This one’s for the guys…

Hey, hey, hey, zip your pants back up. I’m not that drunk yet.

Really, guys, I need your help. Well, more your input than your help. See, I’m one of those silly Romantic idealists who believes in the sanctity of marriage, and absolute monogamy, and prolonged celibacy between relationships, and all that sappy crap. My 31-year-old noggin’ still has dreams spinning around inside that show me getting married one day, to the most amazing guy who is as completely into me as I am into him, and pooping out a few kiddos, and sharing a gallon of bourbon-spiked prune juice as we motor on toward ancientdom.

Well, it DID have those dreams. Until recently.

(And let me interrupt myself to say that this is not one of those bullshit my-self-esteem’s-in-the-gutter-so-I’ll-whine-to-some-strangers-about-how-lonely-I-am posts. This is a serious ethical question I’m about to present. So, STFU and listen. )

My best friend and I were having a discussion the other day about heterosexual relationships, as we often do. The topic at hand was monogamy, and whether or not it was truly realistic to expect it of men. My initial reaction, of course, was, “DAMN STRAIGHT it is! If the guy I’m with feels the need to go poking around some other girl’s stinkhole, then obviously he has no idea what a gold mine he has in me and he can get his skanky ass right on out the door!” (Well, okay, maybe I didn’t use the word “stinkhole.”) But the more she spoke, the more I came to see that she might be right. Men, by nature, are wired to spread the seed, to fertilize vast and remote pastures, to, well, have unlimited spins at the “Wheel of Poon.” On a less biological and genetic diversity-driven level, most men would prefer to have multiple sexual partners as opposed to mating for life. On the conscious level, some would say that most men think with their other head. When posed with the question, “If it could be guaranteed that your significant other would never find out, would you be unfaithful?” the resounding answer is, “yes.” So, how realistic is it, my best friend pondered, to expect monogamy from men?

My inner Republican shrank away from this question, stunned and disheartened by the truth in what Mo had presented. But, but… most men get married, right?

Oh, and then there’s that.

I began to ask myself why it is that men propose marriage to the women they love? What do they want to get of the deal that’s worth stifling their internal need for “strange?” How realistic are they being with themselves when they promise to be faithful and true to one woman for the rest of their lives?

I know LOTS of men who have been unfaithful. I know plenty who make it a habit. Today I even heard one complain to his girlfriend that his fiancee was pissing him off with all the inane details of their wedding plans.

WTeverlovinF, y’all?

Don’t get me wrong, I know lots of women cheat, too. But when it comes down to it, most women genuinely WANT to spend the rest of their lives with one man. But, guys? Be honest. What drives you to pop the question? Is it pressure, or do you really, truly want that one woman, and only that one woman, to be with you till your time on this earth is done? When you say, “till death do us part,” do you MEAN it? And if so, what in God’s name would EVER make you think that it’s okay to go back on those words?

I’m starting to lose faith in the concept of marriage. I’m starting to think that not many men really, truly want to make a lifelong commitment to ANYONE, when the other option has so much biological pull. Let me hear from you, guys. I know lots of you are in amazing, beautiful marriages; you make me proud, guys. But I also know that many, many, many other guys aren’t so commitment minded.

So, let’s hear it. If it’s too personal, post anonymously. Your secrets are safe with me.

And of course, ladies, I want to hear from you, too.

I’ve been writing

No, really writing. Not just spouting about random shit like I do in here, but really writing. Creating characters based on situations or circumstances I witness. I’ve been, *gulp*, writing FICTION.

So, my question for y’all is this: do I post it in here, with no ifs, ands, or buts, assuming that you’ll get the introduction of a new genre and roll with it, or do I start a fiction blog like some other friends of mine have?

Which would you rather?

‘Cause I have no opinion.

And Now, I See.

I’ve been gone for a while. I didn’t want to write until I’d snapped out of the funk illustrated in my previous entry. As you can see, that took quite a bit of time, but I have a new epiphany to share with y’all.

I was watching, of all the damned things, America’s Next Top Model. A marathon of said show, to be precise. It wasn’t my fault; my best friend was glued to the set when I arrived for a sleepover at her house. (Don’t ask me why a Harvard grad would lower herself to such drivel, ’cause I got nothin’.) Soon enough, yours truly was sucked into the spectacle as well; it’s mind-boggling what transpires when skeletons and egos collide.

A memory skirted around the edges of my consciousness as I pondered which of these coatracks needed the biggest helping of my Paradise cookies, the memory of a phone call from a modeling agency about 13 years ago. Seems this gentleman saw my senior picture in my high school yearbook, and thought I’d be a good recruit. Suspended between befuddlement and horror, I semi-politely told the caller that I was not at all interested, and turned my attention back to the day’s installment of Pinky and The Brain.

I’ve recalled this moment only a few times in the years since, never quite able to fathom why I, of the dyed-black hair and alabaster skin, received this proposition. It wasn’t a mass-marketing thing; none of my other female friends were called. But as I watched these mophandles transform from hum-drum to heart-stopping I suddenly understood: It’s the canvas, not the paint, that makes these ladies able to become the perfect subject for the lens to capture.

I often look upon the blank canvas that is my unladen face with disdain. My lack of natural coloring, nearly invisible lashes and brows, and angular features make me neither dainty nor stunning. In my own opinion, they make me invisible, to the point that I consider myself a chameleon; people often tell me that I look like a completely different person from one day to the next. But lo and behold, the tawdry excuse to show skinny girls catfighting in next to nothing made me see that this ability to transform my blank canvas into whatever visage is necessary and fitting for the day is a huge, huge gift. It is the single most important quality the judges sought out in the show’s participants.

And it’s something I’ve taken for granted my entire life.

Until now.