Tongue was having words with Heart

So Tongue was having words with Heart.

“How can it be,” said Tongue. “That after all these years you are still just as fragile as a soap bubble? You need to work out or something. Get stronger. What about Tae-bo?”

“Ah, it’s true,” said Heart. “But you know how I can be. A set of brown eyes and a faded Sanskrit tat and I’m a gonner. It’s worse when he’s read more than two books and gets your jokes. That’s when I start thinking this time, this time, things might be different.”

“But they never are,” said Brain.

“Brain!” said Heart. “This is your fault as much as it is mine. Where were you when all this was happening? What were you thinking?”

“I’m just not on my game these days,” admitted Brain. “I was much sharper before all the cheese and wine, don’t you think? I was damn near genius back in the day. Frankly, I think this is the fault of Breasts,” Brain went on. “They are always looking for a reason to show off.”

“We cannot disagree,” said Breasts. “But we don’t know how many more years we are going to be upright like this. It won’t be long before we’ll be swinging down around Navel.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” said Navel, who in all honesty, isn’t any trouble at all. “But if you ask me, it’s Vagina’s fault. She’s been getting us into trouble for 20 years.”

“I’m sorry,” said Vagina. “I just often feel so empty.”

“It’s because you’re codependent,” said Bladder.

“Oh, shut up,” said Vagina, steaming. “You get filled up several times a day. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“I blame Hands,” said Ankles. “Without them we wouldn’t feel anything. Then we could be happy.”

“Don’t put this on us,” said Hands. “If Ankles were slender and fine, someone would fall in love with us.”

“But if we were slender and fine, we could never hold up Ass,” said Ankles, speaking in unison, as usual.

“Hey!” yelled Ass. “We’ve never once had a complaint!”

No, the body had to admit. As abundant as she was, there had never been a single complaint about Ass.

“Tongue,” said Ass. “This is really all your fault. What’s with you and all the talking, talking, talking. It’s exhausting. You should just shut up and let me work my magic.”

“Everyone loves a witty retort,” said Tongue.

“I think the key word there is witty,” said Brain.

And then the body went silent, each part fuming at the other.

Finally, Heart spoke, barely above a whisper. The rest of the body leaned in to hear.

“Did anyone see that cute guy in yoga?” she asked.

In defense of sex, but not Karen Owen

Spinsta must have been sleeping under a rock last month when the Karen Owen kerfuffle hit the ‘net and the morning shows – two organisms that feed almost entirely off sex scandal.

I ran across Karen’s story recently in a blog written by Jonathan Zimmerman, a professor of history and education at New York University. For those of you sharing my rock, Karen Owen is a senior at Duke University who put together a 42-page faux senior thesis – complete with a PowerPoint slideshow – about the student athletes she bedded. She sent it to friends, who sent it to friends, who sent it to friends, and, thusly, a new viral video star was born.

An Education Beyond the Classroom:  Excelling in the Realm of Horizontal Academics, details, at nauseam, raunchy, booze-fueled evenings with 13 men met at a local watering hole called Shooters.  Karen evaluated her “subjects” based on “memorable moments,” “pros,” “cons,” and a final, “raw score.”

In his blog, Zimmerman compares Karen to Hester Prynne – and says the fact that her “thesis” went viral – is proof that there is still a sexual double standard in this country -- that women are still expected to remain virtuous and pure while men are expected to be sexually aggressive and experienced.

I kept Zimmerman’s thoughts in mind the first time I watched the slideshow. But I didn’t see what he saw. First of all, I don’t think a single, attractive, 22-year-old woman sleeping with 13 men in four years is that big of a deal. That’s what, 3.2 men a year? Second, the thesis reads like the bathroom-wall ramblings of a young woman with a limited vocabulary just trying to make her friends laugh.

“I mean, we fucked in the Duke University library during fucking finals week,” she squeals.

That’s not funny, witty or an interesting take on sex in 2010. It’s just embarrassing. 

What interested me more was that this “news story” made the Today Show, where an earnest looking reporter said as an out cue, “This is the last thing this university needed.”

