The Pizza Spreadsheet: A South Jersey Love Story

Essay by Carolyn Busa
Data by Benjamin Garvey
Pizza by South Jersey

Disclaimer: This is an essay about pizza baked into an essay actually about love. That’s my way of saying the word ‘pizza’ will not appear until paragraph 13. If you’d like to skip ahead, by all means, but really, what is pizza without love?

My boyfriend will do anything to keep me living in New Jersey. He has to. He did everything to get me to move here.

Let me back up. 

New Jersey isn’t a foreign land to me. It’s where I was raised. Collingswood, NJ “It’s Where You Want to Be.”...Until you decide to move to Brooklyn.

Before I moved there at the end of 2013, I never saw myself living in Brooklyn. New York was a beast and I didn’t think I could do it. But somehow I got there. And I loved it. 

Despite the love, I couldn’t see myself living there forever and I often wondered what would be the reason I left. A job opportunity? Maybe. But my star wasn’t rising fast enough in the comedy scene for that to seem possible. A guy? Doubt it. Definitely wouldn’t be that either. 

One thing I couldn’t predict that did take me out of Brooklyn was COVID. I temporarily escaped when it hit. A weekend trip back to Collingswood turned into a 6 month trip. And through a series of lonely Instagram messages with an old friend named Benjamin, a single Carolyn turned into a falling in love Carolyn. Those details are for another story, but, pandemics, am I right?

I had a lot to consider when I finally returned to my Brooklyn apartment in August 2020. I knew this person I was falling for was special. I also knew what Benjamin and I wanted out of a relationship wouldn’t be as fulfilling long-distance. 

My lease was up in March so I started planning a new life in my old stomping grounds. I conquered, rather, survived the beast of Brooklyn. What else could I do?

A lot had to happen but at the end of March 2021, a year after I temporarily left Brooklyn, I left Brooklyn a bit more permanently. I moved into my own place in Collingswood, opened a store (I repeat, pandemics, am I right?), and got to do a lot more than just fall in love. Getting to be in love and fully around Benjamin with all his smells and kisses and touches and screenless eye contact that he comes with was and still is amazing. I love him so much. 

However, moving is emotional. And moving from a city of anonymity to a quiet street in the suburbs (where the threat of a local Facebook group looms over your every move) is an emotional rollercoaster. 

What I’m saying is, leaving Brooklyn was hard. 

As I mourned my former Brooklyn life, I was doing my best to slowly resurrect parts of my former Jersey life. I also needed to build a business from scratch. It was a confusing clash of nostalgia and unknown future that made for some messy nights. My emotional rollercoaster kept Benjamin busy. He was going above and beyond to make my transition back to the 856 (or 609 if you’re anybody who’s anybody) area code tolerable. 

One of his tricks was pizza.

If I was having a particularly down day, the text “Let’s get a pizza.” would instantly bump me up a few notches. As we looked up a place to grab a pie, I realized that we were surrounded by the same, if not more, amount of pizza places as I was back in my Brooklyn neighborhood. Being surrounded by pizza comes with the territory in New York. I wasn’t expecting the same some 80 miles away.

Some of the pizza places in our search I had been driving by my whole life without ever once stepping inside. “What if the best pizza is in one of these places?” I asked Benjamin. 

I can’t remember who came up with the actual plan. It’s hard to tell with us. Yes, we have the ability to finish each other’s sentences but it’s more than that. It’s like our brains are always having a conversation. A wavelength keeping us connected and we just go along with the ride. 

And this time the ride (and plan) was pizza.

We would eat (and rate) as many pizzas in South Jersey we could until the end of year. We created a spreadsheet and came up with some super serious criteria to base our ratings on:

First bite satisfaction How satisfying is the first bite? 
Oil puddle goodness I like a lot. Benjamin likes a bit less than that.
Crust Benjamin appreciates the art of the crust. I see it as more of a pizza handle. 
Number of slices eaten The most unscientific of the metrics. 
Cheeeeeeeeeese Yes spelled like that. Don’t skimp.

We made an executive decision to only rate basic, cheese pies. No fancy Grandmas. No margheritas. Sorry Bricco and Pizza Crime. Large, cheese pizzas only. 

We added notes for each one. Some of which were informative: Lots of love goes into this pizza. Garlic. Basil. Great pizza.* 

Some of which were circumstantial: Watched the Many Saints of Newark while we ate it, so maybe that helped.** 

And some of which were damning: Tasted like really good bowling alley pizza.***

Pizza became an official part of our routine. We fantasized about publishing our results and becoming the go to pizza experts of South Jersey. We’d get free slices. We’d be invited to restaurant openings. A picture of us would replace whatever faded newspaper clipping every pizza place has hanging on their wall: “Couple in Love Wants a Coupla Slices” 

Clearly we set our goals high but that’s what we were used to doing. Before our ‘Pizza Joints’ spreadsheet was our ‘Life Plan’ spreadsheet, a spreadsheet we created when I returned to Brooklyn. This spreadsheet laid out our path to being able to be together. Conversations we needed to have, boxes we needed to check, vaccines we needed to get. We followed it. We were successful. We were obsessed. Obsessed with pizza, obsessed with spreadsheets, obsessed with each other. Our ‘Pizza Joint’ spreadsheet confirmed what the ‘Life Plan’ spreadsheet already knew: Some of the best laid plans, pizza, and people were in our own backyard. 

That being said, our love may be gooey and cheesy but we do take our pizza ratings very seriously. And so should you. Check them out and be sure to invite us to your next pizza party. 

South Jersey Pizza Ratings

*Villa Barone, December 27th, 2021, Benjamin Garvey
**Pepperoni Pizza, October 3rd, 2021, Benjamin Garvey
***Bistro Pizzeria, May 26th, 2021, Carolyn Busa

Research & ruts

My man and I were doing our usual post-coital chit chat—”I liked that.” “I loved that.” “How many times?” “Where’s the dog?” My man loves talking. It’s one of my favorite things about him. He has stories galore and an imagination gone wild. But what’s even greater than my man’s talent of talking is his incredible talent of listening.

He listens sooo good. Especially when it comes to me. He wants to hear why I liked that, why I loved that, why it was 2 times and not 3. He listens to my stories and my body so he can, as he puts it, “understand what she [Carolyn] needs and why she [Carolyn] needs it.”

It feels like he sees me as one of those intricate paint by numbers. But instead of diving in and coloring, he’s taking his time, collecting his paints, deciding on the best order, researching the artist, until he slowly and carefully starts filling in the empty spaces with color. He paints the picture of Carolyn with purpose.

His inherent thirst for knowledge of me and my body are impressive. But that ‘thirst’ was there before me. He told me during our post-coital chat that he credits something he read in a book years ago to one of his ‘sexniques’ in the bedroom. Now I know nothing about Tim Ferriss and his 4-hour body and what knowledge he bestowed upon my man. A quick Google search revealed Tim’s got a thing for Brazil nuts but when I peeped in my man’s cabinets he only had baking pecans, so who knows. But I am impressed that he found a piece of knowledge that works for him after all these years.

As I find myself in my own sort of life-rut, I’m in admiration of how much patience my man has given himself over the years towards carving out space for his happiness. I’m the opposite of patience. When I’m unhappy I want a quick fix. Some amazing piece of advice or article or 8-10 minute YouTube video to explain away my unhappiness and tell me how to fix it. If I can watch a video on how to give the perfect blow job, can’t I watch one on how I shouldn’t compare myself to others? But even the best videos on how to simplify life and strive for happiness, not success, end with some plea to purchase. So what is it? Detox or add to cart?

My man has showed me what it means to listen and learn. I’ve never been with someone who is this interested in doing that for me. It’s great but I also catch myself relying on his research to understand what I need and why I need it. “That’s not fair, Carolyn!” I know. It’s not his painting and it’s definitely not his to finish. Time to dig up my own paints.

