Dust and Spiderwebs

Well, it's spring break. Apparently, every professor doesn't give a shit about that and loads us all up with projects but that's beside the point. When I hear the word "break," I think of sleeping in until noon, reading, and catching up on all the work that I have yet to accomplish. My parental units, however, hear it and scream, "THE SLAVE IS COMING HOME!!!!!!!" Not really, but I just completed the arduous task of cleaning out my walk-in closet. What was once a shrine a to a fabulous shoe and book collection is now going to play host to my mother's sewing shit. No, I'm none too pleased about it.

However, as I was digging around amongst the filth of age and the dust of neglect, I came across a red box. A shiny red box. That had hearts all over it. Oh shit, I immediately thought and tried to hide it from my mother.

Mother: "What's that?"

Me: "It's nothing."

Mother: "'To Michelle, Love Owen.' Oh my God, how old is that?"

Me: "It was from Valentine's Day, 2007. So five years old. Holy hell..."

I started rifling through it feverishly. The contents of the red box, which once held a small box of chocolates and Bath and Body Works's Exotic Coconut Body Spray and Lotion (the gentleman in question arrived on my doorstep late Valentine's Day evening with a bouquet of a dozen pink roses and this gift. I was wearing black sweatpants, a pink t-shirt, and wet hair, for I had just come home from swim practice), were now as follows: the card received that night (a kitten on the front with the text, "Wild...you are so fun to be with" and on the inside sang "Wild Thing" by Chip Taylor with the text "I can't keep my paws to myself. Happy Valentine's Day." He had written, in very small, engineer-esque scrawl, "I didn't think it was too suggestive. <3 Owen (Wild...sigh)"), movie ticket stubs of most of the movies we went to on dates (he was the projectionist at the movie theater down the road from me and got two tickets for free every weekend), his senior portrait, two of our prom pictures, and the Reasons He Loved Me, aka his 17th birthday present to me.

This is almost too gross to write. Yes, at one time, the romance and passion of The Princess Bride could move me to tears and this sort of sentimentality seemed beautiful to me. Now, I have to wonder what possessed me to keep this garbage. Curiosity compelled me to look at those reasons, though. Here they are:

[Note: the bold is the original text. What's not bolded is my sarcasm.]

This is what you asked for. Hope you enjoy. To be fair, this is what I said I wanted. I didn't demand it; in fact, I didn't actually think he'd go for it. We were retarded and decided to keep an LDR going while he started his freshman year at VT and I finished up my senior year of high school. I didn't want him to break the bank at all, and how many eighteen year old males are going to be this sentimental?

1. A girl is interested in me? Why do guys do this? Seriously, he was pretty handsome, like Viggo Mortensen. But, I was his second girlfriend and the first girl he ever French-kissed. So perhaps his self-esteem needed a bit of a boost. Who knows?
2. And she's hot? Well, I'm certainly not going to argue.
3. She's not opposed to watching non-chick flicks. Still true.
4. She likes the Beatles. Who the fuck doesn't like the Beatles?
5. She'll go to a metal show with me. Oh God...yeah ok so he decided to take me to see Mastodon live at the 930 Club. It was...an eye-opening experience.
6. The thing is, she doesn't like metal. It's grown on me very very slowly.
7. Oh yeah, she's not needy or whiny or clingy or a bitch. Doesn't every girl want to hear that?
8. She doesn't hate (all) my friends =) Actually, his best friend from high school, WestPointer, and I still chat.
9. She doesn't demand I spend money on her. I still am uncomfortable with men spending money on me.
10. She gives my stupid habits a chance. Um...trying to remember what his stupid habits were...and I don't think he would have listed "going to church all the time" as a "stupid habit."
11. She's not a control freak. Not about boys and their comings and goings, no. Just about the things I need to take care of and shit like that. I really and truly couldn't care less about the person who calls me their SF. They just have to understand that at any important function that requires me to have an escort, they are said escort.
12. She's open to new ideas (Planet Terror, Blind Guardian. Those are just a few.). Well, I watched the movie and I have the vast majority of the latter's discography. So, whatever, I'll take it.
13. She sat down and watched EVIL DEAD! I did, and didn't say a damn thing. He had this Army of Darkness shirt that irritated the hell out of me because the movie is straight-up dogshit. Men everywhere worship Bruce Campbell; it's probably because of that outrageous chin.
14. She's very atypical. I guess I still am?
15. When I had to go, she let me go. This could be taken two ways: either the sweet way or the gross way. The gross way is letting a guy drop a deuce in my place of dwelling, a cardinal sin to break in my book. The sweet way is what he intended: he had to leave for college and I understood and said "Goodbye."

