MySpace Rules...

Rules the world that is. Or maybe rather, MySpace has introduced a whole new set of rules for social dynamics.

Case in point: I received no less than seven emails concerning a recent small change to my MySpace profile. I made the switch from "single" to "in a relationship". A sampling of the emails follows:

"Dude, I thought you were swearing off dating indefinitely...what's with the status change?"

"Something changed on your profile, Call me ASAP!!"

"WHAT??? Why didn't you call me immediately?"

And the like. We've all done it.

"I think X is so cute...too bad he's dating someone."

"His profile says single, how serious could it be??"

The "Define the Relationship" talk (DTR) has become one part about the two people and one part about if and when to change the status line. Ours went something like this: "I see you changed your profile status but left the Here for section with Dating and Serious Relationships...Is this an open relationship? Should I hold off on the memo?"

Kidding.

MySpace should also consider ways to represent all the variation of "relationships". "In a Relationship" can sound so very sobering and serious. We need something between that and "Single". I propose more categories (and more confusion): "Casually Dating," "Booty Call," "Considering Each Other Romantically," "Hanging Out," "Make out Buddies," Seeing Each Other on the Weekends." Let's send a petition to Tom.

Only we don't see each other on just the weekend any more. We just spent the last four days together. It was mind-blowing. We didn't even get sick of each other (well, I didn't get sick of him...). There's a foreign toothbrush in my toothbrush holder and three cans of peaches on the kitchen counter that I didn't purchase...and I SO love it.

If the label fits, wear it. With a smile!

Not half as cool as I think I am

Just when I'm feeling particular edgy and cool, I talk to one of my younger sisters (ages 20 and 17) and realize I live under an adult-size rock.

I think it's ridiculous that musical taste has become the major method of categorizing the way people dress. Whatever happened to labels like preppy, dirtbag, and sporty? I had finally gotten used to a few of the musical categories, like hippie, punk, emo, and indie. But there are apparently more...many many more.

It all started when I was telling my sister that I was dating someone. "You mean the preppy guy?" she asked. "Actually I misjudged him; he's turned out to be more of an Indie kid," I informed her. She then proceeded to tell me how our cousin is also an indie kid, which he denies and that she is often accused of being a scene girl. "A what?" I asked. "A scene girl, but so many people are just fashion core these days, who can even tell..." she said. Which scene? Fashion core? I was utterly confused.

Thanks to Urban Dictionary, I now have a fairly good idea what she was talking about, but still...When I mentioned the subject to B, who was quite good natured about being mistaken as preppy, he suggested that music has always influenced fashion and been one way we label the way people dress. He cited examples of ranging from beatniks to country to greasers to jazz all the way back to the medieval traveling minstral. "What?" I asked incredulously. "Sure, they had costumes and shit." That I can't argue except that did people who were really into the minstral music also dress like minstrals when they were not actual performers? I doubt that one. The itinerate schedule would have lent itself well to the tour date t-shirt though.

Anyway, there's no getting away from it. And once you get to a certain age, isn't it all a question of fashion anyway? Is anyone really and truly still a hardcore "kid" after the age of 25? To me it's all about the outfit, not the social statement. I guess that would make me fashion core minus the core...

Let's call that fashionista!

Almost But Not Quite

I have a theory. It's physically impossible for all the separate areas of one's life to go well at the same time. At least for me. It makes me nervous every time I notice it. I stop, eyes widen, and I think, "Well, clearly this can't last. Something's gotta give." And it does.

Not that I have that much to complain about. I'm completely aware that there are people who are far less fortunate than I, people whose lives offer real reasons to be depressed. I'm healthy. I have a roof over my head (one that also offers a great pool in the summer time--VERY excited about that). My family is supportive. My group of friends is as tight as a second family. I've been on a whole string of truly amazing dates lately. I even have a good job.

But I wanted an awesome job. Recently, I applied for a managing editor position, even though it was a bit of a stretch seeing as I'd been there for such a short time. But I knew I could do it. My boss knew I could do it. Apparently even her boss (who was doing the hiring) knew I could do it. But it came down to senority, the one characteristic I didn't have. So no awesome job this time.

The thing is, I knew it might not happen. Like I said, it was a stretch, a long shot. But the harder I tried to keep my hopes down, the higher they were. I'm not crushed or anything. My ego isn't even wounded. I'm just really bad at not getting the things I want. I've never quite digested that the old maxim, "Work hard and you can have it" doesn't apply in every situation. Until today, I've never NOT gotten a job I interviewed for (yes, even as a teacher who just used a double negative). How could they say no to this face?? :)

I was ready for the big break. I wanted to finally be able to say to my parents, "Hey, look at your English major daughter, she finally made something of herself...aren't you proud?!" Hell, I just wanted to be impressed with myself for once. I wanted to rise to an actual challenge. And of course, I wanted to live a life in which I could stop worrying about income and enjoy myself (don't we all).

