An Island

This is vocabulary that recently came to my knowledge after a few long car trips with guys in college. I thought I'd share it.

Biddies: The girls that wear Ugg boots with their sweatpants and straighten their hair. They also wear an obscene amount of eyeliner and mascara every day. French tips may be included. All in all, skanky but decently attractive.

Bros: Frat guys (or regular guys) that say "Brah" instead of friend or man, wear socks with their nike one strap sandals and also wear sweatpants.

Bro-hoes: Can be biddies but can also be unattractive.

Grenades: The ugly friends of the hot girls. Guys often say that tapping a grenade is "taking one for the team" so that their friend can get with the hot chick. Supposedly, this is what a good wingman does.

A guy asked me "Which one are you?" today. I said, "You mean am I a biddy, a broho or a grenade?" "Yeah, Which one are you?"

My answer was this, "I am an island because I'm neither a biddy, nor a bro-ho and I should hope that I'm not a grenade."

"An Island....I like that answer."

So, new slang is "Island" aka Me. i.e. none of the above and everything in between.

Between the J's

So, rugby guy from the post below asked me out to coffee. I decided, why not? Which is my usual answer unless the guy is a complete creep. So, I met him at the coffee shop and we bought our lattes and sat down. From there, we went to a frozen yogurt shop. From the frozen yogurt shop, we went to his house and I met his roommate and from his house, we stopped by a party the rugby players were having.

At the coffee shop I learned...

1. He's in ROTC on a full ride

2. He's probably Mormon because he mentioned a mission trip to Uganda

3. He likes to hike

4. He had a Night Hawk (It's a motorcycle) but it's in the shop now.

At the frozen yogurt place I learned...

5. He's really into Indie music. He knew who Mumford and Sons were and likes the ELO and Iron and Wine and Sufjan Stevens. Not bad for a army guy.

6. Sometimes, he plays eye-contact chicken with people on the street. (Quirky, but a little creepy).

From his roommate I learned...

7. He drinks lots of tea

8. He used to have long hair and a beard

9. In high school, he and his buddies would have drunken, naked tree climbing sessions out in the woods.

The list goes on and on. I'm not creepy, I'm an aural learning. It means, I learn what I hear. Anyway, so I'm with this guy and he asks if I want to go to a rugby party. "The theme is classy or trashy."

There I am, in my hiking boots and norwegian sweater at a drunken rugby classy/trashy party. The girls were dressed as skanks and the guys were either dressed as rednecks or they had suits on top, cut-off shorts on bottom. So I'm with this guy J1 and we literally bump into a guy whose name also starts with J. We'll call him J2. Suddenly, I'm escorted through the party by J1 (roughly 6 ft 4 and in the army) and J2 (6 ft 8 and a rather large rugby player).

J1 becomes more and more bombastic while J2 becomes more like a giant teddy bear. Both of them put their hand in the small of my back every once in a while. It was interesting. I felt as if both J's were signaling to the rest of the guys that I was theirs while I stood right between them.

Anyway, when the clock struck midnight, I asked for a ride home. I work in the morning and the testosterone was becoming a bit much.

All of the above

During my weekend, did I...?

a) Dance in a mosh pit and crowd surf

b) Have shabbat dinner with my dad, stepmom and much younger half-siblings.

c) Work

d) Hike

e) Learn about bears

f) Get asked out

g) All of the above

and the answer is.... G) for All of the Above!

Yes, it's true. Life can be a little unexpected at times. Thursday night, I wound up at a flash mob (An impromptu dance party of hundreds of people, planned secretly and lasting only an hour). As I was looking for my friends, three burly guys picked me up and tossed me into the crowd. Suddenly, I was crowd-surfing, entirely against my will.

I was dropped down into the middle of the crowd right in front of students with whom I'd gone to high school. I landed on my knee, scored a massive bruise and hobbled out to the perimeter of the craziness. Next thing I know, a rugby player with a concussion that had a monologue for theater class to prepare had asked me out.

I ended up finding my original group as the flash mob ended. They had taken too long "getting ready." In actuality, they had been drinking. The girls fell all over the place and, when I caught them, cooed "You're so adorable. You're so beautiful. Do you want a lapdance? We gave each other lapdances."

My gay friend kept trying to kiss me and I ended up sitting him down and saying, "I like you but I'm not going to make out with you tonight."

Somehow, I became guardian for an intoxicated boy and as we walked around town, he told me he wanted a girlfriend. I told him I was bad at relationships. He said that everybody was.