Casual or committed? Third wave pandemic relationship thoughts

Before COVID-19 hit I was happily single living on my own (with my dog) in Brooklyn. I had a running every-other-Sunday-night sex date with a lover who I’d known for almost two years. He was a lover I trusted but also a lover I knew would never be more than my Sunday guy. We weren’t committed and I was perfectly okay with that. The set up gave me the reliable intimacy and sex I needed while also giving me the freedom to live my life, meet other people, and come and go as I please. I felt fulfilled and was certain this casual mindset would fulfill me for many years to come. 

Enter March 2020.

Living alone switched from cool to concerning. I was freaked. Sure, I had my dog but so did Will Smith in I Am Legend and we all remember how that turned out. I didn’t want to figure this out alone and I didn’t want to shoot my dog. I packed a suitcase and abandoned my sweet, single gal setup to spend what I thought would be a few weeks at my parents house in the suburbs until everything ‘blew over’.

Like some sort of fucked up, backwards advent calendar, every day a door closed with pieces of life I considered ‘normal’ locked away. My friends turned into computer screens, my apartment into a twin bed, my day job into Zoom and my side hustle totaled. Everything that had kept me feeling fulfilled either went online or disappeared completely. But I remained hopeful about my bimonthly rendezvous. If businesses, comedy shows and Ben Gibbard were finding ways to stay connected, there had to be a way for us. I was already skilled in the art of the sexy selfie and let’s not forget that one time I appeared on Vice’s Snapchat for my sexting abilities. I was confident it would be manageable. But when I asked my lover if he would consider taking our fulfilling, sexy connection online, his answer was a kind but decided “No.” 

I knew friends who were playing with their lovers safely on a screen. Getting creative through virtual showers, mutual masturbation, or simply watching each other naked. Not me. The man who once tied me to his bed was now FaceTiming me in a rabbit filter as he cut carrots for dinner. What the holy, mood killer was this?

I was grateful that he was honest with me about what he could and couldn’t provide. I completely understood that virtual intimacy would never be the same as our get togethers. Virtual intimacy would never replicate the elevator up to his apartment, the cup of coffee that started our evenings, the tension that built as we sipped. But I was still disappointed that he was unable to even try and push through the awkwardness.  

As my situation slowed, I watched as the trend of “turbo relationships” took over. Couples accelerating the speed of their relationships, cohabitating and committing to each other quicker than usual. But I was a single person with no relationship to accelerate, no social life to celebrate and a lot more alone time to contemplate.  

When push came to pandemic, my lover couldn’t fulfill a particular need that was important to me. I knew that not only was our relationship changed forever, my relationship with relationships was changed forever too: I wanted to find a partner. And not just a Sunday night one. 

“For most people,” says Dr. Timaree Schmit, a Philadelphia-based sex educator and performer, “I suspect the pandemic exacerbated whatever was already there, whether it be loneliness, self-reliance, intimacy or relationship stress.”

I admit that even in my happiest moments alone, there was always a part of me that wished someone was there to witness it. But I was a performer! Wasn’t craving an audience to perform for just a side effect of narcissism? Or was that the ‘more’ I was missing? 

I’ve been back in my ‘single gal apartment’ for a few months now and of course I remember what it is I love about this life. Cooking for myself, dancing with myself, screaming Reggie and the Full Effect lyrics by myself (as formerly emo women are required to do every six months). I’m enjoying being back on my bullshit but I’m also being more honest with my bullshit. There are parts of being a single woman, living alone that I’m not ready to give up yet, and there are those that I am.  Cooking exactly what I want for myself with no one to complain or steal my seconds is great. But I can also recognize cooking and sharing a meal with someone is great too. And if there was another lockdown, I definitely wouldn’t want to be cooking alone. 

The pandemic slowed down a lot of things but conversations with ourselves and those we care about were not one of them. I’ve been putting myself out there and getting vulnerable in ways I wasn’t expecting because why not? Whether my pre-COVID life was a distraction for what I want and need in life, I’ll never know. But I can honestly say now, I’m ready for something new.

Me, myself and a can of cranberry sauce

As the idea of a Thanksgiving mostly alone in my Brooklyn apartment started to become more of a reality, I wondered what it might look like. 

Eating alone is nothing new for me. Living solo for almost three years now, I’m used to being alone in the kitchen. I’m grateful I only have to grocery shop for one and only have myself to blame when the cheddar/grape/salted almond trifecta runs dry. But of course I’m a little apprehensive of the holiday season alone.

I imagined the moment when I opened a can of jellied cranberry sauce, loosened the mold with the swirl of a knife around the can’s perimeter, and finally, plopped it onto one of my hand-me-down plates next to my Tofurky, would look positively pathetic. 

I get it. The ‘optics’ of a can of cranberry sauce are questionable. It slides out in a slurp. It’s shaped like the industrial can it comes in. It jiggles. But admittedly I’m a huge fan of the stuff and as I prepare my meal for one at the end of an unstable year, I’m looking forward to it’s reliable taste and shape.

I’m grateful for my independence, my cozy apartment, my health, and most importantly, my cranberry sauce, but I know Thursday will be one of those ‘Talking Heads nights’ that leave me wondering “How did I get here?” An existential crisis over stuffing. How come I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house?

Those moments for me always seem to take place in the kitchen. Doing some mundane task like standing over a pot of boiling water or frying an egg, my wet head most likely wrapped up in a Turbie Twist. The lights flicker. I accidentally break the yolk. 

My somber, kitchen moments used to leave me wondering if I was in the early stages of becoming Martha. Remember poor Martha from The Americans? 

**The Americans spoiler alerts ahead**

I hated and loved Martha. She was unapologetically sexual, had a pretty cool job, but god, she was alone. Always confined to her apartment waiting for her sham of a husband Clark to make his rare appearance, fuck the shit out of her, and then leave to return to his ‘real’ wife and life. Ugh. Been there, done that, sister.

Also, she was obsessed with Clark. An obsession that eventually shipped her off to Russia leaving her to grocery shop for one, and oh god, eat dinner alone under poor lighting.

Okay, it’s not so much the baked potatoes and cheap apartment fixtures I worry about but I do worry about my own obsessive qualities. 

I’m very good at becoming obsessive. Especially when I fall for someone. But admitting that isn’t always easy. Being labeled ‘obsessed’ rarely sounds positive and as you may have realized reading a blog about me, I'm also pretty busy being obsessed with myself. 

But similar to the can of cranberry sauce, even though obsessions don’t necessarily look good from the outside, I don’t think we should write them off completely. There are benefits to a healthy obsession. Obsessions come with motivation, learning, a blind excitement towards something you’re always ready to talk about. Obsessions are work in addition to the work you already do. 

My obsession with myself has provided a new and improved relationship with myself. Sure I have my sad, somber kitchen moments, but I know how to build myself back up. I know how to appreciate who I am and what I do have. I’m not the beautiful wife in the beautiful house but I’m also definitely not the metaphorical Martha being exiled to the Motherland. 

I think we would all have better outcomes if we didn’t trade in an obsession for ourselves for an obsession for someone else. Let’s instead demand both. Because finding someone who worships us as much as we worship ourselves (and our cans of cranberry sauce), is truly something to be thankful about.

Keep playing games with my heart

Even though none of us particularly chose to participate in this version of 2020, we did have a choice about how we approach it. How we approached our careers, how we approached our physical and mental health, how we approached our family, and for some of us, how we approached our ‘intimate’ relationships. Looking back, I’m surprised the approach that worked best for me ended up being one rarely associated positively with relationships: games.

Let me clarify. I’m not talking mind games. Those I hate. Gaslighting, Shaming, Guilt Tripping, Sudoku⏤all of them! Being manipulated (especially through numbers) is obviously not sexy. 

And whoa there. Put that dusty Clue box back in your closet. Return the Nintendo Switch. I have no idea how to properly play Catan (Do I want wheat or brick?) and never could get into FarmVille. So WTF am I talking about here? 

