according to my psychic, this could be big

When I was 19, a psychic in a little house on Summer Avenue -- whose precise location beyond that is lost on me now, other than that it was conveniently across the street from a gas station with an ATM -- told me that I already knew the person I was going to marry.

Esmerelda or whatever her name was said a lot of other shit, too, that I've long since forgotten. But that one little tidbit, that stuck with me. It's become some sort of weirdly specific and personal urban legend in my own mind. A seed planted long ago that is maybe probably definitely irrational, but it was planted so deep that I just can't stop believing in it. I mean, I'd never flash my brights at someone driving with their headlights off at night because I'd rather not be stabbed to death on the side of a country highway by gang members taking part in an initiation ritual. Because that totally could be true. And Esmerelda could be right.

She could. Crazier shit has happened.

At the time of this palm and tarot card reading, I was 19 and had never been in a relationship. And at the time, I'm sure I latched on to this piece of Esmerelda's predictions as proof that I would soon be experiencing wedded bliss with whoever it was I loved deeply at that exact moment. But in the years since, every new relationship brought back this memory of the little house on Summer and the crystal ball and the psychic who said my future mate was someone I'd already met.

When I dated guys who I didn't know at 19, I wrote it off as the rantings of a crazy lady who I paid $40 to give me life advice that was on the whole, even more vague than a daily horoscope. But when I dated guys I did know at 19, that little idea took over every corner of my brain, enabling and encouraging every little aspect of my Sheer Crazy to really be all that it could be. This was particularly true when I was dating He Who Shall Not Be Named, otherwise known as Boyfriend No. 4, who I was ready to walk down the aisle with until I realized that "Mrs. Douche Hole" just didn't have a great ring to it. The two of us didn't start dating until my senior year of college, but we'd actually met my first semester at Murray State, during the two or three weeks when we both worked for the student newspaper, before he was politely asked to leave and never ever come back.

Naturally I told BN4 about Esmerelda and her prediction somewhere in the middle of discussing our hypothetical wedding and naming our hypothetical children. I wonder if he was thinking about Esmerelda while he was cheating on me. Hmm.

The thing is, that lovely clairvoyant woman has been on my mind a little bit lately. For starters, because it's been ages since I've been to a psychic and I'd love to get a reading done. When I was in college I had a good friend who read tarots and she would give me readings all the time, on anything I wanted. Of course, she lives several hours away now and Esmerelda and her psychic friends require cold hard cash to decipher your future.

But it's not just that. Remember how I went to that wedding? And I kissed that boy? The one I used to date many moons ago? Mr. BN2? Well, it didn't exactly end there.

We've been talking non-stop since then. And it's been fantastic. Invigorating. And of course Esmerelda's been all up in my brain, poking at me. Reminding me of what she said to me at 19. At 19, when the person I was over the moon, can't think, can't eat, can't sleep crazy about was -- can you guess? -- the one and only BN2.

Now, I'm not ready to make any proclamations or predictions, myself. Far from it. I'm cautiously excited but at the same time nervous and unsure. We're currently etching out some details about when we'll see each other next, and I know that when we do, the stakes will be high. He's in law school nine hours away from me at least until May, so even if things are so fantastic upon our next reunion that the world flies right off its axis, we'll be long-distance til then, if not longer. There are a lot of things to consider, to say the very least.

But at the same time, something about it feels completely right. Comfortable in the best way.

I think we'll call him Mr. Second Chance.


cheers,
elizabeth

between my wallet and new york city

In preparation for my trip to New York next week to live-blog the BlogHer 2010 conference, I have issued a moratorium on spending. And not just unnecessary spending. I am currently driving on fumes. I just ate canned spiced peaches from Thanksgiving. When I run out of coffee on Sunday, I will be drinking what's left of the Christmas blend that's been in my pantry since, well, Christmas.

Last night, in the process of mapping out my menu for the next week to make sure that I could put together a dozen or so meals with only the items inside my home right this instant, I realized that there is a disturbing correlation in my life between the city of New York and the state of abject poverty.