love you

Owen

Well...back in the box and back in the closet with this crap.

~M

Save My Ladyparts

February is such a bullshit month. Seriously, it's the worst month of the year. Here is the story of how this February kicked off:

[If you have a low tolerance for medical jargon or surgical procedures, just forget about it.]

February 1st, 2012 - Lying in bed naked watching Jackass 3 on Netflix at 11 AM, minding my own business. Had a small handful of white cheddar popcorn for breakfast (I'm poor, I'm in college, bite me). Without warning, I experienced an extreme stabbing pain in my right lower abdomen. First thought: Perhaps I'm ovulating and experiencing mittelschmertz (German for "middle pain," the slight pain felt during ovulation). Second thought: This pain isn't going away. In fact, it's gotten way worse rapidly. Oh Christ, not a fan. This was the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my entire life, and I've been thrown from a horse into a fence and totaled a car. I quickly Google "appendicitis" and skim the symptoms. Some of them match the pain I am experiencing. I start screaming in my apartment and my roommate, FilmChick, knocks on my door. "M, are you OK?"

"NO I AM NOT OK I NEED TO GO TO THE FUCKING HOSPITAL RIGHT NOW OWOWOWOWOWOOWOWOWOW!!!!!!!!!!"

"OK, I can take you. Let me get my coat and I'll wait for you in the common area."

I pry myself from bed, barely able to stand up straight. I honestly have no idea how I managed to put on a bra but I know I just grabbed whatever clothes I could (as always, no sweatpants. Even in agony, I have dignity) and my shirt was dirty. Fuck it, M. Just walk outside and get your ass to the hospital. Walking hunched over, I climb into her truck and FilmChick graciously drives me to the ER.

We walk in, or rather she walks in and I waddle in hunched over clutching my belly, and I quickly sit down, while FilmChick goes to the window and grabs a clipboard. She writes my dictated medical history, which is seriously uneventful. Then, we wait...and wait...and wait. Keep in mind that because I am now around old people, I have stopped screaming and have resorted to pathetic puppy moaning and pleadingly looking to the receptionist. After an hour, FilmChick returns to the window: "Please, she's seriously in pain. She thinks it might be appendicitis." Fifteen minutes pass by and they call me. Sweet relief!

HelloKittyScrubs: "Miss M, we're going to check your vitals now."

Me: "You're joking, right?"

HKS: "Nope. Put on the cuff."

I couldn't believe it. I tell her all of my symptoms, beg for relief, and even tell her that I need to be seen immediately. "Look, I don't go to the doctor at all, nor do I have any chronic illnesses. When I'm in pain, I'm not fucking around. Please just give me something to distract me from this stabbing pain."

HKS: "I understand, Miss, but we don't have anymore beds back there. We are going to try and move someone quickly for you."

She then gives me a wheelchair, makes me move into it, then wheels me back out. FilmChick looks at her incredulously: "What the hell?"

Me: "They don't have any beds for me. I have to wait more. You can go back home, if you need to."

FilmChick: "Are you absolutely sure?"

I insisted and so she left. I texted a few people where I was, including Flyboy, and of course they were all busy. I sat alone in the waiting room for another half hour when I was finally wheeled into a room. MaleNurse comes in and begins to deliver more crap news: "We are going to need blood and urine samples."

