Stable Hunting

I have something important to say. Concerts are totally the THING for 2011. And are absolutely the best place to scout out new boys... well, at least in the douchebag capital of the world Washington, DC.

I went to two concerts in the past week, and both provided glorious arenas for my favorite sport of stable hunting. You see, my stable is in desperate need of new inventory. I broke up with my boyfriend (if you could even call him that) a few weeks ago, and since then have resorted to the usual post-fling behavior of sifting through exes like dresses on a rack. I tried on a sleepover with one and a day-date with another, but somehow the fit just wasn't flattering. I needed some more options.

So 40 bucks and one spontaneous decision later, there I was at Warner Theatre on Wednesday night, ready to hunt. A Widespread Panic concert is unfortunately not the ideal example of the "best place" to meet guys, but only because there are more wookies and high high schoolers in attendance than actual men. But numbers-wise... you really can't beat it. With the exception of the blond dreaded girl rythmically seizuring two rows in front of me, I was surrounded on all sides by guys. The same thing occurred Friday night at the Whigs show at the 9:30 Club (my FAVE indoor music venue of all time, FYI). Unfortunately for the sake of my hunt, I was attending the show with a gaggle of guy friends, which always hinders my performance (as my mom says, it's like going out "with brick wall around you".) But my accompanying friends K & K agreed with me: We MUST attend more concerts. And next time, without the bricks.

So here's to more concerts in Spring 2011. Hopefully come summer my stable will look more like a rock band and less like a ghost town.

A special thanks to my single girls K & K for an epic Friday night. Although we came up empty handed, I think we can all agree that it was a successful scouting mission.

And of course it's always lovely to feast my eyes on that stable-member-that-never-was, the lead singer of the Whigs... Mr. Parker G. I meeean, just LOOK at that stage kneel!

Partner up!

A friend recently requested that I write another blog entry because, well, she was bored. Fair enough. As a (very tempermental) blog writer myself, one would think that I would better appreciate the value of a good blog. But, as it goes, my love (like?) for blogs is very recent-- a love that is really all thanks to my roommate, Madeleine, who can list off her go-to blogs quicker than you can ask "when do you work?" I may be the writer here, but it is Madeleine who is the true blogger. She gets it. She gets what makes a blog great, and why readers come back.

I have admittedly been a terrible "blogger". This whole thing started my senior year when I saw an ad that a young freelance writer was needed for bettyconfidential.com, a new women's lifestyle website. They particularly needed someone who could write about her dating life. I sure did talk about *boyz* enough (to really anyone who would listen), so why not put my personal life out there in cyberspace?

When I discovered that I would need actual writing samples, my first thought was to raid my high school diary. My second thought was that articles about the senior quarterback giving me the smile-and-nod in the hallway might not interest betty's readership. Thus, "twenty-something female" was born. Now here I am 3 years later wishing that I had done more- wishing that I had turned this blog into one of Madeleine's oh-so-worthy go-tos.

Well, my friends, there is no better time than now. Starting this spring, my goal is to whip this blog into shape. And what better way to do so than to make resident blog guru Madeleine my partner, my second half, my collaborateur magnifique! So stay tuned for a new chapter of twenty-something. We will have it all. We will slay every other blog that you have ever read. And we will do it all... at work. (Just kidding, colleagues! We only blog on the weekends.)

Stay tuned... and I mean it this time.

Who needs boys? Back to basics.

It's that time of year again! Time to momentarily forget about work, dating, and money and be utterly self-indulgent for just a few minutes. Just long enough to put together your Christmas list, and just in time to throw it at Mom, Boyfriend, Grandma, and of course Mr. Claus. My list this year consists of basic necessities for a working 20-something. Things that I absolutely cannot live (much longer) without but that I absolutely cannot afford on my non-profit, two-years-out-of-school salary. At the top of my list is this beautiful Tory Burch satchel. It comes in Berry and Navy- two very versatile (but way more fun) subs for the basic black and brown. It can be carried by the short straps to the office or flung across the body for a night out on the town. Yes, puh-lease.
Next up. I think the time has finally come... I seriously need a watch. While I have never been one to wear a time piece, working events has made me appreciate how crucial a wrist clock can truly be. There will be no need to fish for my Blackberry every three minutes once this Burberry baby is strapped around my arm. Let's hope Santa's feeling generous this year... Finally, the black jacket. I have learned that there's a serious difference between a black coat and a black jacket. I have a black wool coat that I love and adore, but sometimes it's just too formal to throw on with jeans and Toms. Not to mention the sometimes inconvenient body coverage that comes hand-in-hand with a winter coat (imagine that). I can't wait to rock this cropped hoodie over a black mini and opaque tights for a little less coverage and a little more leg. If you think that's the end of my list, then you don't know me too well. Stay tuned for more holiday gift picks... the rest under $100. Once I can figure out how to work more images into one post, it will look like Oprah's Favorite things up in here.