So this weekend, I'll be cleaning my house, reading, snacking on stale two-month-old Tostitos and various other pasttimes that do not involve opening my wallet. Jealous? You, too, can be poor. Dream big, kids.


cheers,
elizabeth

creepy old rednecks say the darndest things

Friday night at the Botanic Gardens, during the realization of a life-long dream, Al Green tore the non-existent roof off the mother and I danced so intensely and sang so loud and sweated so intensely that for two solid days I felt like I had been hit, tossed and run over repeatedly by an 18-wheeler. With a full cargo load. On an old gravel highway.

And every time I woke up from another accidental nap during that two-day recovery period, my first groggy thought was: TOTALLY. WORTH IT.

While it's become par for the course for us to make a few enemies during a Garden concert -- it's really not our fault that some people's sphincters are retracted so far inside their persons that fun is physically impossible -- this time around we made a few friends, too. A few too many friends, really.

After Al had left the stage, Stef and I were catching our breath and relaxing for a few minutes before packing up, knowing we had thousands of people to navigate to get to our cars and we might as well take our time. During this period, we were approached by no less than five people, two of whom were suspenders-sporting 60-something-year-old guys with matching beer guts.

Now, full disclosure -- I may have accidentally brought this one on myself, since I was taking a quick poll to see if anyone in the nearby vicinity knew the difference between angel dust and PCP. No reason, other than information. This is why we need smart phones, I said. No, Stef said. This is why we need to start our web site. ('Stuff White Girls Google,' the dream we've been dreaming ever since we once googled 'How do you take crystal meth?' Many of our queries are drug-related. But sometimes we want to know about gangs, too.)

Anywho. I asked them if they knew the difference between angel dust and PCP, and since I wasn't asking about the difference between Dip and Chew -- are those the same thing? -- they did not know. But they did come over to let us know that they had "enjoyed" watching us dance. Creepertown, sure. But we said thank you, and let them know that not everyone felt the same way. We mentioned the golf ball that had been thrown earlier in the evening (yes, GOLF BALL) and then reminisced on simpler times, when people just threw ice cubes.

At this point one of the guys said that ice cubes wouldn't be so bad. "You could just turn around and catch one in your bra and let it slide on down, it'd feel real good."

As we walked away, Stef grabbed my hand and said, "I think Angela from The Office said it best: 'This is not your own personal Hooters strip club.'"

Amen, Angela. Amen.


cheers,
elizabeth

the realization of a lifelong dream

Tomorrow night, I'm going to see the one and only Al Green. This may well be the closest to a religious experience I've had in a good long while.

Hallelujah, amen.


cheers,
elizabeth

the rush of remembering

I am the queen of punctuality. I am Miss Perpetually 20 Minutes Early. I am the girl who has nightmares about running late, usually involving creepy clocks all going at warp speed like a Salvador Dali painting on meth amphetamines.

So Saturday night, when I managed to walk in three minutes late to my little sister Sam's wedding, I felt certain that other than being late for my OWN wedding (which I have, in fact, dreamed about), this was basically the realization of my second greatest fear.

And honestly, WHEN does anything EVER start on time? The one time I'm not 45 minutes early, that's when.

So not only have I walked into the back of the church in the midst of the processional, I'm now deeply regretting my decision to wear a red blouse and red heels (and a red necklace and red bracelet, AWESOME) because I feel like they have merged with the red flashing arrow that's floating above my head next to the neon-lit sign that says, I'M LATE PLEASE STARE DISAPPROVINGLY.

I grabbed a seat just in time to see Sam go down the aisle. It was my first full Catholic wedding, and the service was absolutely stunning. Lengthy, sure, and at least on the bride's side of the church I think I was the only non-Catholic in the joint. After fidgeting awkwardly with my program for close to an hour, it finally came time for the Lord's Prayer. I wanted to lean in to the girl next to me and shout every single word. See! I know this part! Do you hear me? DO YOU?

After the ceremony we all headed to the social capital of Western Kentucky, the Knights of Columbus Hall. This was when I started to have just the teensiest bit of anxiety. Because while I did know a ton of people at the wedding, I didn't really know anyone. Not in that Randomly Join Your Table at a Wedding Reception kind of way.