Um, right. Why don’t you tell that one to Columbine High School or Virginia Tech. I bet those schools would take a luke warm sex scandal any day over a murderous rampage. To make matters even more weird, Meredith Vieira interviewed Donna Rice Hughes, who – for those of us older than a Duke University senior – we remember as having been photographed, pants-less, on a yacht called Monkey Business, on the lap of Gary Hart, then the democratic presidential front runner.

Donna Rice Hughes back in the day

The photo killed Hart’s political aspirations. Now Rice calls herself an “internet safety advocate” and is director of a center called Enough is Enough. During a five-minute interview, Vieira never, ever even comes close to asking Rice about her own, personal sex scandal – despite the fact that I was yelling at her over and over to do so. I think this says more about journalism today than Karen Owen says about sex.

I watched Karen’s slideshow several times and I read the comments beneath it, which called her everything from a diseased whore to a modern-day Che Guevara. One Neanderthal in a ball cap posted a pointless rambling about how Karen had slept with 42 men. (It was 42 pages, and 13 men, you idiot. If you can’t tell a page from a penis, I refuse to acknowledge your opinion.)

Now, I am not so old that I can’t remember how easily a young woman’s reputation can be sullied. My roommate said she once stepped outside a high school dance to have a cigarette with a guy and rumors soon swirled that the two had had sex outside.

“It was winter in Wisconsin,” she says now. “What the hell did they think we were doing out there?”

I was 12 when a boy I had a crush on sacrificed my reputation to inflate his own. In the locker room at school, he described me doing things I hadn’t even heard of before.

But I see that as another issue entirely. I don’t see Karen as a victim. It’s not like someone created the slideshow behind her back and played in front of the crowd at graduation. If what she writes is true, she was a willing and sometimes aggressive participant when she had sex with these men. And to that I say, “Good for you, dammit. Go get laid. Often and early. Yay sex!”

However.

What would I think if I ran across a slideshow detailing the female sexual conquests of a male Duke University student? I know I would be livid. I would believe that those girls had been publically humiliated and victimized.

That, I believe, is the issue here. I don’t know if women today suffer from repressed sexuality as they have in the past. Karen certainly doesn’t. And since I wasn’t the least bit shocked that she’s slept with 13 men in four years, I guess I’m not either.

It’s my opinion we now live an age when people are getting married older (Hmmm Hmmm) and that people are not judged as harshly as they once were for having sex before marriage or outside of relationships. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for discretion. You never heard 007 blabbing to Pussy Galore about Holly Goodhead.

What I see in the PowerPoint slideshow is not so much that Karen is Hester Prynne. What I see is lack of kindness for people you once licked.  

I’m older than the dirt clinging to the sides of the rock I live under – but I still believe that taking off your clothes and participating in acts with another person that are, at best, unsanitary – means you have entered into a contract to be kind to that person. It means you agree not to disclose publically their most humiliating figure flaws, needs, desires, wants and tears. And that goes for men and women.

Karen did defend herself in the online publication, er, Jezebel, saying that her PowerPoint is no different than what frat boys have been doing for generations. And that may be so. But like my sexually repressed grandma used to say, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Sex is an animal desire that is two-fold. First, we are driven to procreate. That’s an easy one. But there’s also the desire to crawl into bed with another person, have them put a hand on an ill-conceived tattoo, scar or stretch mark, and say, if not verbally, that we are loveable anyway – that despite dimples, pimples and moles – we are accepted and even desired.

That’s the line, in my mind, Karen crossed.

Ex-boyfriend for sale or trade

We found love on eBay! You can too!

The best relationship advice I ever heard came from a white-sneakered septuagenarian strapped next to me on a transatlantic flight from Boston to Rome. We were held captive by the lit seatbelt sign, snug between tray table and knobby blue seat. My boyfriend at the time was collapsed in slumber next to the window, drooling on a pillow the flight attendant brought him five minutes after boarding.

