Posts Tagged ‘boys are silly’

Last year in the weeks preceding March Madness, I decided that I wanted to care more about my bracket. In order to do that, I decided that I should have a college basketball team to root for and care about and follow (before the bracket teams were determined).

But who?

Hopkins had a fantastic team…but it was Division III. Not eligible.

Because I’m in DC, there were suggestions that I pull for Georgetown. But…I go to GW (even if I don’t follow GW sports).

I eventually settled on a hometown team. I chose a school who I’d grown up hearing about. I also have several friends who have gone there, at least one of whom was closely affiliated with the basketball program.

So I told BNF. “I think I’m going to go with Villanova as my team.” I explained my reasoning; it wasn’t because they’d been good that year, I just wanted someone to care about.

You can’t.”

I can’t what?

You can’t just pick a team. That’s not how it works.

But I just did.

No. You either root for the team where you went to school —

But you didn’t go to UCLA! You’re not following your own rules!

OR you root for the team that you grew up cheering for.

Well, I grew up hearing about Villanova. Why doesn’t that count?

Because it doesn’t.

So you’re telling me that if I don’t pick a team as a child, and I don’t go to a Division I school, then I never get to have a college basketball team?

Yep. Pretty much.”

So I caved. I lost my desire to care about the tournament and chose my bracket at random.

And this year? Well, I did the same thing (mostly out of laziness).

But I’m curious – is BNF’s logic sound?

Are there some sort of college-basketball-cheering rules that I just never knew about before? And what about all those kids (like me) who didn’t grow up cheering, and didn’t go to a UNC or Georgetown or Maryland etc?

Personally, I think his logic is flawed. But what do I know?

Besides, it’s lacrosse season anyway.

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3. the mutual dealings, connections, or feelings that exist between two parties, countries, people, etc.

(That’s my own emphasis, by the way, because I think that’s important.)

I have always been under the impression that in order to be in a relationship, both parties should know about and agree to said status. It’s just good sense.

That definition was challenged, however, after my friend Hbomb shared a series of emails she’d exchanged with GQ – after she’d had the “friend talk” with him multiple times, and was clarifying that status after a mixed signals weekend.


I freaking adore you. I say that as both a coworker, an ex, and even more-so as a friend…And I say all this as a friend. Our relationship was oh-so brief because, at the end of the day, it wasn’t meant to be. But our friendship? OMG…I called you that before we ever flirted with a relationship, and continued after.


Well, this is a little awkward…I wasn’t aware that we were ever in a relationship, unless you meant relationship in the very broad, non-romantic sense, e.g. I have a “relationship” with my boss, my mom, my roommate, etc. To me, being in a relationship, romantically speaking, only occurs after two people have a conversation where they both agree that they are going to exclusively date each other. And we never even came close to discussing anything like that as far as I know, so I don’t see how you can consider me an ex…


I used the word relationship because there was an oh-so-fleeting moment when I felt a spark of “something”– maybe it was an unrequited crush–for what must’ve been one week late last summer.

Hold on just a second. An unrequited crush can count as a relationship? The mere feeling of a potential spark? That can make someone an ex?

Well, shoot.

By my definition, I haven’t had too many full on relationships. A handful, here and there, plus, you know, the one super big one that I’m in right now (and forever!). But by GQ’s definition…

There was that one major unrequited crush from the seventh grade – I’m hoping only major crushes count, not minor ones – then a string of them throughout high school. You know how teenagers are.

There was that guy in my Italian class four years ago – I thought there was a spark. We never went out (or talked outside of class except on the walk to our respective homes), but apparently, he’s my ex.

And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

Should I count the lacrosse players I ogled in college? Or the blind dates I was set up on for sorority formals?

This list could get long.

And we haven’t even started on celebrities yet.

Though, by what other definition could I call Sawyer my ex?

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The other night I went to the salon to test out a hairstyle for my wedding day. The stylist worked her magic and I knew, immediately, that this was what I wanted. I had curls cascading down my back and I couldn’t stop grinning as I walked home – even in the rain.

I waited eagerly for BNF to get home so he could see it, and I may have kept bouncing the curls around, as they’re so very different from (and much more fun than) my usually pin-straight hair.

Finally I heard the key in the lock, I saw BNF evaluate my hair, and saw the smile on his face.

I like it, baby,” he told me. “It looks great! It looks like a beautiful horse’s mane!

I was too surprised to come up with anything better than, “Did you just call me a horse?

I thought about it more, and came up with a better conclusion: BNF was simply channeling is inner Sir Ulrich von Leichtenstein.

In A Knight’s Tale, if you’re unfamiliar with the classic, Sir Ulrich attempts to hit on Jocelyn with the line, “Your beauty will be reflected in the power of my arm and my horse’s flanks.

Needless to say, it does not go over so well, and Jocelyn only barely listens when her friend and maid tells her, “Maybe where he comes from it means love.

Sure. Let’s go with that.

Horse comparison=love.

In these two cases, anyway. And these two only, I hope.

Though, now I wonder if it would be appropriate to trot down the aisle.

Decisions decisions.

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One of the overarching themes of both my history and international relations classes has been the Cold War. We’ve looked at the causes, the threats, the politics, and the effects both then and now. So it’s safe to say that I think or talk about the Cold War on a fairly regular basis. And, as much as I think about it in terms of class and lecture, it also makes me think of middle school.