As the line to enter the hall creeped forward, I was praying for a seating chart. PRAYING. God did not answer my request. He did make up for it, though, by reminding me that this was a Catholic affair and guiding me toward the bar.

I knew there was a possibility that there'd be one person there, though, that I did know quite well. Boyfriend Number Two. (Other than being fraternity brothers, BN2 was Brant's roommate at the time that he and Sam starting dating -- and of course, BN2 and I were together then.) Sure enough, as I'm nervously flipping through my phone in line to sign the guestbook, I see him. Three people in front of me.

We say hello and share a quick hug and after I finish signing the guest book I run into him again. At the bar. Naturally. I see my chance to nab a buddy -- having a buddy in these types of situations is just so, so necessary and this was my one and only shot -- and thankfully he obliged. We grabbed the last two chairs at a table with one of my sorority sisters, her husband and a few fraternity brothers, and instantly we're talking a mile a minute.

It was like a splash of cold water in my face. Completely refreshing. I'd missed the way we are around each other -- it's not something I've found since then in the opposite sex, even just friends. Our mutual sense of humor hadn't waned at all.

At this point I'm definitely flirting. I can't help myself. It's been three years. I'm tipsy. And he's got these glasses he's wearing that are all dork sheik and we ALL know how I feel about dorks.

Eventually he asks me to dance -- and I can't help but be tickled by it because I hadn't imagined he would want to dance, so I hadn't been as magnetized to the dance floor as I typically am -- and it's Sexual Tension Town, population two.

And I don't remember what happened exactly, or what he said to prompt it, but a while later we were chatting at the table and I just grabbed his necktie and pulled his face to mine and kissed him.

It was like kissing a pure memory. I was so infatuated with this boy for so long, so crazy about him and I don't think that any relationship I've been in since then has matched that potent combination of feelings -- of being so young, and feeling so in love and also feeling the realization of something I'd been wishing for since I was 17. And when we kissed I was there. I was 20. I was a sophomore in college. I was at Murray. I was on Hughes Street. I was wrapped up in the most delicious slice of nostalgia and memory and remembering and it was like nothing had ever changed.

With all these old faces surrounding us, all these people whose relationships we watched spark and begin those years ago as ours was faltering -- I was somewhere else. And every second of it got inside my blood and coursed through my veins and for the first time I was able to give in to memory, without feeling heartbroken that time has whisked me out of that place. And I easily could have, I know. But the ingredients were there for something else. And we danced and danced and danced (and danced), I held him close and gave in. I've been lost in remembering ever since.


cheers,
elizabeth

seriously, who farted?

There used to be this show that followed Memphis homicide detectives called "The First 48." And I would salivate at its very mention. I loved this show. It was true crime, and it was shit I recognized. Someone got shot AND one time I drove down that street!? It really doesn't get much better.

In my very favorite episode of "The First 48," two detectives are investigating a murder case involving a woman who got run over by a car. Repeatedly. They pull up to a housing project to talk to this guy, whose name was Big somebody. Big Nasty? I can't remember. All I know is he looked like Jabba the Hutt and he had a mad case of Crazy Eye.

The lady detective walks up and starts talking to him. Just chit-chat at first, the usual stuff. No mention of the crime, of any crime at all. And then she asks him where he was on Tuesday. And he says:

"I don't even OWN a car!"

Really? Really, Jabba? Naturally, the detective calmly pointed out to him that no one had said anything about any vehicle. And I think I can go ahead and cut to the end on this one, brace yourself, HE DID IT.

This line of defense that he chose -- the interjection of a seemingly random piece of information without any prompt -- is what I've recently termed a "Who Farted?" statement. And truly, there are better examples than Big Nasty Jabba, because he gave himself right away with that one. The true Who Farted usually starts with a phrase like "just so you know," and ends with a phrase that defends the person of a crime in which NO ONE has accused them, but now EVERYONE suspects them.

Hence, "Who Farted?"

It's the age-old law of He Who Smelt It, Dealt It, taken one better. If you're going on and on about something, explaining and explaining and explaining something that no one else even noticed or brought up or mentioned, you're probably guilty. I mean, we could call it Telltale Heart Syndrome, but that's way too smart and literary and "Who Farted?" just seems a lot more applicable to daily life. Oooh, do you smell that? Who did that? It's awful!