Back in March, when ‘all this’ started (‘All this’ is the official name of 2020), life kinda felt like a game. The goal? Survive. The rules? No leaving the house or seeing other people. Every day was (and sometimes still is) a complicated maze of survival and sanity. Reality game shows like Big Brother and The Circle went from being laughable to “Oh, I should be taking notes.”  

So when I started messaging and reconnecting with someone, without realizing it, we were also using games to get to know each other. Personal trivia, intimate storytelling, role playing, video challenges, drawings, music, maps of our homes and lives. We developed our own revealing versions of Quizzo, Guess Who, Pictionary, Charades, Name that Tune, Strip Poker. I got a point for remembering what movie he saw on a blind date in high school, he lost one for not correctly guessing my favorite Beck song.* Did the points matter? No. But we were having fun playing.

And this was much more fun than playing the game of Survival 2020, which I realized wasn’t a game at all. Jane McGonigal writes in her book Reality is Broken, one of the reasons games make us happy is because they are hard work that we choose for ourselves. I certainly didn’t volunteer for the last six months. And not being able to physically be together, not knowing the future, we easily could have given up on our connection. But we didn’t. We chose to keep playing. 

Games provided a fun way to get to know each other during a challenging time, but will they prove just as fun and exciting without the restraints of a pandemic?

McGonigal writes that “Any pair or group of people who consistently play a game together, online or face-to-face, will have increased opportunities to express admiration for each other, to devote themselves to a common goal, to express sympathy for others’ losses and even to fall in love.[…]If the goal is truly compelling, and if the feedback is motivating enough, we will keep wrestling with the game’s limitations⏤creatively, sincerely, and enthusiastically⏤for a very long time.” 

I don’t think the games of my future relationships will necessarily be easily identifiable as ‘games’ but their goals will be the same: playing, exploring, learning and, most importantly, choosing to be there. So, if games can provide me the infinite challenge of falling and staying in love, by all means, Player 2, please, please, please keep playing games with my heart.

*Nicotine and Gravy, duh

Remembering the relationship box

As I’ve mentioned, the past few months I’ve spent a good chunk of time in my parent’s house in my hometown. And let me tell you, the memories flow much easier when you’re surrounded by the physical streets, floorboards, benches, trees, backyards and sometimes people of those past experiences. 

I’m grateful for my elephant memory (that’s a thing, right?) but not all memories are pleasant. It’s why movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind are made and why after a relationship ends one usually throws away or (depending on fire pit accessibility) burns the relationship relics collected over the months or years. 

With my first serious boyfriend, those memories were kept in a pink and black, shiny Victoria’s Secret box. I can not for the life of me remember what I originally bought, especially considering most of my underwear purchases continue to come in packs of threes from Target, but origin aside, it was the box. 

Birthday cards, Phillies tickets, faded receipts (cause yeah, I’m that kind of hoarder), a picture from a photo booth in Chicago; classic relationship items. Even though our break-up in 2009 was fairly amicable, I did eventually throw most of the items away.

But when my second serious relationship ended in 2015, not only was the break-up extremely ugly, the infamous relationship ‘box’ had become much less tangible. The contents of my Victoria’s Secret box had been replaced with hard drives, folders on my desktop, conversations saved in my Inbox, ‘tagged’ photos’ absolutely outnumbering the physical ones. Memories of our relationships collected a lot faster when it was data, not a dried daisy. 

When my first boyfriend and I broke up in 2009, I thought I was never going to be able to watch The Sopranos ever again. The Sopranos was the first show I ever ‘shared’ with someone. We were together eating penne with vodka sauce and garlic bread during the memorable black-out series finale. But when my second relationship ended, I thought I was never going to be able to watch anything ever again. The shows we watched together accumulated fast. With streaming readily in the mix, we didn’t have a show, we had shows. 

In 2009, I had Facebook, I had a digital camera, I had a computer, sure, it was a digital time. But the digital footprint of my next relationship became bigger and ‘burning’ the memories of our relationship had become trickier.

With the box you had to be picky. It was only so big. If you wanted to keep something, it had to be worth it. I remember feeling lucky because my Victoria’s Secret box was a bit bigger than your average shoebox so it was ok to keep a newspaper clipping commemorating the Phillies winning the World Series (Looking back, I don’t know how I was convinced to leave my own birthday dinner to go get drunk in a parking lot). Bottom line, you didn’t keep bad memories in the box.

But when the confines of a physical box no longer have to be considered, every memory, good and bad, becomes salvageable. I had full, 8-hour, passive aggressive Google Chat conversations from a day at work. Emails that were mean. Emails that were apologetic. All these items painted a clear picture of the de-evolution of our relationship and yet I couldn’t get myself to burn the box and delete forever.

Every now and then I’d catch myself going down some weird memory lane. Reviewing what I knew was my life but felt more like some Tim Burton-directed nonsense. The flimsy framework of our relationship was painfully obvious in every chat or email and, worse, each time I’d find some new, painful memory whose detriment I didn’t realize at the time. I’d suddenly be fired up, grateful for that not being my life anymore, furious that it ever was. When there’s a fire, we’re taught to leave everything behind, save yourself. So why even after I did save myself did I keep running back into the building? 

I spent a big chunk of that relationship convincing myself that A) Things are fine and B) All the bad stuff is as much my fault as it is his when in fact the correct answer was always C) None of the above. Leave immediately. You are going to be shocked at how happy you are capable of being once you’re away from this. I was continually trying to prove to myself, to others and to him that everything was fine. This came with a lot of excuses, a lot of confusion and a lot of “It’s not that bad.” The evidence proving “Everything is fine!” simply did not exist and it showed in my attempts. 

Where my relationship made me feel crazy, my ‘digital memories’ reminded me I wasn’t. And once I finally understood the reality of my own life, I wasn’t ready to suffocate the all-collecting cloud of proof. It’s not that I forced myself to look at these things but I was grateful they were floating in space when I needed them. They’ve made it so that now as I’m surrounded by the physical spaces and places of that time in my life, I am able to be here without doubt and with confidence. 

I’ve thought a lot about what I’ll choose to remember from this time and what ‘boxes’ or spaces I’ll make for my future relationships. It’s been awhile since I’ve been on a memorable date, let alone one worth saving the cocktail napkin from. And while I’ll probably always find it tempting to save those physical items, I’m learning that memories, even the good ones, often feel heavier when they are thrown together, put under the bed and only remembered on a rainy day. It’s why I’m ok with my shitty memories floating above me in the cloud and why instead of hiding future receipts and cocktail napkins in a box under my bed, I think I rather stick them right on my fridge to enjoy every day with my manicot’ (That’s my cute way of saying “Enjoy life now.” and that I’m still able to watch The Sopranos).

Make new friends or just keep the old?

There are always going to be moments on dating apps you come across people you know. Colleagues, friends, someone with a familiar face you can’t quite place but know you’ve met before. For me, it was those profiles that gave me the most thrill. The profiles that would make me stop swiping, study every picture and say to myself, “I know you!” 

It feels a little naughty, right? Like catching someone in the act. Especially the times I’d swipe across someone I knew used to date someone else I knew. Those would be the profiles I’d judge the hardest, especially depending on the circumstances of the break-up.

There have even been a few times I’d get a text message that when I opened was a picture of myself from my own dating profile. Me trying to look sexy, me with me dog, me doing whatever it was that I decided I wanted to share on my profile. The screenshot would stare up at me. Carolyn, 33 (Yeah, okay, I’m 34 now). It was a metaphorical ‘Found you!’ that to me always read as a ‘F**k you!’

If I’m on a dating app, I don’t like being reminded that I’m on it. No one needs to be reminded they’re dating. Just like no one on LinkedIn needs to be reminded they’re looking for a job. But I get it. In swiping through a sea of shit strangers, it’s exciting when you see someone you know because, well, dating blows. 