Me: "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I feel like I've been stabbed and you have to actually stab me with my least favorite thing on the planet?"

MaleNurse: "Well, I can give you an unsterilized needle."

Me: "Well-played. If I'm going to piss, I need some water."

He proceeds to draw my blood (I'm lying down in my uncomfortable hospital bed at this point, preventing my normal reaction of passing out), then leaves with the vials. "The cup is on the table. Go when you can. After that, strip down and put on the hospital gown." After fifteen minutes, I struggle to pry myself from the bed and waddle over to the little bathroom and give the lab people a sample.

By this time, a few friends were able to get to the hospital after I had told them what was up. I was finally wearing a super sexy powder blue flimsy thing with maroon moons and stars plastered all over it. They came to visit me but only after I heard the best news: "You're going to have a CAT scan so drink this barium."

I've heard that barium tastes like dogshit and was not excited. MaleNurse: "Oh no, it's OK. We mix it with Sprite and cranberry juice."

Me: (takes a sip) "Vodka-cran! Decent!"

The CAT scan was boring but the results were not. MaleNurse: "Well, you don't have appendicitis. However, it appears you've got a large cyst on your ovary. We've got the OB/GYN on call and she is scheduling you for an ultrasound."

Me: "Can I please have some morphine?"

MaleNurse: "Oh yes."

Thank Christ.

Morphine is a hell of a drug and as soon as it was pumped into my veins, the stabbing subsided to a low, dull ache. I started mumbling silly things about stupid shit, then I get wheeled into the ultrasound room. The technician asks me if I have any questions about transvaginal ultrasounds.

Me: "Yeah. Can you microwave that lube shit? I don't need it ice cold."

She sticks the wand in and turns on the machine. Immediately on the screen, there is a massive black object. Her eyes widen a bit.

Me: "Fuck, that's big."

It ended up being about ten centimeters in length. That's the size of a Blackberry. At about 9 PM, my mother shows up looking harried. Dr. Abrahms comes in my new room and tells me that I still can't eat anything and that I've been scheduled for emergency laprascopy the next morning. "Save my ladyparts," was my only reply to her.

They were able to save my ovary, thank God.

~M

TV Shows I'm Really Excited About

OK, so taking a break from my brain dissection, and mourning the end of the 2011-2012 college football season, I have decided to write about the TV shows I am stoked to return, from either hiatus status or their Christmas breaks.

1. Mad Men. Yes, this show has to be number one. It's got everything to make a delectable viewing pleasure: men in suits, drinking, smoking, infidelity, strong seductive women, and the glamour of 1960s Manhattan. Jon Hamm's character, Don Draper, will hopefully remain the commanding presence he is and also manage to get his ex-wife, Betty, in line. I'm not sure how I feel about him marrying Megan, his secretary, but we'll have to see if it doesn't end in flames. My money is on Draper sipping his bourbon, exuding virility, and wrapping more women around his finger. And really, who'd say no to him?
   
2. Spartacus: Vengence. Liam McIntyre has some very big, very sexy shoes to fill as he takes up the role of Spartacus. Andy Whitfield, God rest his soul, left us with a most delicious character and the audience was spoiled on his performance. I know I'm looking forward to more more muscular, bloody violence, political intrigue, and the uber complex relationship of Ilithia and Lucretia. And of course the more screentime a shirtless Spartacus has, the better.
   
3. Californication. Oh, Hank Moody, you delightfully damaged artist. After viewing the first episode of the new season, I'm left a tad confused but intrigued. Hank is now back in California after spending a year in New York and it looks like he's going to be staying there because his psycho ex, a woman named Carrie, just burned his apartment. Apparently, it wasn't OK with her to "give up the butt" and have Hank want to "keep things casual." My reply is that it's called the marriage hole for a reason but that's neither here nor there. Tensions remain high between Hank and Karen. It also looks like Becca has herself a new boyfriend, a young lad named Tyler played by the adorable Scott Michael Foster (Cappie from Greek). Charlie Runkle just crossed the threshold of fucking 100 women, so congratulations are in order, I guess. I'm shocked that his dick hasn't fallen off but still good for him. I can't wait to watch the impending drama unfold.
   