After the humans vs. zombie hunt began on campus, we decided to go on an adventure and drove out into the country. We hiked through the woods until we came to a clearing. The clouds parted and for the first time, I realized that it was a full moon. I remember thinking that it explained so much.

Hirsute Matters aka the Hair Conundrum

I recently chopped off three to four inches of hair. When I say chopped off, I mean that literally. I didn't go to a hair salon and spend $30 on a haircut and shampoo. I grabbed a pair of old scissors at 1 in the morning and got to hacking. It's a bad habit of mine. I let my hair grow to about shoulder length, maybe a little longer and then I'm sick of it. I become tired of straggly, split ends and ponytail bumps.

Normally, the hair is symbolic of somebody in my life with whom I'm frustrated. If I'm fed up with a guy calling me, I'll chop my hair off. If I'm mad at my dad, I'll chop my hair off. If I wish a friend of mine would stop moaning over a guy, I'll chop my hair off. I don't consciously do this. It just happens.

The point is that now, my hair is in a short rounded bob with lots of layers (I evened up the back with a razor blade to create soft blended layers. There were lots of mirrors involved). The result varies depending on the day. Sometimes it's a mommy hair cut with a side part. Sometimes it's butch without a definitive part. Today, it's edgy with a slight flip to one side and dramatic, over one eye, side-swept bangs. regardless of the hair style of the moment, one thing has changed significantly. I am no longer checked out as much.

No more, do I receive the up and down glance and an eye-brow raise. No more do drunk boys on saturday nights ask me for a hug while I'm walking past a bar. No. Now I am given a blink of an eye and the "she must be lesbian" look. It doesn't help that I've been wearing my hiking boots.

The end result is nice though. I feel more studious and focused. I feel liberated from the hair. And frankly, I think the shorter length shows off my neck and collarbone so it's a win-win.

The Jews

I'm a Jew. You already know from my teeny profile on the side of the blog. It's nothing new.

I also grew up in a small town without very many of us (Jews, I mean). This means that the 9 Jewish children in my Hebrew school class was the most exposure I ever got to Jewish teens. Some of them went to a Jew summer camp. They would come back with tales about this boy or that girl or whatever happened behind the cabins. Seriously, Jew camp is way worse than band camp. I never went to camp. I always viewed it as matchmaking. The Jewish parents knew that their children would mess around with the opposite sex sometime and they preferred it be out of town with "nice Jewish kids" instead of in town and with the goyim.

My dad always joked about Jew camp. He would sing "Don't kiss a boy if he's a goy, but you can screw if he's a jew" to the tune of Lo Yisa Goy (A traditional prayer). At 12, I would squeal "Daaad! That's GROSS!"

As I got older and kissed many, many boys that were goys I realized that my dad (who, ironically, married shiksas... twice) actually had a point. It's not that non-jewish boys aren't great and it isn't that Jewish boys are... but I like Jewish boys better. Prepare yourself for a ton of stereotypes coming at you.

First of all, I consider myself an intellectual. I read poetry and visit art galleries for fun. I enjoy discussing "the BIG questions" and I like imagining a better world. For years, I considered myself an anarchist after voraciously reading everything Emma Goldman ever wrote. Granted, I wasn't so much of a fan of her when she drifted more towards communism during the Spanish Civil War but her early stuff was great. So, when I look at a guy as a potential boyfriend, I want him to be able to at least tolerate my idealism and pretentious interpretation of art.

What I'm saying is that Jewish culture places an emphasis on knowledge and understanding. Two out of the three Jewish boys I've kissed are incredibly intellectual and the boys I grew up with are as well. We're taught that our duty to the world, as Jews, is to question everything. Especially, authority. We're taught that knowledge is power and that things change. The Torah, Nevi'im and Kituvim are living documents. They are meant to be reinterpreted with every generation and that inquisitiveness is so vital to the tradition, that without it, I don't think Judaism and the Jews could have possibly survived the ages.

Secondly, it's just easier. I'm too lazy to explain my holidays to anyone else. I don't want to date someone that jokes he has bad "jewdar" or asks me " What is Yom Kippur?" or "really? You don't do Christmas?" Really. I don't do Christmas.

I want to be able to joke about how I got socks for Hannukah or that Purim when the Rabbi dressed up as a PE teacher from the 70's and ended up looking like a guy from a porno. I want to joke about the Yom Kippur service when acrobats went up to the Bimah and the woman I was with simply said "My father is rolling in his grave right now. Let's go." and we left. Horrified.