Which is why I’m surprised to read that apps like Tinder and Bumble have reported a double-digit increase in messages during the recent pandemic. Even the real-time dating app Flutter, only ‘open’ on Sundays, has seen a 78% increase in weekly messages. We talk and talk and blog and blog about the horror that is dating so why when we physically can’t, are we doing it more than ever? 

I recognize the obvious answer to this question: We’re alone. Or if not alone, unable to escape the people we’re stuck with. No matter how many or how little people we’re currently flattening the curve with, we’re all experiencing a new form of loneliness and no one should be judged by their reaction to it. We’re all doing what feels right, right now.  But to start virtual dating, something I don’t particularly enjoy and am not good at, did not seem like the way I wanted to combat my loneliness. 

There has never been anything enjoyable about the pre-date texting that comes along with app dating. There has never been a beginning question which blew me away or an emoji that didn’t make me want to throw my phone. Why would I purposely commit myself to the absolute worst part of the mating ritual? Plus, what would even be the quarantined version of myself I put out there? 

Buuut I admit it, I made a profile. I thought maybe something would feel different about it in these unprecedented times. Maybe the conversations would be richer, easier. Maybe I’d even...find love. No. It felt exactly the same except more pictures of men at Eagles games since my location settings were now set near Philadelphia. The first guy I chatted with used an emoji in his first message and the second guy stopped responding. As suspected, the only person I got excited about was someone I recognized. It wasn’t his looks or personality that got me to stop, it was the fact that I once met him in real life. 

In the absence of naturally meeting new people, getting excited about those I know has become even more appealing. Reconnecting has been a happy accident of the virus. I’ve enjoyed talking to the people I already know or knew and want to know again. Before COVID, there was a lot of pressure behind reconnecting with someone. Now a simple, ‘How are you?’ is okay. You don’t have to apologize and make excuses for your lack of communication. It’s fine. Hello! 

It’s hard for me to get excited by new people right now, when the old people in my life are those I miss and cherish the most. Even if their role was previously small, I’d still rather talk to them than someone who never had a role to begin with. And unfortunately (or fortunately?) this isn’t unique to quarantine. I realize I get excited by the faces I recognize because that means a connection already exists. Because a big, stubborn part of me wants to believe that I’m good. I have all the people in my life I’m supposed to have and when the right time comes to reconnect, we will. 

Is now that time? I don’t know. However, one of the many lessons this virus has taught me is that we’re all connected. As my dear friend Bill said, “This planet is giving us tougher love than we have ever known, but the message of connectedness is coming thru loud and clear from a mysterious entity that can only be seen with specialized microscopes.” What that means for my future outlook on dating still remains unclear. Maybe the microscope I currently use will break or become stronger or, fingers crossed, disappear completely.

Fuck, buddy!

The title of Lynne Truss’ book on punctuation Eats, Shoots and Leaves, has always amused me. I love how the addition of that one comma drastically alters the sentence and what was meant to be a simple fact about panda bears becomes a comical (and dangerous) situation.

I thought of this book as I sat in bed the early morning hours of the new year. I had just taken my first sip of coffee in 2020. It was a cup of coffee that I did not make and it was a cup of coffee that I did not request. It was a cup of coffee that, without me knowing, was placed near my face as I slept. It’s invisible smell twirled into my unconscious nostrils and then, like a cartoon character following their nose to a freshly baked pie on a window sill, I woke up sniffing.

In front of me was an outstretched hand holding this cup of coffee in a perfectly shiny, perfectly red mug. It could’ve been Heaven. Or an IKEA ad.

“What a perfect start to the day, to the year, to the decade!” I thought as I sipped. “I could get used to…” But before I could finish that thought, reality abruptly reared her head. She came with the reminder that even though I was in the bed of someone I’ve been visiting for over a year and a half, this was still a bed that belonged to, pardon the expression, a fuck buddy.

I’ve never been a fan of the term ‘fuck buddy’. I go out of my way not to use it and for the past few years, prefer to call those I’ve been intimate with as lovers. Many people laugh when I do. I think they can’t help but hear Rachel Dratch and Will Ferrell crooning ‘lov-ah’ in a hot tub. But I don’t say it to be dramatic or funny. I say it because, casual or not, my decision to be intimate with someone is not one I make without some serious thought. My lovers will always be important to me for one reason or another. 

Especially this particular lover. Our non-relationship/relationship has been a consistent, surprising, fun, unique, eye-opening, blindfolding good time. It’s why I trusted him with my last hours of 2019 and my first hours of 2020. But when I received that cup of coffee, my brain took it upon itself to twist the non-relationship/relationship I knew and loved and created what the comma did to the panda bear’s eating habits - a dangerous situation.

I envisioned him waking me up like this every day. Every new year. Living together, being in love, maintaining our odd libidos despite everything working against us. 

“Fuck, buddy!” I said to my brain. “Why are you going there?” 

I knew perfectly well our connection wasn’t meant for that scenario. We weren’t Friends with Benefits that would see the light and finally fall in love in a flash mob. I knew all this, accepted all this, was happy with all this and yet for a brief moment my brain decided, “No, this should be something more!”

Even though it was just a cup of coffee and not a wedding ring, it was still a reminder that despite all my self-proclaimed growth, I’m still getting used to simple acts of intimacy and kindness coming complimentary with relationships of all kinds, even the casual ones. I hope that changes. Because even though the disruption was quick, it made me question what I knew was a perfectly good thing. What I knew shouldn’t change. He has exactly one photo hung up in his apartment. I have over 30 in my entrance. It would never work! And that’s ok. 

Putting limits on our relationships with others doesn’t make the relationship flawed, it makes it honest. Whether it’s your Sunday lover or a parent or a colleague, no one should be forced into a role they don’t want to or can’t play. Fuck your buddies (or your brain) and their judgement. Punctuate carefully but don’t be afraid to edit your script, change your settings, and write the scene that works for you.

Happy new year!

Sex is weird

The other day I ran into someone I knew. He asked me what I was doing that night. I told him what I was doing that night. There was nothing special or unique about this conversation yet when I walked away I couldn’t stop myself from chuckling.

Having a basic, polite conversation with someone isn’t particularly funny to me. But what is funny to me is having a basic, polite conversation with someone I had sex with. Yeah! Sex! Can you believe it?! Okay, I know there’s nothing crazy about that and, no, the sex wasn’t bad or weird or whatever. But knowing our time naked together wasn’t something that needed to be factored into our conversation is something I find stinkin’ hysterical.

“Hi person I’ve seen naked and hear moan. Here’s a dumb anecdote about my weekend!” 

I never imagined there would be a time when sex became a non-thing. That I would be able to walk by someone I fucked without some sort of intense flashback of our time together. 

A friend of mine said, “I think I’d get more nervous about seeing someone I had a crush on that I hadn’t boned yet.” I laughed but I also agreed. How is it that someone I want to be naked with could intimidate me fully clothed?! Are my vulnerabilities fucked? Am I backwards, forwards, right, wrong?

I remember the morning after my first kiss...with tongue. I looked at myself in the mirror. Someone’s saliva was in my mouth. I couldn’t look at the person without thinking of our tongues touching. My god! Who have I become?! I know a 13 year old girl is much different than a 34 year old woman. But if that girl knew one day she’d have sex with someone and then it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t linger in all her thoughts, wouldn’t be a big deal, I’m certain her mind would be blown. 

It hasn’t been until recently that the urge to tell someone, anyone, about a new lover disappeared. It used to be at least 10 text messages to friends (old and new) and maybe even a stranger on the elevator. “Psst. Guess who I did last night?”

But maybe it’s as simple as time. Maybe I’m no longer gobsmacked by tongues and touching simply because I’ve existed longer. If that’s the case, will other things lose their pop as I age? Will something that sends a shiver down my spine now barely send a spark later? Will sex become less of an obsession and more of a fact as German actress Marlene Dietrich put it?