4. How I Met Your Mother. Ted needs to get himself a love interest pronto. It doesn't have to be the mother, although I'm fairly certain we'll find out who she is at the end of this season. Still, his story has become rather stagnant ever since the tension between Robin and Barney continues to crescendo. Initially, I was deeply upset that she and Barney aren't going to end up together but in all honesty they really are too damaged. Plus, Victoria did point out that Robin being in the group causes Ted to not find a woman because he's supposedly still holding on to her. I'm not sure if I believe that's the truth but it's an interesting observation. I do know that Barney being single makes for a better show because I'm going to be honest: him with Nora was just so boring. Also, I really hope Barney and Ted's bar, Puzzles, really kicks off. Why the hell is it called Puzzles?
   
5. The Big Bang Theory. Leonard's single now, which is great because who actually liked Pria? I really want Penny to come back into focus, though. She was a vital force in the development of Leonard and now she's kind of fallen by the wayside. Perhaps something will change during Howard's and Bernadette's nuptials. And Raj is veering very close to the land of hopeless. They've signed on for two more seasons but I don't think I can wait that long for his character to pick up a narrative arc. He had a small one when Leonard and Pria were together but ever since she cheated on Leonard in India, Raj is no longer an active character. And Sheldon still remains my favorite character and he can continue being a smartass all he wants.
   
6. Archer. Love me some obnoxious Sterling Archer. I anticipate many more terrible comebacks from him. Carol/Cheryl needs to go back to being crazy as fuck and being choked and Pam is just amazing. And of course Lana Kane has to be animated TV's sexiest character. I'm fairly certain every guy I know has entertained a foul thought or two about her. I think I'm most looking forward to Mallory being her grotesquely old, awkward self because that's just classic her.

I wouldn't consider any of these guilty pleasures. Not at all. The writers on all of these shows are simply brilliant and my hat is off to them.

XOXO
~M

Operation Self-Help, Book Four

Title: Eccentric Glamour
Author: Simon Doonan
Copyright 2008
Simon and Schuster, New York, NT
Dedication: "This book is dedicated to all of the crazy broads and blokes who have flung themselves off the ramparts of eccentric glamour, [either] metaphorically or literally..."
Target Audience: just all around fabulous people
Author's Credentials: honestly, if you don't know who Simon Doonan is, you might want to give up
Verdict: Read it for a giggle and empowerment

“Knowing who you really are and dressing the part -- with an air of amused recklessness -- is life affirming for you and life enhancing for other people.”

I picked this up in my Bridget Jones frenzy for two reasons. The first is that Doonan is an amazing fellow and I love pretty much anything he has ever said and probably will ever say. The second is that the cover is pretty fabulous. True story.

Doonan offers women the chance to join the ranks of Vivienne Westwood, Mae West, Lucy Liu, Iman, and the like by blossoming into a glamourous eccentric. This involves breaking fashion norms and wearing your unique look with abrasive confidence. Being a fashion leader involves making some extreme choices. There are three broad categories: Gypsy, Socialite, and Existentialist. Pick one and stick with it.

Then of course there are two kinds of men that tolerate eccentrically glamourous women: regular guys or "big screaming poofters." Deciding to be an eccentric is forcibly grabbing a spotlight and forever making it shine on your fabulous self and no one else. Your man cannot and will not outshine you, for you're the superstar. Constantly be in the pursuit of fun with him, to the point of delightful wackiness.

Also, try wearing peacock feathers in your hair outside, even if it's to check the mail. People might stare and point, but any press is good press. I know that I have never worn those horrid rain boots that every single female seems to posses, and I don't plan on it. Why? Rain is much more enjoyable when I wear my tall, black leather boots and clear plastic umbrella.

