Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?

I bet Jessica Simpson's wondering the same thing.

But anyway. The age of Modesty and Tasteful Discrection is dead. Everywhere I go there is TMI. Britney Spears' vadge is on the internet, paparazzi stalk Kate + 8 to find out what kind of latte she orders at Starbucks, and if Angelina Jolie so much as sneezes, it's in the "Stars, they're just like us...they have allergies!" section of US Weekly. With Youtube, Twitter, Facebook, and Myspace (Youtwitface, anyone?), it's almost impossible to not be bombarded by information-overload at all hours of the day and night.

(I think the media-focus of their relationship should have been less that she

smoked pot and more that he wears douchebag Ed Hardy Tees)

Even among friends in face-to-face encounters there are very few secrets. I enjoy a little gossip every now and then and have been known to confide in friends from time to time. However, there is always a line that separates laughs-among-friends from "indecent disclosure," aka Too Much Information. For example, a few nights ago at dinner a friend was describing to me how during sex, she'd asked her boyfriend to cum on her face. Did that top my list of things I never wanted to hear about anyone else ever? Ab-so-fucking-lutely. But now it's out there and safely stored away in my TMI file. (Well, and I guess also on the internet for all of you to read).

Normally, the rule is that once you start dating someone seriously, you stop sharing your sexual escapades with other people. Occasionally something funny/weird/outrageous happens and you can't help but to pass along the tidbits, but for the most part "mum's the word" about your intimate encounters. I don't ever want anyone getting a crisp visual of me in bed with someone I really have deep feelings for (or, I guess, even with someone I don't), and I assume that feeling is universal (unless you're Pamela/Tommy, Paris/Rick, etc.).

I generally only kiss-and-tell when it's someone I'm casually dating and never plan on introducing to my friends, or before I realize it's going to be something serious. Recently that skinny-armed Second I mentioned a while back met his own demise in bed, which I shell shocked-ly relayed the next day to my close circle, and will now share with you all as well. The story borders on TMI, but since I'll never see him again and no one met him, it's all good. (So says me).

It was to be my last date with SAS, as he was leaving the city to pursue other ventures. I had put off seeing him for a while and was finally guilted into having a goodbye drink...which turned into goodbye dinner at a very pricey and well-known NYC restaurant...which led to me looking at him and realizing that oh crap, now I was going to have to have goodbye sex with him. That night was fine-- nay, better than fine-- but the next morning it was like he had no idea what was going on. He didn't know what was where and what to with it when he found it. After a more than a minute of him lightly touching my thigh, I'd had enough. I couldn't decide if it was worse if he meant to do that and actually thought it was turning me on or if he had no idea what he was doing, but I didn't care. It was bad.

And then...it got worse. He muttered those five words that I'm pretty sure no woman wants to hear: "tell me what to do." No. No. I will NOT tell you what to do. If you made it through 28 years of life as a warm-blooded, American male and still have no fucking clue, I'm not about to teach you. I don't look like Yoda. I'm not Master Miagi. If you don't know, better luck with the next girl.

But of course I didn't say those things. I decided to suck it up and sleep with him again. However, after about 15 seconds of lying there, I realized I couldn't bear that either. I muttered some excuse and attempted to get away when he looked at me, puppy-dog eyes and all, and made me realize just how wrong I'd been earlier. The worst five words to hear aren't "tell me what to do," they're "you'll have to hold me." And with that, he put his head down on my chest, wrapped his arms around me, and made me hold him. Was it 30 seconds? Was it all night? I don't know. And that's what my problem was...somewhere between 30 seconds and all night.

(I never thought I'd grow up to be Harry)

A few of my friends have made the mistake of sharing too much too early though, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't accidentally crossed that bridge as well. Knowing how many of my close friends date uncircumsized men is probably never going to be a Trivial Pursuit question, but alas, it's part of my TMI file. Them being able to look at EB with a straight face after I told them the strange encounter the first time we hooked up was their cross to bear. Sometimes TMI is TM Fun.