I can’t imagine quite yet. There are still times I get dizzy thinking about the movements, the smells, the positions, the bodies, the vulnerability we give and allow from others. It’s fucking nuts! I guess sex is just one of those things that’s gonna be weird. Leonardo da Vinci called it disgusting. He also drew the anatomy of copulation. There will always be competing dualities.

It’s probably why I’m fascinated by it so much. And why I’m also fascinated by rollercoasters, unsuspecting magic tricks, my Instagram dedicated to finding empty train cars. Any moment that is and then isn’t. High and then low. Fast and then slow. I only know how great an empty train car is because I also know the intensity of a packed one. My highs are pointless without my mundane lows. 

Bon Bons, Insults and Putting My Hand Down My Pants: What Married With Children Taught Me About Love & Sex

In case any readers are as nuts as I am and decide to rewatch Married with Children with fresh eyes, spoilers below. 

Thanks to Spotify now including Hulu with my Premium subscription (hair flip!), I could finally deep dive into the show that up until recently has only provided me a sense of ick: Married with Children.

Married with Children premiered in 1987 as the anti-sitcom. Life wasn’t perfect, marriage wasn’t perfect and everyone was miserable. My parents didn’t encourage me to watch Married with Children but there definitely wasn’t a conversation about not watching it. So. Despite not really getting it, I did.

As a kid, I didn’t like Married with Children, I didn’t hate it. I was...intrigued. The theme song was sung by my grandpop’s favorite artist, Frank Sinatra, which made me feel good, but the show itself was dizzying. Everything was bright and cheesy in this world. It was as if dimmers or believable set pieces never existed. It reminded me of the community theatre plays I had begun performing in: over the top, fake, and exhausting. 

I remember thinking Al was mean, Bud was gross, Kelly was dumb, Peg was annoying and their couch was very similar to the one we had in our upstairs TV room. I remember Peg was always eating bon bons (I will never not equate bon bons with Peg Bundy) and I remember Al putting his hand down his pants which I now do often. 

But what I remembered most about Married with Children was the mysterious cloud of ‘sex stuff’ happening. I knew this was a ‘naughty’ show but my memories couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. If I had to define sex based on what I witnessed years ago in Married with Children, it would probably be something that you shimmy excitedly or reluctantly up the stairs for before the credits roll.

I was curious. Now that I was no longer a child, how would I perceive Married with Children? More importantly, how would Married with Children perceive sex? Relationships? Did Al and Peg really hate each other? Was marriage as terrible as The Bundys have me remember? Did Married with Children get anything right? Here’s what I came up with:

MYTH: Al & Peg don’t fuck
TRUTH: Al & Peg fuck a lot
Despite not having a well-defined vision of what exactly sex, I did gather from Married with Children that it was something neither Peg or Al wanted from each other. But, whatever this ‘sex’ was, Al did indeed want it from the svelte models that would (God knows why) peruse his shitty shoe store. 

But Al wasnt’t the only one guilty of not wanting to fuck their bethrothed. Despite Peg’s notorious, whiney ‘Alllllll!’ that would have you assuming she’s always begging for it, Peggy constantly comments on how bad Al is as a lover. She was always hinting about the lack of orgasms she was having with Al, bringing up her vibrator on more than one occasion:

Al: How ya feeling, Peg?  I’m surprised you could make it down those stairs this morning.
Peg: I know. I was pretty tired.  I hope that buzzing didn’t keep you awake last night.

However, as I watched the show, bracing myself for the nonstop insults Peg and Al would hurl at each other (and they do), I also realized, these two fuck a lot. For two people who claim to hate boning one another, there are more episodes of them getting it on than not. In fact, they fuck at the end of the very first episode! And the second episode! And the third! I screamed at my TV when, in episode two, Peg says to Al “It’s been a long time.” Bullshit, Peg! It’s only been (in tv world) one week! 

Not only that, there are episodes where they fuck multiple times! In a season two episode, ‘Earth Angel’, Al (and the whole town) become perpetually horny after the cross country travelin’, leotard wearin’ Tiffany spends a few nights on their couch. At one point, Peg’s so ravaged by her ‘sugar tush’ she can’t even get out of bed.

In season four episode, ‘Hot off the Grill’, Al becomes so aroused by Peg cleaning the backyard for a Labor Day barbecue, he rails her at least three times, even referring to himself as Peg’s ‘Daddy.’ Al Bundy the dom?

MYTH: Peg is an insufferable wife
FACT: Peg is HOT
As I mentioned above, I will never not equate bon bons with Peg Bundy (Truthfully, I still don’t know what a bon bon is). Peg was a redhead like me, so as a child I was intrigued. I may have even made my relatives laugh by shoving cash in my shirt like Peg. But I never would have referred to Peg as a role model. 

However, as I watched her now as a grown woman: cigarette in a manicured hand, leg bouncing, a bright lip to match an even brighter outfit; I concluded Peg Bundy was hot as hell. I used to see Peg as an outlandish, wild dresser. Now I was viewing her as a fashion icon. Every outfit she wore, I wanted for myself. Peg even shared my fashion technique of ‘Put a belt on it!’, giving her outfits that perfect touch by wrapping a chunky belt around her waist.

And while Peg was originally written as a lazy couch potato, it was Katey Sagal who came up with her signature, sexy look. Katey showed up to the audition in tight clothes and a red wig and voila! Peg! 

Peg is also known in her friend’s group as having more sex than any of them: “Peggy, you get it once a month. What’s your secret?” Peggy goes on to describe a situation where she basically traps Al into fucking her, but if you ask me, I think not only does Peg get off more than what she wants you to believe, she also gets off on exaggerating her dire circumstances. I think it’s all an act to protect whatever it is that her and Al do have.

And I think Katey Sagal would agree. “I think it was hot underneath.” Sagal said at a 2003 reunion. Katey decided that when something happened between Peg and Al (which we now know was often), it was great and why Peg wanted it.

MYTH: Marcy is pathetic
FACT: Marcy is a strong, sexually healthy woman
Marcy, Marcy, Marcy. In my fuzzy MWC memories, I remember Marcy as the annoying, bug-eyed neighbor.  And yes, she was the character you (men) were supposed to hate. She didn’t eat meat, she hated sports, she hated Al, and she was...a feminist. [cue audience ‘Oooooos!’] Marcy is the exaggerated ‘modern woman.’ But she’s also the freakin’ best.

I may admire Peg’s style but it’s Marcy’s transformation I relate to. Marcy starts the series a somewhat straight-laced, timid newlywed but ends the series a powerful, in your-face, business woman who is also unapologetically kinky.

Yes, Marcy’s first marriage to Steve, which I’d argue is the better marriage, had its issues (mainly due to the appearance of The Bundys). But for the most part it was pretty good. They shared interests, they had sex every 36 hours (except on weekends when they ‘caught up’), and they didn’t wait for the 7-year itch to add mystery and excitement to their love life. Role playing and boning for hours was the norm.

Marcy and Steve eventually divorce. But she doesn’t immediately meet and marry her second husband, Jefferson, until nearly a season later. It’s in that season alone that, IMO, Marcy thrives! She goes out dancing alone, she works hard, she has a fling with a married, 40-year old man who likes to be spanked for his sins. Throughout the series, Marcy also speaks openly about her sexual fantasies going into great detail about Elvis or Mike Tyson. Marcy displays exhibitionist tendencies, disgusting Al by making out with her lovers in front of him on his couch. 

When Marcy eventually did remarry, it was not a long drawn out relationship. It was an accident. After a drunken night at a banker’s conference. Jefferson spotted Marcy on top of the all-girls, banker’s pyramid, proving once again, Marcy knew how to have fun. Sure, I can understand the writer’s interest in adding the chiseled Ted McGinley as Jefferson to their cast, but let’s face it. It wasn’t Marcy who needed him. 