Yes, middle school.

To my recollection, we didn’t study the Cold War in junior high. We were more focused on Ancient Greece and Egypt and the Renaissance. We didn’t get to modern history until high school. And the Cold War was well over by the time I entered 6th grade, so it wasn’t something that I’d grown up thinking about.

The Cold War reminds me of middle school because of a boy.

I met Griff probably the first day of 6th grade, and shortly after that he became my boyfriend. Basically, he walked me to classes, occasionally carried my books, complimented me, and we sometimes talked on the phone. It lasted all of a month.

He broke up with me by having one of our mutual friends come up to me in class and say, “Griff doesn’t want to date you anymore.” And my little 11-year-old heart was shattered. But I survived.

After the breakup, we didn’t really talk at all, save for group projects, so imagine my surprise when Griff started whispering things at me across the classroom, and in the hall. And it wasn’t just “things;” he would whisper the same phrase over and over:

“The Cold War is over! The Cold War is over!”

It was always in a kind of shouting whisper, like he didn’t want anyone to hear, but he was also trying to make his point.

To say I was confused would be an understatement.

I asked my friend, Lesser, what it meant (consequently, she was the one who had helped Griff break up with me, and she was also going out with his best friend), but she had no idea. I think I even asked my mom at one point, also without a satisfactory explanation.

You might argue that the most productive thing would have been to ask Griff what he meant, but that’s just logical. And how many logical 6th grade girls do you know?

Regardless, I never found out his reasoning behind the phrase. And even when we became friends years down the road, I never bothered to ask him. But now, every time we talk about the Cold War in class I think of Griff.

And I wonder if he would even remember saying it.

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I don’t know if you’ve seen those new tampon commercials yet. If not, here you go (and if you only watch one, watch the second one):

I kind of love them. The sarcasm in the first one is pretty much what every woman has felt at one point or another during the old commercials. And the second one, well, I love a good social experiment.

Maybe today’s tampon day!”

Now, I toyed with the idea of reenacting that, in the name of the blog, to see if those were typical results. But really, 1) I’m not that bold yet, and 2) I’m 95% sure there wouldn’t be much difference in the responses. Generally, guys+tampons=uncomfortable.

But here’s the question: what’s the male equivalent of tampons? Something that women might not even want to say out loud, much less go in and buy?

I suggested condoms (I will buy them, I just don’t like it), but I know that doesn’t hold true across the board.

What do you think – is there a male equivalent? Or do women have the “uncomfortable product” market covered?

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Just quick note: you guys were great at coming up with your six words. I definitely didn’t think of mine that fast.


The other night at the gym I had Gilmore Girls on, and one of their conversations caught my attention.

Lorelei: You know what they say – never date a guy with a single bed.
Luke: Who says that? Why?
Lorelei: Everyone! A single bed indicates a fear of commitment. It says there’s no room for any one else in this life!
Luke: No, it says there’s no room for anyone else in this bed.
Lorelei: That’s not much better, is it?

Personally, I haven’t (knowingly) dated a single bedder since college – when we lived in dorms. It hasn’t been completely intentional; it just so happens that most people, when they live on their own, tend to buy adult-size furniture.

There are always exceptions, though. Like the friend of a friend who swears up and down that his single bed doesn’t say anything at all about commitment or lack of room.

Why can’t it just say that I like to cuddle?

Of course, he only asked that after we were ragging on him for a while.

Like I said, I haven’t recently dated a single bedder, but I can’t imagine sleepovers going well. I like cuddling as much as the next girl, but I also need to have my own side, should I want to spread out or flail. Plus, you know,  if the hug and roll comes into play in a single bed, someone’s landing on the floor.

But what do you think? Does size matter here? Are single beds a turn-off?

Or are they just impractical for sharing, unless you’re cuddly sleepers?

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I mentioned yesterday “the strange games that guys play” and oggie ball is at the top of the list. I don’t know if that’s exactly how you spell it because, honestly, I don’t know anyone else outside this group who even knows what the game is. Here’s the idea – all the males in the group who choose to play (and you kind of have to, or else you’re a wuss) split into two teams, and line up on either side of the room, like so:


Next, whichever team is starting, takes a playground ball and proceeds to bounce it toward the other team, in an effort to hit an opposing team member in the crotch. If you flinch, whoever bounced the ball gets another shot at you. If he hits you, you’re out – and, as far as I can tell, in pain. (As you can see in the above picture, there was a direct hit, so poor Joey became a spectator. See below.) The objective is to get the other team out completely – simple enough.


And here’s the thing that I don’t get: you know it’ll hurt. That’s a guarantee. So why do it? Now, I’ve clearly never had personal experience, but I’ve seen guys curled up in the fetal position after a particularly well-executed ball tap, and can’t imagine why they’d continue the game.

I wish I could chalk it up to some juvenile middle school shenanigans – it was a junior high camp, after all. But these guys range in age from 16 to 44; the only common factor is gender.

Perhaps the other odd thing is that while they’re playing, we ladies are sitting there watching this display of “manliness.” It’s kind of like a car wreck – you don’t want to stare, but you can’t pull yourself away.

So gentlemen, this question’s for you: would you play this game (or a version of it)? Is it some sort of guy thing that I’ll just never understand? Or are my camp friends just a special kind of crazy?

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