But speaking of EB, his TMI file is especially juicy. He had a friend that asked what to do about a girl he was dating having a smelly vagine in a mass email to his guy friends. (Ladies, I'm not making this up. Scrub-a-dub before everyone's everyone gets some uh, "inside dirt" on you). They all sent in their respective opinions and that was that. Two months later they all receive another mass email from the same guy saying he's knocked up his girlfriend and they're getting married. Now in the interim, no one had heard about him dating anyone new. There was only one possible suspect for the bride-to-be, and it was Senorita Stinker. EB was especially disturbed by the news, because now he had to go to the wedding knowing that his friend was marrying a hygenically-challenged lady. And that is shit you never forget. T. M. I.

The Hangover

Total. Fucking. Disaster.

On any given day that's how I could describe my life, my dating situation, my career outlook, my finances, or my physical state. Today, it is the last on that list. Every muscle in my body hurts. Plus my stomach. This has to be a new low. I literally drank until my organs, which are devoid of nerve endings, ache. And I'm sitting at my desk squinting at my computer screen in the dark (please, no lights) because I didn't put in my contacts or bring my glasses with me to the office.

(This approximates how I feel. And probably what I look like)

My last memory from yesterday (this morning?) was playing skee ball at a bar somewhere and holding prize tickets. I don't think I left Manhattan, but this sounds more reminiscent of a Jersey Shore escapade than the high-flying New York social scene. Also, that bar was empty.

The day after a heavy drinking fiasco (and it's always a fiasco) I feel like I could give Sherlock Holmes a run for his money. I wander around my apartment picking up clues (and crumbs), trying to retrace my steps. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to open-- and close-- a bar tab, so I have a receipt stuffed somewhere that records my whereabouts at a certain time. Otherwise, I'm just left to unscramble a myriad of nonsensical text messages to everyone in my phone about topics I can't recall at hours that lead me to wonder why anyone ever bothers maintaining a friendship with me.

This morning was particularly challenging; which is ironic because I'd only gone to bed about three hours earlier and woke up still drunk on top of a little nest of makeup, my ipod, and my glasses. Not only are all three of those things indispensable to my waking life, they've apparently been promoted to rank of Teddy Bear. As I dragged myself out of bed, I was slapped in the face with the memory of a throw-up bonanza that took place sometime between skee ball and cozying up to my spectacles. Now I've vommed in normal places (toilets) the majority of the time, but also in some unusual places (in a lunch bag on a bus in Spain). Last night I managed to just make it on and around the threshold of my room-- floor, doorknob, in a bag from bridal shower favors (no worries, the favors were removed). Luckily, I was with-it enough to clean up after myself. My first rule of throwing up though is to deny it until the end-- no one saw me and I left no trace, so it probably never happened. If I was as good at actually holding my liquor as I am at pretending to hold my liquor I'd move to Russia and participate in those vodka-drinking competitions for money.

Next, I stumbled into the bathroom to see all of my clothing from the day before thrown around on the floor. This can mean only one thing. At some point last night/this morning, I was walking around naked and eating Chex Mix.

(Thank me for all of these lovely visuals later)

And it finally occurred to me today why I'm 26 and as single as I am sober. I'm a disaster and no normal sane man who I'd want to date would ever possibly want to date me. I mean I'm good on paper and I think I clean up OK, but like this poster at my subway stop says, "you are who you are when no one's watching." And when no one's watching me, I'm just a tweak more together than the Hari Krishnas that stand on First and First (spreading their word at the nexus of the universe).

I make proclamations like I'm ready to settle down and then ring in my 26th birthday by throwing up in a bar bathroom and coming out to do Irish Car bombs. I run 25 miles a week to stay in shape and then inhale 3000 calories worth of late-night pizza...that I only remember eating in the first place because the roof of my mouth is incinerated. I use excuses like "skinny arms" as a valid reason to not date incredibly good-looking, successful, wonderful men. Somehow, I've managed to get older and grow down. I thought maturity just came to you; I didn't ever stop to realize that it might be such hard work.

At least I can sleep well on my ipod pillow under my blush blanket knowing that my family will always be there for me:

me: i think i can probably pretty much rest easy that no one is ever going to marry me

im a disaster

brother: hahahahaha

you never know, maybe some guy out there threw up on his floor last night

Cell Phony

Sorry it's been so long since my last post. I was busy moving two weeks ago and then busy...drinking last week. In-between moving and drinking however, a website called Texts From Last Night has managed to take hold of my life and not let go. Well, that and about a million bridesmaid duties, but TFLN is much more fun to lose myself in.