MYTH: Al is a piece of shit, woman-hating husband
FACT: Al is a piece of shit (but he loves his family)
Before Tim Allen’s annoying bark of machismo, there was Al. Every dick move Al made or said on Married with Children was met with a testosterone-heavy studio audience of cheers and applause. The people loved Al.

I don’t want to defend that Al. That Al sucked and that Al, unfortunately, still exists today in the actions of real ‘men’. But there was an Al that was tolerable. An Al that kept Peg satisfied, kept his children always a stone’s throw away and kept him okay in my now way too long essay.

Al was lazy but he got the job done. Or at least tried. Whether that job was respectable; running a shoe store (which he remained employed for 20 years!), giving his neighbor a ride, taking care of a sick Kelly, teaching his kids how to drive, or less respectable such as always exploiting others, Al would often fail but not without a great attempt.

His kids constantly spoke low of him, but something kept them around. They were voluntary, returning spectators to Al’s misery. They watched him work on his garden, went bowling with him, and attended his forced family BBQs. They were there for him as best they knew how to be. 

Deep down in the 7th layer of Al’s dark soul, there was a nostalgic, family man wanting to break free. Al made attempts to keep his family closer through those family BBQs and vacations and Bundy-specific traditions. He wanted his family taken seriously because as shown in flashbacks, Al himself didn’t have strong family figures growing up. 

And, despite the few times Al had the opportunity to stray, he never did. He may have really wanted to but at the end of the day, Al was committed. Any sexy distraction put in front of him (a model, a stripper, a neighbor) was never more than that. Al was even horrified when he discovered Kelly’s fiancee creeping on other women at a strip club, “A man looks, drools, dreams, but he does not cheat!”

Conclusion
Married with Children is ridiculous. The jarring dialogue, misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, women-hating, men-hating, pet-hating, slut-shaming, fat-shaming, life hating Bundys couldn’t exist (on TV) today. But The Bundys paved the way for other TV families to exist today (while also showcasing a cast of women characters who were horny as hell) so for that, Ron and Michael, bravo!

Married with Children had a job of showing a ‘realer’ version of marriage and family, than say The Brady Bunch or Leave It to Beaver. This they accomplished. But if another job was to also make marriage unappealing, I think they failed. Relax, my reintroduction to Married with Children doesn’t have me suddenly running to the alter but it does have me reconsider my initial ‘ick’ response. Married with Children reminded me of that unique, special (sometimes harsh) intimacy that comes from knowing someone so well (even if you can’t remember their eye color or birthday, Al).

Behind the egregious insults of Peg and Al’s dysfunctional relationship, was a pretty functional couple, their shared hatred merely an attempt to further the then current theatre of ‘Marriage Sucks’. But that’s what it was, an act. Al and Peg split their relationship between show and reality, which worked well for a sitcom that played out like bad, community theater. They had to exaggerate, had to be big, bold, bright, obnoxious because that’s what you do to be seen from stage. Your hair and facial expressions have to burst off your face if you want to reach a new audience. However, what makes sense from the balcony doesn’t always translate once you get closer. In fact, it looks ridiculous. It’s this ridiculousness that protected Al and Peg’s unique version of intimacy. An intimacy that, when done right, truly is hard to disparage.

I don't wanna hold your hand

“I’ve been out of love for so long that now when I see a couple holding hands I think ‘Oh cool. They must be filming a movie.’”

Okay, yes. I just quoted one of my jokes. But it’s true. The simple act of holding hands has become not only foreign to me but kinda scary. I think hand holding is one of the most intimate things you can do with someone. The interlocking fingers. The suction. The touching of webbing between our fingers. Gross.

In the few years I’ve committed to embracing my sexuality, I’ve simultaneously started rejecting hand holding. At this point I rather ask someone to spit in my mouth instead of touch their fingers. Every new person I’ve been involved with I make sure to tell them about my dislike of PDA. But I’m not a cold person. In fact, I’m a very touchy person. A tap on the arm here. A brush of the leg there. I love oxytocins. But the touch of someone’s hand feels less exhilarating and more loss of freedom. I’m attached to another person. Might as well put a ring on my ring finger and a bun in my oven. Okay, I’m being dramatic, but have you seen those couples who insist on holding hands even though they walk at different speeds? Is someone in trouble? Are you late? No thank you! I didn’t go to college to have to walk at a different pace than my own. 

I know my fear of hand holding is only going to get worse. My intimacy tolerance diminishes with each year I push it away. Ever have a drink with someone who hasn’t in awhile? It doesn’t take much for them to start giggling. Being a lightweight is great (and cost-effective) when it comes to drinking. Being a lightweight when it comes to intimacy is not as cute.

Dr. Tiffany Field, director of the Touch Research Institute, which is either the best or worst place in the world, said in a 2016 Huffington Post article, “When the fingers are interlaced and someone is holding your hand, they’re stimulating pressure receptors [that trigger] what’s called vagal activity.” And while vagal activity sounds like something vagina-related, be assured it is not. “When there’s pressure in the touch, the heart rate goes down, the blood pressure goes down, and you’re put in a relaxed state.” In other words, holding someone’s hand chills you the eff out. Well, WTF? I love chilling out!

Recently someone took my hand as we walked. He was well aware of my anti-PDA stance so when he went for it, I tensed up.

We both knew he was rebelling. He looked at me and smiled. “See? It’s not so bad.” I giggled nervously. He was right. It wasn’t so bad. And later on in the evening, when we became the couple at the bar making out in their booth, the couple I hate, the couple I point to and proclaim my usual, “I hate PDA.”, I had a revelation and pulled away to announce it: 

“I think I say I don’t like PDA to people...because I don’t like them.” 

The people who have been in and out of my life have been great. Okay, they’ve been fine. But in the back of my head I always knew they weren’t a fit for the version of me who does want to be intimate. The version of me who does want to go deeper. The version of me who is my ultimate true self. Maybe I do like PDA and hand holding and all the wonderful intimate things you can do with a person, as long as that person is someone I feel myself around. Someone I’m being both inwardly and outwardly honest.

I think I’m over wearing my fear of intimacy like a badge of honor. I’m ready for a new badge. Stella got her groove back, but, baby, I’m getting my hands back.  

Any cheaters here tonight?

I cheated.

I’m a cheater.

Do you hate me now?

I wouldn’t say I’m proud I cheated but...I certainly don’t regret it. If I was a character on one of your shows (‘stories’ for the more mature readers), you’d be tweeting, “She deserved it!”

I did deserve it.

But I’m not a character on your show and you don’t have the backstory or 4 seasons worth of episodes to look back on for context. So when it comes time to admit I cheated, the support is never as loud. I have jokes about cheating and as soon as I say the word ‘cheat’ on stage, the crowd tenses. The laughs subside. A random weirdo in the back woos.

I think it’s the word ‘cheat.’ That hard ‘t’ really sets people off. They think of all the other hard ‘t’ words: shit, hurt, cunt, slut, and the biggest offender of them all, moist.

::shudder::

I could switch it up. Maybe use the light and airy ‘affair’ but it wasn’t an affair (An affair is when you fly to have sex, right?).

So I don’t know. What do you call ‘having sex with someone else because you’re in an emotionally abusive relationship at the same time you’re beginning your sexual prime’?

The word that comes to mind is freedom.

One of the sessions a few weeks ago at the Southwest Love Fest started by sex educator Sara Connell asking us to think for a few moments about something that we used to believe about sex, relationships or intimacy that we don’t believe anymore. Many came to mind (sex equals immediately pregnant, casual sex will always lack intimacy, the concept of ‘losing ones virginity’) but a big one for me was that cheating makes you a terrible person. That cheating was the worst thing you can do.