Curve Ball

I had an interesting week last week. Once again, I endured a break-up, and once again it was a break-up from a guy I was never dating.

You know, whenever you're sharing a bed with someone who isn't your boyfriend, you run a much higher risk of... well, lots of things. Not the least of which is ambiguity. While some probably find such a lack of definition irritating, I find it kind of fun and fascinating. Like reading a story that has no clear end in sight.

I guess I believe that, like life itself, relationships are made up of unique and beautiful little occurrences and each evolve and define themselves over time, based on a myriad of factors. Some evolve into friendships, some develop into more, some into less or even nothing... But each pair of people whose lives collide represents a coupling that is purely distinctive in itself. I value this infinite potential of human interaction, this unknown prospect of what lies ahead. At this stage in my life, when I am living and working in one place, 9 to 6 day in and day out, it is these relationships that keep me on my toes, that keep things interesting. I just feel way too young to accept any kind of preconceived fulfillment of love, any version of a "safe bet".

This particular guy was definitely not a safe bet. He lives hundreds of miles away, works 60-hour weeks, is a musician, a writer, a self-proclaimed "free spirit"... that kind of thing. But while the promise of immediate commitment was never there, the connection was. No, this guy was not going to keep me warm every night, assemble furniture for my bedroom, or hold my hand through the daily ups and downs of my quarter-life, but, you know... He made me happy. He made me feel good and like myself. And I trusted him. I don’t mean that I trusted that he'd be monogomous (no double standards here), but I mean that I trusted him to be a good person towards me, to show me honest affection, and to value our relationship for exactly what it was. It wasn’t until about a month ago that this trust began to slip. The warmth that I had felt from him for as long as we'd been friends suddenly began to cool. And when that mutual regard goes, the relationship—in whatever form— must go with it.

After I broke things off with him, I received a long email detailing an “unknown” that was just that. Pretty damn shocking. He was still in love with an ex-girlfriend—one who had broken his heart and left him to the birds over a year ago. His broken heart had stifled all relationships he'd had with women since, including the one he shared with me. He couldn’t value me or what we had, because he couldn’t trust me not to hurt him or himself not to hurt me first. While my logic may be foolish at times, I know enough to appreciate that trust is the one and only constant that absolutely cannot subside. Our relationship, in all its refreshing ambiguity, was over.


It’s funny when you find yourself questioning your sworn outlooks on life and love. The unpredictability and randomness of life is my drug. Without it, I truly think that I would die of boredom. But like any drug, the unknown can be toxic and hurtful. I’d be lying to say that this “break-up” didn’t disillusion me to a point. Again I find myself thinking that maybe I should just go after that safe bet, after that guy who I know won’t throw me any curve balls. But the truth is, it's these curve balls that challenge us; that shape who we are and what we value, and that will eventually lead us to the ones who we are destined to be with- to the ones who will throw us benders, day in and day out, but hurl them our way with love, respect, and trust... trust that we will step up to the plate and return the favor. You know, as much as it stings right now, I think that I'm willing to sacrifice the safe bet, the life-expected, to make way for the life and guy that are out there waiting for me. So what if I have to endure a few mini heart-breaks in the meantime... Each one will unquestionably leave me better off.

Batter's up, friends. This one's most definitely headed into extra innings.

Revolutionary Romance: Why hitting your head may be the only way out

I had an epiphany last night. I was sitting Indian-style on my couch, finishing the last bite of my less-than-satisfying black bean salad, when it hit me: I used to write. As a matter of fact, I used to write every day. I used to draw too. I also used to listen to music—like really listen. I used to love discovering new bands, reflecting on lyrics while I wrote or sketched, or while I just sat and let my thoughts wander to somewhere unexpected. At the near exact moment that I became lost in this realization, an email from my friend Libby popped up in my mailbox.

Libby and I had been emailing back and forth for several weeks, helping each other work through our respective guy problems. My problem was more involved than hers, but very similar. Perceiving this much, Libby thought (perhaps mistakenly) that I could provide her with some needed insight. I snatched my laptop from the coffee table and immediately began typing out a reply. “I feel… good,” I told her. “I feel like I sort of might be over it.”