To be eccentric is to have fun with yourself and with life. Take the words from Andy Warhol: "If you can convince yourself that you look fabulous, you can save yourself the trouble of primping." Thanks, Andy!

Living in a state of perpetual wallflowering and following the trends is wholly disheartening. It's much more fun to be enigmatically timeless. Life really is too short to waste on wondering whether how you appear is acceptable. Make it acceptable for yourself. I don't think I've ever had more fun than when I wore stark white jeans in December. Rules were made to be broken, so revel in being ballsy.

XOXO
~M

Operation Self-Help, Book Three

Title: Actually, It IS Your Parents' Fault
Author: Philip Van Munching and Bernie Katz, Ph.D
Copyright 2007
St. Martin's Press, New York, NT
Dedication: "For Olivia Katz and Elizabeth Auran"
Target Audience: those who wish to examine themselves, figure out why their relationships fail, and utilize couples therapy techniques in order to fix them
Author's Credentials: extremely successful writer; professor of psychology
Verdict: Smart read. Go for it

This book is like a to-go therapist, if I can be honest. Hell, it was co-written by a therapist so yay!

The first point the authors make is that in couples therapy, the people are not the patients; the relationship is. The thesis is that if we carefully examine ourselves and recognize some of our personality ticks, we are making an effort to examine our unconscious mind. Our unconscious picks our mates, not our conscious. I'll admit it: I was supremely skeptical. What crazy childhood experience could have happened to me that would prompt me to go for those who I easily judge?

Turns out a lot. I won't delve into them here but by examining my brain in an objective attempt, I recognized the pattern. Breaking away from it, though, is bound to be tougher. Because I was judged harshly growing up, I not only fear harsh judgment, but I also tend to project it on others. That's neat!

Then, the authors coined the term "Rel-Con" or "relationship condition." Borrowed from the military's Def-Con, this gauges the amount of tension in the present relationship. Is everything perfect? How often do you two fight? How often do the fights repeat? Are they shrieking matches or are they cute little spats about nothing (i.e. Star Wars vs. The Lord of the Rings. The winner is the first one to pull up the fight from Clerks 2)? Anyway, the following are the steps to sort of combat the conflicts:

Four Things To Do To Reduce Your Rel-Con

1. Take a time-out
2. Be your own play-by-play announcer
3. Keep a neutron rod handy
4. Acknowledgize

This, of course, depends on how much you really love each other, or something. That concept of picking your battles also might come in handy, as well as knowing your limits. Example: I don't put with a smoking man. Not because of the whole health thing but because I'm not going to perform cunnilingus on an ashtray and that's exactly what kissing a guy who just finished a Marlboro Light is like.

Anyway, to save money, it's better to utilize objective self-diagnosis. Sort of like what Joan says in the pilot episode of "Mad Men:" "Stand naked in front of a mirror with a bag over your head and evaluate your assets and be honest." Do the same thing to your relationship, and to your inner self. Know thyself. Know the other. Know the process.

Finally, everyone on the planet says that their relationships lack solid communication. Maybe it's because we're selfish pricks who don't want to change or evolve for anyone. But, in case you do ever happen to be deeply disappointed in your other and decide to start an argument, do this:

Rules For Communication:

1. Listen up
2. Validate, don't negate
3. Keep your cool
4. Mind the gap

Also, don't start this discussion on any game day, before a big test for either party, before a big holiday, or after a tragedy. How much of an asshole are you if you start a fight after their dog died?

The bottom line for a relationship is this: "It'll work; give it time." With anything in life, if you put in the work, you'll reap the reward. Mutual commitment in making any relationship work is necessary, as well as careful diagnosis of the problem and an inordinate amount of patience. I guess I should probably have more patience and learn to be more accepting of imperfections.

Well, this was helpful in learning to deal with problems once you're in a relationship. Helpful, but at the moment unnecessary.