I never imagined I’d be a cheater. Cheating was selfish. Cheating was something Carrie Bradshaw did not Carolyn Busa. So as I found myself moving closer and closer to becoming a cheater, I wondered if my decision to move into this new territory was simply for a cheap thrill. It’s taken me awhile to realize that, no, that decision of mine was so much more than just a lapse of judgement.

It’s impossible to give audiences the full rundown of what led to my cheating on my boyfriend of 4 years during my usual 8 minute sets. I have a lot of other things I want to talk about on stage (ie. my now healthy sex life). But I do wish people’s faces weren’t immediately soured by my admitting I cheated. No one knows the whole side of the story. For starters, he was a dj.

JK JK JK. I know djs aren’t bad people. Admittedly, I’d even like to be one! Why? Because djs are supposed to inspire you, make you want to dance, tease you with their bass not taunt you with their words. Words like those hard ‘t’ words above, some of which I went to bed hearing screamed at me. Or texted to me. I look at my pictures from that time and I can find an insult or unnecessary argument behind each one.

My 26th birthday. Not pictured: the annoyance expressed by my boyfriend for me wanting to stay out longer

A work trip in San Diego. Not pictured: the degrading texts accusing me of being a bad girlfriend by going out with new friends

My last show at my favorite comedy festival. Not pictured: the pissed off phone calls because I was too busy to talk

My favorite place in the world. Not pictured: the threats of my boyfriend abandoning me and going home early

Christmas Eve. Not pictured: the judgement received from my boyfriend for wanting to still see my friends even though he had to stay home with his sick son

The after party of a friend’s wedding. Not pictured: the argument after the after party about the attention I was giving my friends and not him

The day after a friend’s beach birthday. Not pictured: my exhaustion from being up all night as my boyfriend whispered insults in my ear

Like when I didn’t tell my boyfriend about a late night with an ex. At that point I was already quite familiar with my boyfriend’s temperament and didn’t want to wake the beast. I hadn’t seen my ex-boyfriend/friend in over a year. He never saw my act, he never met my dog. We caught up as we watched my dog tear up his bed. I told him about my shitty job. We said goodnight.

The night my boyfriend found out about this innocent reunion sits with me still today. My poor dog’s confusion at the yelling and stomping and Mommy curled up in a ball on the floor downstairs. The word ‘slut’ being screamed at me as he stood above. The panic that was inside me enough to call the police. It’s insane to think about. I can’t believe that was my life for even just a night.

I didn’t cheat on him until 6 months after that nightmare. That ‘t’ doesn’t seem so hard to me.

I have a couple that lives above me now. I know nothing about them except that they have a dog and they seem happy in the same way I seem happy in the photos above. But their floor is my ceiling. I hear the stomping, I hear the arguing, I hear the pitter patter of Marley likely running back and forth confused at who is right and who is wrong.

That will never be my life again.

So, one more time for those in the back: I cheated. I’m a cheater. And fuck yeah, I am free.

Another plant, another person

I’m staring at my ponytail plant in my bedroom. She looks how this last week felt: blah.

I have no idea if she’s dying. If she’s over watered. If she’s pissed off, sad, mad, hot, cold. I’ve moved her twice over the past month to see if that helped. Google says I’m both over watering her and under watering her. WTF, Googs, which one is it!?!?

We never had plants in my house growing up. We had flowers. Bouquets of flowers for holidays, birthdays, dance recitals, and a few spelling bees. The wonderful thing about flowers is they don’t ask for much. They live and they die and there’s no question of what you did right, what you did wrong or what you could have done differently.

A plant can be hiding so many secrets. She’ll look one way but feel another. She’ll disappear for a few months. She’ll want a bigger home. She’ll develop a preference for distilled water. Plants are work. Flowers are immediately beautiful.

My ponytail plant seems to be testing me the same way my relationship patterns test me. As a newly diagnosed avoidant type, I’m at the place in our relationship where I want to throw her out. Start over. Things aren’t perfect therefore it wasn’t meant to be. I’ll be better off with another plant, another person.

When I am interested or attracted to someone, instead of enjoying the crush that it is or letting it develop naturally, I tend to speed things up. “Let’s get on with it, are we a good fit or not?!” I’ll overtly flirt, I’ll put my feelings out there too quickly, or maybe I’ll have sex with them sooner than I should. Then when it doesn’t pan out to be perfect, or when I make things weird or when the sex isn’t immediately beautiful, I think “Oh well.” I don’t let it bother me much because I didn’t commit too much energy, too much of myself to the situation. It wasn’t a big loss. But put a bunch of tiny losses together and add a few years and now, well, now I’ve lost a lot.

When something takes time, I lose interest. Like when I took Spanish classes for a whole 4 months and was disappointed I couldn’t speak Spanish at the end. “What’s the point?” I thought. Looking back, I know I had a fun time, met great people, and know more Spanish than when I started, yet my immediate takeaway was “I can’t speak perfect Spanish therefore I wasted my time.”

I love results. Too much. I have trouble enjoying the ‘in between’ because I’m always in a hurry to get to the end product. My friend told me about his decision to start growing microgreens in his apartment but not to eat. “So, what’s the point?” I asked him. His answer, he liked the process. As someone who doesn’t have the patience to preheat an oven, I was inspired. If I continued to skip and disrespect the process, who knows how many experiences (and quiches) I would sabotage.

These past few months, after forcing myself to accept patience and room for growth, I’ve seen areas of my life benefit. My small takeaways from therapy every week that have made sense of huge life challenges. The benefits to my mind and body after committing to a dance practice I fought to push away. Big surprise, doing the work works.

Last night I spent 15 minutes picking the brown leaves off my plant. I ran my fingers through her leaves and whispered words of affirmation as my dog watched with jealousy. Her secrets may be revealed slowly, but I’ll be patient. When she’s ready, she’ll let me know. She could still be the right plant for me.

I enjoy dancing to 'Single Ladies' but not because I want a ring on it

I love dancing. I love Beyonce. So when 'Single Ladies' comes on at a wedding, guess what? I dance! I do the little knee bumps, the hair flips and most importantly, I do the recognizable hand motion.

As I’m dancing I can feel the stares. Not the stares of ‘Damn, that girl is hot.’ Stares of ‘Look, another girl desperate for a ring.’ But no, DJ Blow Horn Noise! That is not the case! That is not my story! Dancing is how I decompress. How I feel sexy. How I express myself. How I clear the weekly cobwebs that form in my brain. Dancing is how I’ve chosen to put my shit out there.

Women are really good at putting their shit out there. Whether alone or in groups, the attention and creativity women give to self-care is extremely beneficial to our sanities. Our dance parties, face mask nights and brunches may be brushed off as wastes of time or money but they are as self-cleansing as our beautiful vaginas.

Women want to be comfortable with themselves but we’ve also accepted there will be times we don’t. We can't always perform at our preferred 100%. It’s why singer/rapper Lizzo goes to therapy or cancels shows when she’s not taking care of herself. In our moments of doubt, we don’t judge ourselves for seeking reaffirming activities to make us feel better. “I say I love myself, and they’re like, ‘Oh my gosh, she’s so brave. She’s so political.’ For what? All I said is ‘I love myself, bitch!’” says Lizzo.

We don’t always need soul searching to be as mindful as meditation or as eye-opening (slash nauseous) as an ayahuasca retreat in the woods. If I feel like shit and deal with it by high-fiving myself, getting my nails done or bitching to my Uber driver, the benefits are the same, I feel better. I feel good as hell.

As my dating adventures continue, I’ve noticed a few of the men in my life, willingly sharing intimate details of their life in lengthy detail. I’ve also found these are the same men who aren’t willing to share a minute longer of their time and energy towards our relationship.

I’m not an idiot, I am very familiar with the ooey, gooey chemicals in our brains that spark after sex. Men (and especially women) will find themselves accidentally extra chatty post-coital. I know I’ve said a questionable thing or two. Did I really need to share the exact number of days we’ve known each other after we both came? Probably not.