There's so much vocabulary I'd have to teach someone and so many cultural mores. When I told my grandmother that I wanted to study forestry, she said "But that's so difficult to explain to my bridge group. It's not like you're becoming a doctor or a lawyer or maybe even a rabbi!" To Jews, this is funny. It's expected. It's what Jewish grandmothers say. To boys that aren't Jewish, they stare at me strangely for a minute and then ask, "rabbi?"

The sexy factor

Starting in July, the Dollartrees and Walmarts of the U.S. started pushing their Halloween products. Personally, I think it's a little early for that but maybe it's part of the american culture. Maybe we always want the next, new distraction or excuse to drink. For little kids, it promotes unhealthy eating habits and supports the food industry. For female college students, Halloween is an excuse to don the skankiest outfit possible. The options range from "sexy schoolgirl" to "sexy robin hood, the girl version." Every costume has "Sexy" in front of it.

Sexy hasn't always been my thing. The "sexy" factor, aka short skirts and low cut shirts has always seemed to be a bit low-class. Don't women value themselves enough not to commercialize the body parts that make us to be women? Don't we value our femininity? Now, I'm not saying that I'm against nudity. Nudity is fine. If I could, I would be naked all the time. I love my body and if my blinds worked, I would be naked in my bedroom. They don't. Anyway, it's not the nudity or the exposition of body parts that bothers me. It's what it means to men.

For male college students, Halloween is an opportunity to see every college girl freeze their asses off trying to impress them. It's a meat market and the meat comes cheap.

Whatever happened to "confidence is sexy"? Apparently, the new sexy is needy and desperate.

Be that as it may, I might be a sexy skeleton... But the costume has GLOW IN THE DARK BONES! and really, who could pass that up?

Tongue in Cheek

Maybe I need to explain the title of the blog and my pseudonym. It can come off as cocky and overconfident. And obviously, my last post could be taken that way as well. So, yeah. I'm a little too self-secure.

My pseudonym comes from a past relationship. He once told me that I reminded him of a kitten. Now, I am no kitten. In middle school and high school, I'm pretty sure I terrified the kids that had classes with me. I'm opinionated and can be bossy and I'm tall. When I'm thinking, my brows knit together in a perpetual frown. On the other hand, I can be smiley and dance through the hallways. This guy had only seen my smiley side and as a strong feminist advocate, being called a "kitten" was not what I was looking for. So, I bared my proverbial claws, gave a growl and said "I'm a lioness."

The lioness is an interesting animal. Female, she does most of the hunting and although she lacks the intimidating mane, she certainly can hold her ground. They also, like to curl up in the sun and sleep for hours on end. A lioness is more fitting for me than a mere kitten. I'm no housecat.

The point is that in the end, he thought he had tamed me and in reality, I was claustrophobic and needed more space. I'm not to be caged either.

On to the title. Maneater is definitely tongue in cheek. I don't take pleasure in breaking men down. I bore easily or need space or am impulsive. I'm not ready for a real relationship and so, sometimes people get hurt. This blog is largely my writings about dating. It's silly and shallow and I know that, so please bear with me.

Sincerely,

Lioness

On the side

I'm a waitress. I'm a decently good waitress. I also flirt a little to compensate for when, occasionally, things go wrong. And on some days, things do go wrong. In my rush to get your omelette to the table, I might drop your toast. Or forget your butter or maybe, I won't have time to get to your third coffee refill. A smile and a compliment generally helps. So, I'm a cute, waitress in a small town breakfast shop. And, sometimes I get asked out. It's natural.

Over the summer, an incredibly cute young man waltzed in and sat down with his parents. They got breakfast and along with my tip... I got a phone number.Shortly after a messy long distance relationship thing, I decided, "What the hell? I'll call him."

I called the number and we went out a couple times. We added each other on facebook. You know how things go these days. Everything is online. He was cute, cocky, and a cityboy. Now, I'm no naive girl and I wasn't expected anything serious. Not from a guy that drives a motorcycle and plans to have a cougar as a pet. Not from a guy that simultaneously likes skydiving and is currently writing his own fantasy novel.

So, he went on a trip to New York and I went on a trip to Seattle. When I arrived home, I started the fall term of classes. He never called. I never called. On facebook, it says that he has a girlfriend. "Good for him." I think.

A few days ago, he walks back into the breakfast shop with his parents. We say hi. I tell him I like his haircut and apologize for being busy. He says he's been busy too. No big deal.

A few hours later, he sends me a text message. "hey." it says. Just, "hey."

I think to myself, "hey, what? Hey, you want to see me? Hey, let's be friends? Hey, sorry I haven't called you? No, just... hey."

I might be a small town waitress but I'm also an explorer and a hell of a smart cookie and I'm worth more than a "hey." I'm not an order on the side.