Yeah, it is awful. And you did it. So shut up.

If you write a poem about bludgeoning someone to death, I'm not going to assume you really, really want to get to bludgeoning. Unless, of course, you include a disclaimer with the publication that goes on and on and ON about how this isn't REALLY about how you want to bludgeon someone, it's a metaphor, it's a simile or an onomatopoeia and besides you've been taking pills for that anyway. I didn't think you wanted to bludgeon anyone before. But now?

Who farted?


cheers,
elizabeth

vote early and often

I'm not even going to apologize for shamelessly plugging myself, because isn't the very essence of a shameless plug the fact that it is, indeed, shameless? That I don't give a flying damn about being THAT person? That person who stands up to nominate themselves? Votes for themselves for Miss Congeniality? Toots their own horn?

Did it, done it, toot, toot, toot.

So here's the deal. The Best of Memphis issue of The Memphis Flyer highlights the very best of the city in a vast array of categories from food to shopping to getting your hair did to, you guessed it, tweets and blogs and the funsies of the internet.

All you have to do to vote for this little blog is click here and fill out your ballot. There are a ton of categories, and while I hope you'll vote in as many of them as you can, it's not required. But if you've got some time and you enjoy what you read here, why not? I'd do the same thing for you.

Well, depending on the contest. But you'd definitely be in my top three.


cheers,
elizabeth

sizing up the wares

I met a little 20-year-old boy the other day I wanted to butter up and eat on a biscuit. He was a certified, signed, sealed, delivered CPT. (On a semi-related note, when does the discussion of eating someone on a hot, fluffy biscuit go from sexual harassment to quasi-endearing? Because I feel like it's somewhere in the 60- to 70-year range. I'm not wishing time away or anything, but please trust me on this: when this behavior becomes age approps I will be taking full advantage of that license.)

Naturally I did a little light Facebook stalking to read about the CPT's life goals, his dreams, deepest inner thoughts and aspirations and also just do a quick, super-brief, just minuscule check of his relationship status. And subsequently spent a few minutes confirming that I was, in fact, better looking than his girlfriend.

I was momentarily devastated by this discovery, but not because I'd fallen instantly and rapturously in love with this kid. I'll take this opportunity to mention again -- he was 20 years old. That's a little young, even for someone with my track record. The devastation is more like the mental collapse of an internal Jenga-block tower of CRAZY.

Part of the problem is that I'm a woman. (I wanted to say "the whole problem," but again, I don't want to throw y'all under a bus like that. I don't think I'm completely alone in what I'm about to share with you, but I'll only blame 60 percent of it on my gender. Okay, okay. 50.)

The moment I meet a vaguely attractive guy, a Mouse Trap-like chain reaction of thoughts is triggered into motion. Only there's no cheese at the end, because there IS NO END, because if there were it would just be My Crazy, and that is something that cannot be contained.

Ahem. The thoughts go a little something like this: "He's cute. Is he cute? He's cute. Yeah, he's cute. We'd have cute kids. Is he marriage material? Is he married? No ring. Good hair. What if we DID get married, wouldn't this be the best how-we-met story, like, EVER? And we'd have cute kids. Yeah. I wonder if he's liberal. I wonder if he'd want to get married outside. I wonder if he'd want to live in the suburbs or stay in Midtown. I bet he'd look good in a tux. Maybe we'll get married outside. Maybe we'll serve mini-desserts. As long as one of them had peanut butter. Mmm, I could go for some peanut -- WHAT IF HE'S ALLERGIC TO PEANUTS? Couldn't I kill him just by making out with him!?"

Now. If you think THAT was crazy -- and it was, let's not kid ourselves -- wait until you hear about the conflicting train of thought that left Chicago at exactly the same time going exactly the same speed and YOU tell ME how I'm supposed to avoid a collision.

It goes something like this:

"They always say you'll meet the one when you're not looking! When you're least expecting it! But now you're thinking about the vague possibility that he could be the one! WHY ARE YOU THINKING ABOUT THIS YOU ARE RUINING EVERYTHING!"