We sensed in one another a kinship – both descended from the Tribe of Chat. She asked the first, polite question – nothing I remember. And then we were off -- two women desperately in need of muzzles. Three hours later, we’d each knocked back four tee-tiny airline bottles of wine, and she was flagging down the attendant in hopes of scoring us a few shots of Bailey’s.

I think it was after our second shot (or was it third?) that I confided in her one of my biggest secrets at the time – that my sleeping companion – the one I had been dating four years – was not the elusive One.

(As if on cue, at this point my boyfriend woke up, looked at our tray tables littered with shot glasses and wine bottles and said, “Get me one of those,” before falling back into a deep slumber.)

The woman did not judge me – but leaned in to tell me her secret. She was a bride of one month, she said, when she decided her husband’s hours as a doctor left too few moments for her. And so she packed a bag and went home to her mother and father. Her parents brewed a pot of coffee, sat her down, and her father said this, “Your marriage has a price. And only you can determine what that price is."

She said she went to bed that night, and the next morning went home to her husband.  By the time she was speaking to me on the plane, she’d been married more than 50 years. She decided that the price she had to pay (time without her husband) was worth the sliver of time she did get to be with him.

That advice stuck with me. It’s simple and puts things in perspective. I think of it today – as yet another boyfriend – who started out so funny and fun -- is about to bite the dust.  (He’s smothering me to the point where I want to paint my face blue and run across an open field waving a flag with a giant vagina on it, screaming Freeeeedddooooooommmmm.) I've decided the price of his opening doors and picking up checks is not worth this persistent feeling that a dwarf is sitting on my trachea.

For me, it's helpful to think of relationships in economic terms. (Is the weight of a dwarf worth free Buffalo chicken sliders at Ruby Tuesdays? I think not.)

Even better, I think, what if women could buy or trade one another’s past relationships on eBay or Craigslist? What if we could make a little money off our past love lessons and heartbreak? And you know what they say, one woman’s clingy psycho is another woman’s treasure.

48-hour fling with incredibly good looking, 40-year-old Peter Pan-type narcissist. Let him take you to his favorite haunt on South Beach. Look at your reflection in his designer sunglasses as he prattles on about himself and try to remember why you are here. Buy now for $25. Will also negotiate for a Starbucks gift card or a coupon for two free Nachos Belle Grande.

Six month relationship with world’s fattest tri-athlete. Get up at 4 a.m. every six weeks to shout “Go! Go!” as he waddles into the surf. Try to ignore that a perfectly innocent bicycle seat disappears beneath his giant ass. Then sit trapped in the car with him as he yells at you for talking in the transition area – which is the ONLY reason he came in last. Buy now for $50. Will also trade for a used Billie Holiday CD and a bottle of Pinot Noir.

Tequila-fueled, one night stand with smoking-hot Turkish filmmaker who spent two years working on a 120-minute documentary about hands. Obtain during said evening the best compliment you’ve ever had or will ever have. Buy now for $5,000 or trade for similar.

Two year relationship with the British version of Woody Allen. Listen to him worry incessantly about everything and nothing in “adorable” “smart-sounding” accent. Tell time he's not really losing his hair. That much. Buy now for $200. Will also trade for one night of Salsa dancing and cocktails with sexy Latino.

10-year friendship with world’s best guy ever. Date him five years, plus five years of miraculous friendship. Watch him save your ass time and again. Bounce nutty ideas off him time and again. Be amazed as he surfs the crazy in your life like Kelly Slater. Buy now for $5 million. May trade for kidney or organ of similar importance.

Stability

A letter in the Smithsonian written by the great writer Zora Neale Hurston. What is she writing about? Boys.

I’m suddenly five-feet of hot commodity.

In what is further proof the universe is indeed a mysterious place – after a three-year dating drought, I am juggling two educated, smart, funny, age-appropriate bachelors that I met on a dating Website.

Online is apparently my venue.

I may be ignored in public, at bars, and anywhere else I can be seen in the flesh – but men flock like pigeons to my photograph and artfully crafted bio.