Now if you've never heard of that site, you need to promise me that from time to time, you'll take a break from reading it to still come visit my blog. If you have heard of it, you're probably sitting at your computer thinking "ohhhh yeah" to yourself the same way all of those women did in the Diet Coke commercials where the ridiculously hot construction worker took off his shirt and drank soda in front of their office building. If you don't remember it, definitely check it out.

The true genius of the site though is its simple relatability. At one point or another most of us have sent those same texts, done what's being texted about, or are totally capable of doing those exact things this weekend. Walk of shame? Check. Drunkenly embarassed yourself in front of the opposite sex? Check. Called or texted a friend 85 times in one night? Check. Done or said something that you're ashamed of during sex? Check. And oh, how the list goes on.

Cell phones have only served to more expediently spread the news of our most soul-crushing moments to those close to us. (Side note and true story: I recently purchased a new cell phone and as I was getting into bed the first night, I literally thought to myself "I should keep it on my nightstand, it's new, I don't want it to feel alone its first night." I mean, I immediately realized how insane that made me sound and snapped out of it, but it is weird how attached we can become to machines. And by "we," maybe I just mean "I").

( Johnny 5 IS alive)

Before cell phones, you'd have to just email or IM friends about all of the awkwardness of your daily life. And before that...Christ, you had to just tell them in person or (gasp!) not at all and pretend you were a normal, decent, functional human being. However, being hardly any of those things, I have found that technology, and my phone in particular, serve hardly any other purpose than getting me into trouble.

In college, there was a guy that I may or may not have made out with (I'm not being coy, I can't remember) and gave my real phone number to. (Wait, I think I definitely did). This was before I was smart enough to make one up and guys were jaded enough to pull that creepy "let me call you right now so you can have my number too but I'm really just doing this to see if your phone rings and you gave me the real number" bit. It was a more innocent time. And because life is filled with Murphy's Law situations, it's always the guys that you don't want to call you that wind up ringing your phone off the hook. After continually forgetting who this guy was and answering my phone only to make stammering excuses about why I couldn't see him, I wisened up and changed his name in my phone to Do Not Answer. This went great until he called me one night while I was at a bar. I saw it was him, rolled my eyes, and put my phone back down. Not only was he at the same bar, but directly behind me. He saw me avoid his call AND his nickname.

The Hammer's nickname took on some sort of super-powered nickname form. There was no Clark Kent to it's Superman, his first name did not exist as far as I was concerned. I referred to him exclusively as "Hammer" to my friends. I even got away from myself and called him Hammer to HIS friends...and to him a couple of times (but neither he nor his friends heard/picked up on it/pointed it out to me). After a period of time where Hammer and I didn't see one another (for reasons which I'll describe in an upcoming post), he deleted me from his phone to prevent himself from drunk dialing me. However when we drunkenly reunited-- as we were bound to do, and I soberly kicked him out the next morning-- as I was bound to do, he wanted to add me back in his address book. I obligingly told him my phone number and while I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, he called me so he'd have the number stored in his phone. When I came out, he was sitting on the bed, both of our phones in his hands, looking up at me with a confused and embarassed expression. "You have me in your phone as 'Hammer'?"

(He should just be happy I didn't put him in as

"Breakfast Sausage Link". Hammer, he was not)

It's not just Do Not Answer and Hammer though, my friends and I have had many nicknamed men in our phones, our hearts, and our beds. From Big Daddy (not fat, just an actual father) to Loser Frat (he wasn't a loser, he was just in a "loser" frat) to Aaaaabaaa (drunken typing's a bitch) to BradDuneHamptonsStuytown (NameBarwemetatTownwemetinWherehelivesinnyc) to Dave's Dave (my friend Dave's friend Dave) to Bus Boy (not a busboy, a boy from the bus), the list goes on. One friend is getting married and still has her fiance in her phone by his nickname from when they began dating. Recently, fiance's brother was looking through her phone for a number and saw what he could only assume was a nickname for Fiance. Brother looked at my friend and was like "You're marrying him...maybe he could just be listed by his name now."

But to that I proclaim the following: Until we live in a world where cell phones allow multiple entries of the same name, heavy drinking stops causing black-outs, and men no longer immediately make fools of themselves in one way or another, I refuse to live nickname-less!