Whew. Being a woman is effing exhausting.

And the thing is, I wish desperately that I could shut this part of my brain up. The part that hones in on every man in a 50-mile-radius and puts a target over his head until it determines whether or not he meets the minimum specs for matrimony. I wish I could just meet someone with a Y chromosome and not experience a mental running of the bulls. Because not only am I being chased by frantic, angry animals (with HORNS), I'm wearing white pants. NO ONE looks good in white pants.

But alas, my subconscious is a Jewish grandmother. YOU'RE TWENTY FIVE, DEAH. Ya nevah gonna find a nice boy in those shoes. And that hair. Quick, grab him by the legs before he runs away!

At least I know she would totally approve of eating a cute boy on a biscuit like a slice of country ham.

Well. Maybe not ham.


cheers,
elizabeth

vodka + your REM cycle

I went to a happy hour last night at South of Beale to support my friends at Mark's Menus. I'd only intended to have one drink, maybe two, then head home for dinner and a trip to the gym and some guitar practice.

Next thing I knew it was 8 p.m. and I'd had three vodka-sodas and the Vienna Boys' Choir in my head was singing "You can't HAAAAANG!"

I got home around 8:15, had a little something to eat and then laid on my couch, watching the television signal flicker in and out with the worsening storm. And then, at 8:45 p.m., without a single ounce of shame, I got in bed, read a chapter in my book and went to sleep.

I've got to be better about sticking to my two-drink-maximum-on-a-school-night rule. But I will say this -- sometime in the midst of all that incredible REM cycle, I had the most realistic dream that I was slapping someone. Right in the face. The kind of slap that would be necessary to deliver while shouting, "Get yourself TOGETHER man!"

I have no idea what pent-up aggression I had going on that might've inspired THAT little gem. And maybe it was the vodka. But I must say -- aside from that time I dreamed I was standing in my walk-in closet being hugged by 15 Abercrombie models, it was nearly the most satisfying dream EVER.


cheers,
elizabeth

the reality of mr. right

Saturday night at the Flying Saucer, Lindsey turned to me and said, "We need to go somewhere to meet guys."

Some hours later, when we both agreed we did not know where this mythical place might be, I suggested that we host our own singles night, specifically for liberal-thinking, religiously unconcerned people.

And then shortly after that we both agreed again that while this was a good idea in theory, we'd probably be the only ones there.

I've recently been bandying about the idea that maybe exactly what I'm looking for doesn't exactly exist. I'm sure that there are certain specifications of my preferred partner that I'd be willing to budge a little on as long as the rest were securely in place, but I don't really know which ones those are and I don't imagine I will know until I find the person who meets all the other ones.

I've never considered myself someone with unattainable standards when it comes to men. I think that the all-star roster of ex-boyfriends to my credit goes light years toward proving THAT point. I'll absolutely admit to having specific and sometimes stringent requirements for compatibility, and perhaps more deal breakers than most. But I figure this is the one area of my life where I really have zero, zilch, NADA interest in settling. If I know what I want, why should I accept a substitute?

Maybe because the real thing isn't out there? This is the thought that's been floating around in my head recently. And not in a Debbie Downer sort of way, trust me. I'm not moping about the house stuffing my face with Ben & Jerry's and contemplating my future as a robe-wearing spinster because Mr. Right is an anomaly. That's all very romantic and passionate, whereas the realization I've had recently falls more in the rational and realistic category. This guy I have sketched according to my Husband Blueprint just might not be out there.

I suppose right now it's a semi-moot point, since I've been announcing to anyone who will listen (which is not many people, let's be real here) that I'm not interested in dating or a relationship at LEAST until fall, preferably for the next six months. I just need to enjoy being single for a while. Because I do SO enjoy it.

But after that? I'm just not convinced that MY Mr. Right isn't just a figment of my imagination. Because let's say Lindsey and I did throw our singles party and there was a big group of single, liberal, religiously unconcerned men who are wickedly intelligent and like good music and maybe even some of them play an instrument and maybe even a handful of them have a good sense of humor, too! Those factors, while all on my necessary and semi-necessary list, don't necessarily equate to compatibility all on their own.