But these admissions from my partners are different from the bonding, chemical reactions of sex. They aren’t meant to bring us closer together or to forge deep, meaningful connection, even by accident.

Imagine holding in your pee for months at a time and then finally finding a toilet. My ears are their toilet. Okay, perhaps a shitty metaphor (Somebody stop me!) but whereas we have spent our whole lives mastering a back and forth exchange throughout a variety of support systems, men seem to save it all up for that person they are currently connected to, no matter how ‘casual’.

Sex therapist Esther Perel said in a recent Glamour article, “The shame men deal with around their identity as a man, makes it harder for them to receive the support they need for positive interpersonal relationships.” One of her suggestions to help this problem is to create more spaces for men to connect, in particular, places that don’t involve competition. If spaces were created where men could share stories and not stats, overtime, it might become easier for them to show vulnerability in front of each other, an act which I think women excel.

Maybe being vulnerable isn’t so scary for us because we’re not saving it all up for one person. We share intimate details about ourselves to connect with others but also to connect with ourselves. We are consistently doing the work, consistently dancing to Beyonce, to Lizzo, to whatever makes ourselves feel and function better. If and when I do want ‘a ring on it’, my partner won’t be my entire support system. When my shit hits the fan, I’ll be asking more than one person to help clean up the mess. You in?

When a 'thing' ends

Upset that a ‘thing’ you had with someone recently ended? Don’t be. It was probably barely a ‘thing’!

To be clear, a ‘thing’ is different for everyone. A ‘thing’ can be when you’re seeing someone, dating someone, having sex with someone. I used to laugh when people mourned the end of ‘things’ that had only been 3 months. Four months. Even 6 months. I had been in two 4-year relationships. ‘That’s nothing.’ I’d think.

But as it continued to (and continues to) become harder and harder to find real, lasting connections with people, rather lovers, I realized I was becoming one of those people upset by the end of, what I would previously consider, short, ‘things.’

Well, surprise! I didn’t like the way that felt! I didn’t like the power that these ‘things’ held and I wanted to do something about it. There had to be a way to make me, make all of us, feel less bad.

And guess what? There is!

All you have to do to make the ‘thing’ you’re upset about feel less upsetting is plug it into this very easy, very mathematically correct equation:

TAW x 4 = MTR(NOM > 5) = TNTM(ALOH) = HT

Confused? Let’s take a look! How many times a week (TAW) did your ‘thing’ take place? Okay, now multiply that by 4 (for 4 weeks in a month). There. That’s your Monthly ‘Thing’ Rate or MTR. Now take your MTR and multiply that by the number of months (NOM) your ‘thing’ lasted. This number should not exceed 5. (If your ‘thing’ exceeded 5 months, it was not a ‘thing’. It was a relationship and therefore I cannot help you). Where were we? Right, we just multiplied your MTR by # of months which gives us your Total Number of ‘Thing’ meetings aka TNTM (not to be confused with TMNT, everyone’s favorite mutant turtles).

Still confused? Don’t worry, we’re getting there. Let’s break down the TNTM of a recent ‘thing’ of mine that ended. My TNTM was 20 (It so happens my ‘thing’ fell on a few holidays which led to some extra meetings). Continuing on, the average length of our hangs (ALOH) was 3 hours (When doing this exercise yourself, only count conscious time together, sleeping hours do not count). So now I’m going to take my TNTM and multiply it by my ALOH which leaves me with my total number of Hours Together (HT), 60.

Wow. 60 hours together. That’s it!

60 hours isn’t even a 3-day weekend.

60 hours is barely 7.5 business days of boning. No way you’re putting that on a resume.

60 hours isn’t even the entire series of the 75 episodes of The Americans let alone the 86 episodes of The Sopranos (Imagine you stopped watching after “Marco Polo” and never found out what happened with Tony and Carmela in the pool?).

60 hours is only three 19-hour flights from Newark to Singapore. Ugh, Newark!

60 hours is a cross country trip from New York to Los Angeles, with a handful of rest stops. Nothing you can’t do alone!

60 hours is only .6% of Malcolm Gladwell’s debunked 10,000 hour mastery rule! You ain’t gonna master a skill and you ain’t gonna master this ‘thing’.

So, let’s get over our ‘things’ however long they were because guess what? You’ll be using that equation again soon enough. Another ‘thing’ is always around the corner. Until then, be grateful of the hours together (HT) we get back to focus on our friends, our family, our work, our pets, and of course, ourselves.

Hotels are for boning, Airbnbs are for making love

I’m behind on writing this week. The past 7 days I’ve been working and playing in the great state of Colorado. It was a fantastic week in the 38th state. I drove on empty roads and looked down scary mountains. You learn a lot about yourself when you’re taking selfies 6000 feet in the air. Especially as everyone else is taking insane engagement photos.

My first four nights in Colorado I stayed at a wonderfully sexy hotel in downtown Denver. The hotel was sexy for many reasons: the fruit-infused water in the lobby, the alcove window in my room, the multiple shower heads, and of course, the endless supply of stiff, fresh towels.

Every moment I spent in this room was a moment I wished someone knocked on my door with an intent to deliver room service and a good bang.

My last three nights were spent somewhere less room servicey, more ‘please take your shoes off upon entering the housey.’ My Airbnb in Fort Collins had two fresh towels that had seen an unheard level of fabric softener. It had one closet I could use, one closet I couldn’t, a single shower head, oh! And it had Mike. My Airbnb host.

Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck Mike. I didn’t fuck anyone in my little Fort Collins room. And I didn’t want to fuck anyone. My perfectly cool, 69 degreed, semi-swanky hotel may have had me hot and bothered but my never exactly the right temperature, semi-second-rate BNB had me feeling something else. With every hotel and Airbnb experience I have, it becomes clearer and clearer to me: Airbnbs aren’t for fucking. Airbnb’s are for making love.

Hotels represent my fantasy of adulthood. When I stay at a hotel, I am playing the ultimate adult version of ‘pretend’. It’s a safe place for my ridiculous, over-the-top inner psyche to play. This rare version of myself doesn't come out often, so when she does, she is ready to POUNCE. But all that disappears when I stay at an Airbnb. Because if hotels are the fantasy, Airbnb’s are the reality. 

You don’t have the same anonymity at an Airbnb that you do at a hotel. You don’t just put in your credit card information, you tell your host about yourself. What is bringing you to their neck of the woods? There’s rules and little notes and constant reminders that you’re immersed in someone’s actual life. My god, you know what their handwriting looks like!

When you stay at a hotel you dial ‘0’ and a stranger brings you food. At an Airbnb, Mike recommends restaurants for you to explore. At your hotel, you’re given nice glasses for beverages. At an Airbnb, you find a ‘#1 Son’ mug in the cabinet. At a hotel, your room is magically cleaned. At an Airbnb, you get a text telling you where the extra paper towels are. A hotel treats you like a one night stand, an Airbnb wants to meet your parents. It’s kind of...romantic. 

One of the best things about love (romantic, friendly, or otherwise) is the joy I get from doing something special for that person. Suddenly I want to paint them a picture or buy a dumb shirt I know would look good on them or send along a song I know they’d like. Some people get a funny feeling in their stomachs when they are falling in love, I get the urge to scrapbook. The touches in an Airbnb elicit that same feeling. They are curated by a real person, not a corporation. In 2015, when I stepped into my Airbnb in Nashville and saw Johnny Cash ready-to-go on the record player, my heart melted. Suddenly I was on a honeymoon.

I love traveling which means I love hotels and I love Airbnbs. Both accommodations represent some sort of adventure. But if someone’s going to, for lack of better words, fuck the shit out of me, I want that to be in a place where it’s ok to leave behind a mess. Where I don’t have to worry about a bad review or lack of stars or disappointing Mike. After all, he did let me use his Keurig.