I had been with the same guy, on and off, for about six months. We had gone from the dating track, to the friendship track, to the no-contact track, and back again, repeating this cycle a full three rounds. Two weeks ago, I cut off contact with him—again—hoping that the bogus notion of “out of sight, out of mind” might work this time around.

Well you know what they say, ladies: Ignore them and they will come. Sure enough, he called and texted over the weekend, saying he missed me and wanted to see me, suggesting that I “come by"...at 2 am. I knew this would happen. The result of the no-contact period was always the same. But this time it hurt more than the other times; this time it felt less like I won the game and more like I lost- and in double overtime. How was I ever going to get over this guy? He was unrelenting, and I pathetically jumped on the merry-go-round with each new revolution, wrapping my arms tightly around his waist, hoping that maybe this time I wouldn’t fall. Well, I did fall. And to my good fortune, I finally hit my head.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” I told Libby. “I feel like it just clicked." I told her that it's kind of how I imagine Allie feels in that scene in The Notebook when she says to her finance, "I used to paint. All the time. I really loved it." He looks at her, totally bewildered. "I didn’t know that," he says. "So paint." She smiles, her eyes registering something significant, as if her world has suddenly fallen into place: "I will."

A few days later she leaves him for good. And she paints.

The most creative thing I’ve done since I met him was to pick out paint colors for his new apartment. And to be honest, that was probably the peak of our relationship. I was happy to have an outlet for my creativity, and he was happy to encourage it for the sake of his lifeless little apartment. When the painting was finished and the apartment was perfect, that healthy chapter of our relationship was closed as well. His encouragement of my "artistic" side ceased, and he naturally refocused his attention on himself. Before I knew it, I was back to being that person I didn’t recognize. When I was with him, I was anxious and on edge, always on the defensive, always trying to articulate opinions that weren't necessarily important, or even mine for that matter. I had no other outlet, no channel through which I could express myself. For whatever reason, his presence stifled me. To put it simply: Being with him left me uninspired. He left me uninspired.

Now that I’ve had my breakthrough, I wonder if it will be enough. Will it be enough to keep me from dusting off my knees and jumping back onto his rotary carnival ride? You know, I think it will be. Because no one can focus on herself when she’s riding in circles on the back of someone else. And while standing on solid ground may leave me dizzy for some time, at least I can walk away towards something new and undiscovered—towards a new band, a new picture, a new story... and eventually a new guy.

Besides, who wants to forever listen to the perennial squealing tune of a merry-go-round? Personally, I've got a serious headache. I think three times around is more than enough.

The Anti-Type

Well, ladies, I’m back. As it turns out, I did become a girlfriend. And that guy I was dating? He became a boyfriend. My writing ceased for a little while as I was so content, so at peace, so perfectly uninspired—and then, I had my heart broken. The past few months have involved a lot of healing, which has mainly come in the form of bitter text messages, snooping, trash talking—the usual crazy behavior of a girl who always thought she’d be the one doing the breaking up, a girl who believes that “dating down” is always worth it, just to have surefire control. Some guys just don’t know how good they have it, you know? *

*A bruised ego is easily treatable: a healthy dose of delusion teamed with a pile of vanity (courtesy of your closest fan base) and you’re all set.

Now, enough hashing out the past. Let’s get to the good stuff.

I met a new man last week. He’s four years older and far too nice. The guy seems to have a heart of gold, which is something that I’m simply not used to. Our one mutual friend claims to not have a bad word to say about him but also says that she can’t see the two of us together. “He is so NOT your type,” she texted me after make out sesh numero uno. This really got me thinking…

What contributes to molding someone’s “type”? Is one’s type based solely on the qualities of former boyfriends? If so, then shouldn’t everyone reevaluate and revamp her type after each and every break up? After all, there’s always a reason it didn’t work out.

Here’s what is—according to previous trends—my type: intelligent, funny, "alternative"....And in some cases, really alternative. I’ve also dated the cocky, good-looking types who often disclose in so many words (and actions) that they are attracted to me for my body. My boobs, mainly. What about my winning personality? Or my out-of-the-box interests? Or at least my smile…?

In all seriousness, what the hell kinds of trends are these? I clearly need to steer my hot wheels in a new direction. Maybe the “so NOT your type” is exactly the type I should be after.

Knock-knock, Mr. Nice Guy...