XOXO
~M

Operation Self-Help, Book Two

Title: Become Your Own Matchmaker
Author: Patti Stanger
Copyright 2009
Atria Books, New York, NY
Dedication: "I dedicate this book to single women everywhere. If you take one thing away from my book, know this: if you want him he's out there."
Target Audience: successful, single women everywhere...or the US, whichever. Oh, and you have to be marriage-minded
Author's Credentials: third-generation matchmaker, founder and president of the Millionaire's Club, star and co-executive producer of The Millionaire Matchmaker
Verdict: Insightful at times, platitudinous at many

Now, I have recently watched two episodes of her show and I have to tell you that, at least on the small screen, she doesn't cater to every woman. Rather, she introduces these men with money in Los Angeles to women who are teensy, beautiful, and with just enough brains to sustain a decent conversation. Their common trait is that they are all objects of traditional feminine roles who want to raise a family. Her male clients are heavy-hitters and constantly demand perfection, even though she repeats that there's no such thing as perfection. That's the show; I'm here to discuss her book.

This book took me about a day to read, including the list-making exercises. Broken into eight chapters, Stanger offers eight steps (see what she did there? Clever) to finding that perfect man, provided you have marriage on the brain. Perhaps as a 21-year-old, this is a book that I shouldn't have read but I grabbed it and I committed to it; funny how easily I commit to books. She claims that in the span of one year, you should be able to attract a man, date a man, become monogamous with him, and negotiate a ring. That may be easy for glitzy people but some of us are going to take a little time. So yes, she's got a certain bias towards wealthy, older women and not college seniors.

However, the first half of the workshop proved to be rather insightful. Following a nasty breakup/relationship trauma/epiphany, Stanger says that you are to take thirty to ninety days for a Dating Detox. Basically, this is the time to focus completely on yourself in all facets of life. Eat, watch, do exactly what you'd like to do. Let go of the past and say, "Fuck it, I start with me." I can't change the simple fact that Flyboy, or Cap'n Ahab as I've now been calling him, has chosen a whale to fuck; I can change how I feel about it. Instead of wondering just what the fuck I did to deserve the heartache, I selfishly relish in the fact that there's going to be someone miles above him. It's like How I Met Your Mother: the love of my life is coming my way as fast as possible. Force yourself to be happy: every day, write down ten things that make you supremely happy and constantly go back to them. Or read The Book of Awesome and Stuff White People Like. Exercise, eat well, smile a lot, and just radiate in yourself. Analyze the best and worst traits of the guys in your past, recognize that they taught you at least something, and just focus on their positive attributes. Chances are, a pattern formed in your past.

Next, recognize your flaws and strengths, both on the inside and outside. Apparently, a really good strategy is to take your best straight guy friend out shopping for clothes that will make you guy-sexy. I have yet to try this but I know that I've done the reverse to guys and it's fun. Anyway, sexy is as sexy does.

Once you've become the femme fatale, go out to meet the men. Once you meet them, don't play games. Actually, that's something I've never understood about either sex: why do we insist on mind-fucking each other? We never tell each other flat-out what's wrong, ever. I have tried to be forthright with guys but for some reason, they worry that they'll "hurt my feelings." I pray that direct discussion will develop in the near future. But I digress.

The rest of the book discusses what to do in a new relationship. Don't move in, don't pay for anything until monogamy has been agreed upon, don't fuck until monogamy either, calmly negotiate a ring, and above all know what you want and stick by it. All things that you've heard before, I know.

Like I said, the first half was helpful, even though it was once again common sense. I especially liked the bit about where to find future husbands (I'll be avoiding the cigar bars and singles' vacations for sure). If I were to go to any of those locations, I'd seriously have to fight the urge to narrate my progress in a British accent, like on a nature show about jaguars or something.

Also, according to the cover photo, if a woman wore a white business suit with no blouse, she'll be sexy. But maybe that's just because her tits are about to pop out and hit people in the face.

