Does that screen name work for you?

hott7inces: it may

Me: I don't believe you.

hott7inces: i dont know u why lie?

Me: I don't think women want to hop into bed with you because of your self-proclaimed "hot seven inches."

hott7inces: ok
hott7inces: lol

Me: In fact, I'd be willing to bet that most women are more disgusted by the shameless self promotion than anything else.

hott7inces: dont bet then hehe

Me: Can I ask you something?

hott7inces: sure

Me: What is it in my profile made you think I was a vapid idiot who would actually want an "nsa affair" with someone like you?

hott7inces: never know till uask u may be suprised
hott7inces: never judge a book by its cover hehe

Me: See, I thought I came across as a reasonably intelligent individual. You, however, seem like a common horny man with no manners. And I'm far from prude. But spare me the idiocy in thefuture.
Me: And learn how to fucking spell.
Me: Goodnight

hott7inces: ever hear of e shorthand

Me: are you actually really still talking to me?

hott7inces: gnite

High school.

A letter I am sending to the community newspaper where I went to high school:

To the Editor:

High school is hell. Or at least it was for me. Yet I’m left to wonder whether it was as bad for everyone else as well: the sixteen valedictorians in my graduating class, the athletes, the National Merit Scholars. For the kids who gained recognition through sports or scholarship – was high school hell for them too?

I graduated from Bexley High School in 1997. Several months into my first year of college, I wrote a scathing letter to the editor of several community papers in which I lambasted the school system. The thrust of my argument was that although the school district purported to be one of the best in Central Ohio, it rested on its laurels; the students in Bexley would excel no matter where they were placed, not because of the schools, but because of family support and encouragement. I also commented that students like me – smart, but not at the top of my class and not an athlete – slipped through the cracks. The more energetic and competent teachers were assigned to the honors and AP classes, while the students who needed more help learning were left behind.

Several readers responded, including one well intentioned gentleman who suggested I get into the “real word” and do some volunteering before I assessed the downfalls of the school district. My perspective would change with age, he assured me; I was just a tiny fish in the metaphoric ocean of life and feeling a little unsure of myself. Nearly ten years later, this is my response:

I graduated from college, worked for a few years, and then went to law school where I graduated near the top of my class. I am now a criminal defense attorney. Though I am still young, I’ve been in the so-called real world. In fact, working in the criminal justice system has exposed me to a world far more real than many have seen. But my opinions have not changed. If anything, my experiences have solidified the way I feel about my time in the Bexley school system.

A few years after graduating from Bexley, a friend from high school told me that the honors students had the “better” teachers because the honors students “deserved” them. I felt this sentiment throughout my time in Bexley. A feeling of entitlement, as if students who lacked a certain intellectual acuity were undeserving of attention or encouragement.

While smart, I wasn’t smart enough for anyone to care. But for the consideration of two or three teachers, I went through my seven years in Bexley unnoticed. I was not the only one. In the years since I’ve left Bexley, I have spoken with other people who have shared my thoughts: Those of us who did not “deserve” help and attention did not get it. The administration and teachers did not know how to compartmentalize those of us who did not excel in either sports or academics.

I have succeeded not because of my educational foundation in Bexley, but in spite of it. I was lucky enough to receive support from my family, if not from my school. Nonetheless, I do credit the Bexley school system with teaching me other important life lessons. My time in Bexley taught me what it is to feel like an outsider. My time in Bexley taught me to what it is to feel like the system does not care. My time in Bexley taught me how to empathize. And my time in Bexley played a large role in my decision to become a public defender instead of a highly paid private sector lawyer. Though I would not deign to understand what my clients go through, I do have an inkling of understanding about what it is to feel like no one cares. Though this has helped me in my own life, these are not the lessons a suburban middle-class high school should be teaching by accident.

I only hope that my words today are more eloquent and less angry than they were nine years ago. Bexley High School is touted as being one of the best schools in Central Ohio. But there is more to teaching and learning than standardized test scores and rankings. I urge those who currently work within the system now to watch for those students out there who need a little extra time and encouragement. High school was hell. Or at least it was for me. A little more sensitivity to those who are slipping through the cracks is all it takes to make it a little less hellish for those who are still stuck there.

My mother the copyeditor.

We all know that my mother writes copy. She edits copy, too. She buys really bad fiction -- you know, the sort of drek that comes from the racks of airport bookstores -- and reads it holding a red pen. She bemoans crappy editors and wonders where all the really good writers went. She implores me to become a novelist and write my own crappy fiction, insisting that my iterations of hardly palatable prose will be better than what's already out there. But since her requests fall upon my deaf ears, she simply continues to edit the poorly written books she reads.

She used to edit my journals/diaries.

I know this. I know this because I know she used to read them. How? I asked her. Several months ago I accused her of having read the journals I kept in high school. She admitted the atrocity, and claimed that as a mother, it was her responsibility to make sure I was safe. If that meant reading my journals, so be it. I wasn't particularly upset because (1) it was over a decade ago; and (2) my life in high school was anything but interesting. Which is what I told her:

"Mom, I said. "My life is high school was anything but interesting. I wasn't really doing anything."

"I know," she responded. "That's why I stopped reading."

Now, with comic timing being what it is, I know that I should have stopped at that last sentence. "That's why I stopped reading" is a good punchline. Why go on and ruin it? Well, the answer is that I just can't help myself. I'm still in journal-transcription mode, and every now and then I see an odd mark. A quiggly delete mark. An S-shaped, "you inverted your letters, dumbass!" mark. Did I really self-edit my journals after I wrote them? I ponder the situation. And then it hits me.

Like me, my mother couldn't help herself, either. She read my journals, pen in hand, and though I'm sure she tried to stop herself, she edited as she went along.

Musings of a fifteen year old...

Indeed, I am back. Now that I have nothing to do until September 1 (don't ask), I've gone back to transcribing all the handwritten journals I kept when I was younger. Every now and then, if I see something that makes me titter, I will post it for you, my readers:

October 15, 1994

I’m at Molly’s right now. Things have been really weird lately. I don’t know. Maybe it’s teen angst. Or maybe my feelings have been swinging so much because I’m pregnant, but then that would have to be Immaculate Conception, as I’ve never had sex.

Losing.

Back in early March I was going through the end of a quasi-breakup. I only call it a quasi-breakup because the person who I was breaking up with was never more than a quasi-boyfriend. At the time, I was wallowing in self pity, convinced that things hadn't worked out because something about me made me inherently unloveable. And I found this poem that made me thing of him. (Bear in mind that I've never been a lover of poetry. I rarely ever "got" it, and I found most of it incredily trite.)

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

More than being a quasi-boyfriend, the person who I write of was my best friend. And I felt I'd lost him. Not only lost him, but lost the game. After a year, my shining wonderfulness hadn't won him over.

It's been almost a year-and-a-half since the Quasi-Boyfriend Debacle began. Lots of things have happened. I moved on. I graduated from school. I started seeing someone new. (Though not in that order.) I hung out with quasi-ex-boyfriend this evening for the first time in a month. And though I hate to admit it, I didn't realize until now just how much I missed him.

This cannot be a good thing.

Saluti Cahn.

Coming soon.

Update: For more information, see this.