I had to weed out the usual:  bondage enthusiasts, marrieds, meanies and youngsters. There was also the guy who sent me the full-length naked picture. (I ain’t complainin’ honey. He was built like a brick house. But not exactly what I’m looking for in the boundary department.)

After a few weeks of witty e-mails and then subsequent meetings for coffee -- I’m now at a place where I’m regularly seeing Boy A and Boy B. I like them. They like me. All is well, if a bit hectic, in Spinsta-land.

This, I thought, was progress. This was effort. This was the dawn of a new day.

And then I got a call from my friend Anita – and was reminded why I started avoiding relationships in the first place.

I’m often asked why I’m still single – usually by the men I used to love. And the answer, to me, is simple. It’s easier. I disagree with the common belief that marriage equals stability.  There’s nothing more stable than being single. I know what my motives are. I know if I’m going to call. I know whether I’ve paid the bills.  It is rare, when you are single, that the sudden influx of new information will change your entire world.

That’s what I was thinking as I spoke to Anita.

Anita has lived with her husband 10 years, and been married to him for five. He is her first and only boyfriend. They have a baby girl. Anita has never paid a bill, called out for pizza, or gone to the post office.  We joke that if her husband were ever hit by a bus, she would survive, maybe, a week. I have been envious of her – wondering what it would be like for someone to take such good care of me.  

She called to say she feels conned – that her life, as she knew it, is a lie. She said her husband has been juggling multiple addictions for at least four years -- including drugs, gambling and porn. She said she wants a divorce – but feels she must try to save her marriage for the baby. She’s devastated and angry. Her life has taken a drastic turn – and not because of any choice she made. (Although it could be argued she elected to ignore warning signs. But who the hell wouldn’t?)

I listen, because I don’t know what else to do. I tell her what I think – which is that her husband, despite the lies, loves her. I tell her it’s worth the effort to try and save her marriage. I disagree when she calls him a psychopath.

After an hour and a half, we hang up the phone. She is taking her baby to story time at the library. I sit stunned for a long time.

I just told my friend it’s worth the effort – but is it?

I look at the two new numbers in my phone and weigh the witty banter, dinner dates and candlelight with the fact that I have never seen a long term relationship meander its way through the decades without some serious, significant, and devastating pitfalls. I turn this knowledge over in my head like I might a coin in my hand.

And then for reasons that make no sense to me, I do not delete the numbers – I let them live.

Online Hating: The Nice Guy

Now this is just a gross mis-use of a smiley face emoticon

Messages from Furrytummy064 landed in my inbox with the rapidity of machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat. 

“We’re a perfect match!”

“You sound amazing!”

“Want to go to dinner?”

Despite the sexy and mysterious username:  Furrytummy -- I hesitated, browsing the menagerie of photos he’d selected to show the various sides of his witty, playful, yet earnest personality. There was one of him locked in an old-fashioned-looking set of wooden stocks; another where he stood on a boat wearing a yellow baseball hat, tipping the bill down with his forefinger; and a third where he stood in front of a motorcycle wearing a leather jacket.  Despite the clownish photos and the flattery-heavy e-mails, I sensed something sinister about Furrytummy – a red flag I could hear waving in the distance, but not see.   

Then I remembered I joined an online dating site as an experiment, “just for fun.” So, I said yes.  

But as the evening of our rendezvous drew near, FT’s e-mails became more aggressive. He wanted to know why I rarely e-mail. He wanted to know why he couldn’t have my phone number. He wanted to know where I’d been and what I’d been doing.

It occurred to me that a date with FT would not be an experiment. I cancelled, telling him he seemed like a  guy who needed a woman who could spare a lot of time and attention. I, unfortunately, cannot. 

His reply landed in my inbox with a thud.

“Screw  you! You should do every nice guy in the world a big favor and get off this site.”

I sat staring at the words “nice guy” for a long time.

It reminded me of a friend’s recent 3 a.m. outburst as I was trying to wrestle her into a New York City taxi. “I’m not drunk! I am not drunk!” She screamed over and over.