In reality, it's not the end of the world. Life will go on in the manner to which I am accustomed. There will be other opportunties. And when they come, I'll have more experience and be better prepared for them. By tomorrow, I will have snapped out of this funk. But until then, I'm going to take a minute to pout. Don't mind me.

In Praise of

I'm still smiling this morning. I smiled so hard last night my face hurts. But I can't help it. I just can't stop.

I've done more than my fair share of bitching in this blog about dates who did not meet my approval, so it's only fair to, as Salt N Peppa so wisely said, give props to those who deserve it.

I went on the best second date ever (well, technically, fourth, if you count walking around Forest Park and having coffee as 1 and 2). The first (third?) one was pretty amazing too. But you can write things like that off as a fluke. I'm the queen of the good first date. I have a hard time making you hate me in just one evening. Usually by the second, the poor guy has done something from which he cannot redeem himself, and I never answer the phone again. Not so this time.

We went to Terrene and sat on the patio, ate, drank, laughed, flirted. Next stop was Brennan's wine bar. More drinking and laughing and flirting. Final stop, Dressel's. We closed the joint down.

Then came the moment of truth. I put an inordinate amount of faith in the value of the first kiss. So much so that it scares me. It's why I didn't do it last week. Life is too short for bad kissers, and many a poor fellow has been unable to meet the challenge. It's always a shame. He could be the nicest guy in the world, but if the kiss doesn't do it for me, I'm out. So back to the moment of truth...Sometimes a girl needs to be grabbed and kissed. And I was. And I liked it. And I didn't want to stop. I actually can't wait to see him again.

Okay, that's enough. I'll stop. I'm a closet gusher...shhh, don't tell. I have rep to uphold.

Big bug in a little apartment

Ordinarily, I'm pretty good at taking care of myself. I've grown accustomed to living alone. Most of the time I love coming home to the sweet silence of my own home. I can change a tire, I own a small tool set now, I've even managed to rearrange my house with just myself to do the heavy lifting. But there's one thing I just can't handle.

I came home last night, talking on the phone. I threw myself on the bed in exhaustion. I looked up at the wall above my head. "Holy shit, what is that?" I said out loud, into the phone. "That" was a ginormous bug. I thought bugs this big only lived in remote South American jungles. This is not true; they apparently live not only in St. Louis but in my apartment specifically.

My greatest fear is not cancer or dying alone, it's swallowing a bug in my sleep. The fact that this little alien was in my bedroom made the sighting that much worse. My brother, whom I was talking to at the time, suggested the tried and true paper towel squish. I was already hyperventilating just a little, and all I knew was I was NOT going to get within arms length of this thing. I contemplated the extension arm of the vacuum cleaner, but even that put my hand a little close to the offending insect. Besides, this thing was so giant, I wasn't sure the vacuum could suck it up. Finally I opted for the super powered bug spray I keep on hand (just in case) the way other women keep mace. I spread a beach towel over the bed to catch the bug if it fell; I stood about three feet back and let her rip.

As soon as the blast of pleasantly clover-scented poison hit the bugger (pun-intended), it bounded off the wall (yes, I'm quite certain bounding was involved) onto the waiting beach towel and scuttled off the towel and behind the bed. I was too busy shrieking at the top of my lungs over the way it had projected off the wall to stop it from getting away.

By this time, my heart was pounding, I was sweating just a little from all the adrenaline. This could be a fight for survival. First things first, I stopped and put on tennis shoes. I was going to have to move the bed out in search of this thing, and if it were to scurry across my pink polished toes, I was certain my heart would have exploded. Behind the bed, I found a lot of dust, a cat toy, a headband I've been looking for for the last six months, and an M&Ms wrapper, which is weird because I don't eat M&Ms. But no dog-sized bug. I removed all the blankets and pillows and shook them out and put them in the "safe zone" in the hallway. I reached to pull up the corner of the mattress, and I saw the monstrosity making a run for it from between the mattress and boxsprings.

Now it was war. I moved the matress to the other side of the room and stood it up against the wall. Then I cautiously tipped up the box springs, spray can in hand. Nothing. It was gone. But where? I needed some moral support, so I dialed J. I knew of all people she would sympathize with my mental breakdown over a bug. She did. She instructed me to lie in wait with boots made for squishing. So I did. Nothing.

Eventually I had to come to terms with the fact that my bad ass cat is apparently useless and somewhere out there, this giant bug has either crawled away to die or plot revenge. Either way, I've never wanted a boyfriend or a roommate or anyone at all who is braver than me to be around. Humbling moment. Talk about a damsel in distress. Ha.

I slept on a bed of folded up comforters on the living room floor last night. I don't know if I'll ever be able to sleep in that bed again...I may have to move.