XOXO
~M

Operation Self-Help Book One

Title: Girl, Get Your Mind Right!
Author: Tionna Tee Smalls
Copyright 2011
HarperCollins Publishers, New York, NY
Dedication: "For every woman who has had enough."
Target Audience: see dedication but it reads as though it's for women who have stuck around with some serious cockstains
Author's Credentials: relationship advice columnist, radio talk show host, relationship expert on "What Chilli Wants"
Verdict: Don't bother

I read this little 169-page volume in two hours. Yes, it's that quick of a read. Why? Because it's full of the stuff your mother told you long ago. "Don't try to be anyone else." "Be polite." "Men are easy to read." The subtitle boasts, "The tell-it-like-it-is advice your love life has been missing." Aside from the quick-and-easy study, I had some problems with the text.

First, any woman of substance will not publish a book and use crass slang terms for the female anatomy, or vagina if you really need to be informed. Cooch, cootie-cat, snatch, pussy, etc. are all terms that the boys use when describing lady bits. Smalls is very free with her use of crass slang and while it may seem funny or lighthearted, overtime it becomes disrespectful. Tell me, was I supposed to take this "relationship bible" seriously?

Second, "thang" "ish," etc. are not real words. Leave those to the blogs and radio, ok? The printed word should be a bit more respected, so please don't make me grab for the red pen and fix every mistake.

Third, this is a direct quote from this volume: "Cheating is not when your man goes to the bar after an exhausting day at work, gets drunk, and has sex with the woman on the next stool." I don't care if it's the 21st century and I'm supposed to be more progressive. Cheating is cheating is cheating. I've come to the consensus, supported by previous boyfriends' opinions on the matter, that cheating is making out with or more with another person. The one exception is during a dare and that's only if the girl is dared or persuaded to make out with another girl for the amusement of the rest of the party; yay double standards. How warped is Smalls? According to her, that's a slip and the guy should be forgiven. You know what people would do to women if they strayed? They were stoned to death. To forgive a slip would be giving a man permission to "slip up" again. I probably should have just stopped reading the book altogether but I have this annoying habit of completely committing to books and I must finish them.

Fourth, Smalls has what she calls, "The Holiday Cut Check." She explains that if a man doesn't invite you to family gatherings, you're just a piece of ass to him. Now, one should note that she doesn't give an adequate time frame for this, a detail that is rather necessary. However, I know I'd be mortified if a boyfriend were to invite me to spend Thanksgiving and/or Christmas with his family unless he's forked over some ice (that's a diamond ring, in case there was confusion). Holidays and family are to be kept separate from a romantic relationship; the only time a boyfriend should attend a family gathering is a less formal occasion, such as a birthday or graduation.

Fifth, Smalls claims that women routinely give money to their man. How fucking stupid is this target audience? I don't care how well-off a woman is, you never pay for anything until you are married to the man. Sorry about it not sorry. If I had a man come up to me and ask to fork over cash (bare in mind that less than ten dollars is OK for a quick dinner at 7-11; more than that and um no), I'd be driven to deck him with my hefty Kate Spade bag. It's insanely rude, presumptuous, and just makes a man look like shit. Giving a man a few gifts, however, is perfectly acceptable.

All in all, a Band-Aid for the close-to-illiterate woman who has been through some shit. Basically, if you want a good man, according to Smalls, do this:

1. Listen to the guy, especially if he flat out tells you that he's a player.
2. Take your time and don't hop into bed with him immediately. In fact, don't fuck him until he's told you that he wants to be monogamous.
3. Never snoop through his cell phone/email. Why would anyone do this? I about murdered Flyboy for using my laptop once. It's my shit, it's his shit, and everyone's happier when you mind your shit.
4. Be firm and don't fall for his crap.
   
5. If you want to be treated as an easy woman, he'll treat you as such.
6. Stay sexy and confident in yourself, no matter the circumstances.
7. Leave the baggage at the door. This means allowing yourself time to heal and move on from the sins committed against you.
   

See? All common sense and everything you've heard before. Hopefully, the next one isn't as terrible.

XOXO
~M