It’s my personal belief that if you ever catch yourself screaming “I’m not drunk,” you are actually quite drunk. I think it’s the same for this “nice guy.” How nice could he be if he sends a “screw you” e-mail to a woman he’s never met?  

But I’m a truth-seeker and a self-doubter, so I began my research like the good academic that I am.  

“A nice guy never has to say he’s a nice guy,” said my friend Brandon. “That’s like the Waldorf Astoria hanging a Triple-A-rated sign in its window. Being a nice guy is understood. This guy was stepping all over your space and hounding you and making you feel uncomfortable, and then when you called him on it, he said ‘Screw you,’ that’s not a nice guy.”

I then e-mailed my friend Jack. Jack has not always been a nice guy – but he’s been married for 20 years and because he’s never trying to get in my pants, I can usually rely on him to translate boy language for me.   

I wrote, “I’m interested in how men think they can totally suffocate you – strangle you – and then say ‘Well, I’m a nice guy because I give you all this attention and you suck because you don’t appreciate it. What do you think? Am I real bitch?”

Jack responded, “The nice guy you are talking about seems passive/aggressive and controlling. ‘You owe me because I was nice, bought you a drink, etc.’ --which could be effective since women seem to want to feel guilty about everything."

Then I spoke to my roommate, a woman who has spent the past 40 years in various stages of dating, marrying or divorcing men.  

“He probably just thinks he’s a nice guy because he doesn’t get to sleep with many women,” she said. 

I decided to delete the e-mail – to let it go – like a big, bloated balloon full of venom.

And the following week I agreed to go out with a man who did not complain about my sporadic e-mails. He did not demand to know my phone number or my whereabouts. He would arrive early to get us a good table, insist on paying the check, and text me to make sure I made it home safely.

And he would never once point out he's a nice guy.  

Men suck. You should get one.

“Isn’t it nice when you don’t have to worry about men,” my mother said, head thrown back, lounging in my sister’s hot tub, bubbles catching on her gold hoop earrings.

By men, she means my father. He’s been sick for 30 years, since his first heart attack at 41. Five years after that, he had a stroke. He was diagnosed with diabetes when I was six, and now is missing three toes. (“Look at all I’ve been through,” my father likes to say. “And I’ve only lost three toes.”)

Mom spends most of her time taking care of him. She, on the other hand, is a hearty 72 who dyes her hair bright red. She recently added blond streaks. Last year, she had an eye job. She looks good.

Suddenly, she lifts her head and looks at me.

“Have you met anyone in D.C.?”

I ignore the question. She's asked it a bazillion times before, and she's never happy with the answer.

We’ve gathered for a girls’ weekend at my sister’s house.  Four sisters, two nieces, three family friends, and my mom are here. No one is allowed to bring a man.

We are all hanging out in bathing suits around my sister’s pool. Everyone has a cocktail, a pointed party hat, and a lot on her mind.

“It is so nice to be away,” said my sister Tammie.

I ask her about her husband and she rolls her eyes.

Tammie’s husband is 49. He’s had two hips replaced. They’ve been struggling financially after an injury in May kept him off the job. He complains of random dizzy spells. He’s refusing to cut his hair and has started wearing it in a limp, greasy, grey ponytail.  Sometimes he uses a walker with tennis balls on the feet. He has sleep apnea and has to wear a breathing machine to bed. And he’s not nearly as sexy as the previous sentences would lead you to believe.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.”

“How are you?” she asks.

I tell her.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re getting your teaching degree and stuff.”

I do not correct her. There are eight children in my family – which is blessing and a curse. On one hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life. But on the other hand, no one ever pays attention to what you are doing with your life.

And then, there it is.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I let the question hang in the air.

I can’t decide if my family is so concerned about my love life because they are tired of watching me loll about in selfish splendor while they remain chained to husbands who break down like so many 1972 Pintos. Or if they think of my singlehood as a wretched deformity -- as if I’m some patchy-haired product of inbreeding who lives in a dark attic and talks to myself in a secret language.

But I do know one thing -- I've never had to enact a no man rule. Men are always welcome on my side of the hot tub.   

My BFF (Best Former Fiance) and advice from other old beaus

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them."
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

“You know what this is like,” said my friend Brandon. “This is like at the end of the Big Lebowski when...”

I cut him off.

“Are you about to compare me to The Dude?”

“Yeah, I’m going to compare you to The Dude.”

I recommend seeing yourself through the eyes of an ex-boyfriend at least once. It’s one of those fascinating, hideous things – like slowing down at the scene of a crash or smelling a gallon of milk that went bad last week.

For example, the bloated, stoned Jeff Bridges is not exactly what I imagined when I fantasized about my former loves fantasizing about me. I pictured them thinking of me 20 pounds lighter, my boobs two sizes larger, experiencing a great hair day, tendrils of curls blowing about my face as I slowly drift out of site – wearing something so fabulous I could never afford it.

For reasons that indicate the universe is indeed a mysterious place – I find myself these days having regular conversations with three former beaus – Sam, my very first serious boyfriend, Jack, a man who could never commit until I was gone, and Brandon, a former fiancé that, despite some irreconcilable differences that made our break up a very wise decision, remains the gold standard in humanity.

It’s with my best former fiancé (my BFF!) that I am sitting in a Ruby Tuesday having lunch. Brandon likes the all you can eat fries. Between bites he rattles off the different online dating sites he wants me to be on – he’s increasingly interested in me dating, ever since his recent engagement to a woman who seems, frankly, perfect for him.

“You got to get out there Kells.”

Yes, I know. And I would be. Except out there is so much like being in the middle of the sea, casting about in the waves, clinging to one of those doughnut-shaped life preservers. If you’re a stickler for detail – you can imagine the word Titanic printed across it. I do.

“But you have to remember, men are very superficial. You have to clean yourself up a bit.”

WHAT THE GODDAMN WHAT?

It’s not that Brandon didn’t have a point. I woke up late for lunch and hey, because it’s just Brandon, my hair was still wet from my shower, I didn’t bother with make-up, and I decided to wear the same tank top I’d slept in because, hey, how dirty could it be? It was not my finest hour, I know. But still. Ow, motherfucker.

Later, I relayed the above conversation to my friend Jack.  Jack could never decide if he loved me until I had enough and jammed. Since then, he’s loved me desperately.  He seemed to be listening patiently, and I waited for him to tell me that Brandon is crazy – that men actually prefer a scruffy-looking woman. I mean – think of the self-confidence I’m rocking.

“You’re the kind of woman who would shorten a man’s life,” Jack said.

“WHAT!” I shouted.

In the ten years since our relationship ended, Jack has tried to convince me I broke his heart. But he is the one who broke up with me. He is the one who said, “I want time to meet more women on the Internet.”  He added that part, “on the Internet.” We remain friends because, despite everything, we can still tell each other everything. He tells me about the (often married) women he’s dating and I tell him to knock that shit off.  

“I’m really glad we’re friends again,” wrote my friend Sam, just today.

He re-emerged this summer after a 20-year absence. He was my first, real, high school boyfriend and he broke up with me for a 23-year-old woman who he later married. So, yeah, that smarted. But now that I’ve seen how things played out – and I see the kind of life he wanted, the kind of life he chose, I know we were never meant to be. That’s the beauty of time.

But what I most like about Sam – that I don’t remember from way back when – is his candor. When I was on an emotional roller coaster ride with a thrice-divorced narcissist my girlfriends told me to “give it time” or “just wait, he’ll come around.” Not Sam. When I sent him an 11-page dissertation detailing my ups and downs with the guy -- everything from first hello to last text message Sam said, “Guy sounds crazy. Don’t date the insane.”

You have to admire advice so captivatingly simple.  

When I was young I thought the heart was like a bunker without windows, with only room for one, plus me. I thought it was a secluded place – and maybe because, back then, it was.

Now I think of my heart more like a dinner table – a big, rustic butcher block with wildflowers in the middle. There is room for everyone – but still space left for the one special person at my elbow.