I have friends who have theories about soul mates and a multitude of Mr. Could-Be-Rights for each person. And then, of course, there's the subset of people (men) who would tell me I need to "lower my standards." What do you think?


cheers,
elizabeth

adulthood can be fun

There's this parking company that has garages downtown called Parking Can Be Fun. I find that parking is never fun, unless it's free, and even then I mostly wish I could've just teleported to wherever I was going, anyway.

In that way I find that Parking Can Be Fun and the title of this post, Adulthood Can Be Fun, fall into the same category. That category is called sarcasm.

Sunday morning after a late night out watching the Redbirds baseball game and drinking beer, I slept until 10 a.m. I don't know that I could, at gunpoint, recall for you the last time I slept so late. I hadn't gone to bed until close to 3 a.m., so it made sense that I'd slept in and frankly I didn't have anything going on that morning that required me to be upright before noon.

So it should've been no big deal at all, right? But based on the absolute funk I was in that morning you would've thought the junkyard cat from next door had gotten into my house in the night and pooped on my bedroom floor. I've realized that I actually dislike sleeping in.

It's not just a preference for waking up early, if I had my druthers. It is a literal and passionate DISLIKE for sleeping past about 8 a.m. It screws my whole day all up, and even though the homeless lady who drinks from my outdoor spigot is pretty good about putting my newspaper on my front porch to keep it from getting stolen, even she can't always save it and if I'm not up before 8 I can kiss it goodbye.

So yesterday morning, faced with a potentially incurable funk from my 10 a.m. wake-up time, I immediately went into action, washing dishes, cleaning my bedroom and, of course, balancing my checkbook. Finally, around 11 a.m., when I was headed out to get an iced coffee for to enjoy with my paper, I felt vaguely normal again. And it was at that moment that I fully recognized and accepted my official Early Riser status.

The night before when we'd been out at The Flying Saucer following the ball game, in the midst of a conversation about relationships a group of us ended up discussing things in terms of the housing market in an extended metaphor of foreclosures and toxic assets. We laughed and I commented that we must be adults if we're comparing dating to depreciating home values.

And while I don't think I ever would've done that five years ago, or probably even one year ago, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that 365 days ago I would've complained to no one about sleeping past 8 a.m. I would've happily snoozed until 11 if left unattended. There've been plenty of habits I've developed, preferences that have emerged in my life of late that I've jokingly referred to as my prerequisites to membership in the AARP. But this one? This one might really be it.

If you're looking for me at 7 a.m., I'll be working the crossword puzzle, drinking my coffee and contemplating how many years I have til I'm walking the mall in comfort shoes and a pink windbreaker.


cheers,
elizabeth

interpretive truth-telling

Late night. Cooper Young. The parking lot behind Cafe Ole and Young Ave. Deli. A guy stops me and Mr. November, tells us not once, not twice, but FIVE times that he is no bum and no robber, that he locked his keys in his car and his wife and child have been in a car accident in Jackson, Mississippi and please could he have a few dollars because they won't help him down at the police precinct and he needs to get back to his family.

Even if we had been moved by his story -- he managed to get choked up when talking about his family, and I felt my buttons being pushed and remembered that I am a bleeding heart and should not be left alone in these types of situations -- we honestly didn't have any cash on us, and we told him so. We apologized profusely, wished him luck and kept walking down Cooper.

But then? We heard a car door slam. And we turned around to watch the guy start up his engine, buckle his seat belt (safety first, y'all) and drive away.

I laughed all the way home. Only in Memphis.


cheers,
elizabeth

things we should've learned from watching TV

Riddle me this. What IS post-break-up etiquette? Or is that idea entirely oxymoronic?

I feel like there is a batch of accepted social knowledge that we basically learn from television. Dos and Don'ts of dating and friendship and relationships in general that form this set of universally understood principles that we all sort of learn through osmosis with pop culture. The stuff you just kind of know, that you probably picked up from Saved by the Bell or Party of Five.

A decent amount of this stuff gives us guidance in the ways of The Break-Up. And while the term "post-break-up etiquette" might be a bit strong, television has taught us that there are certain sacred areas in the post-apocalyptic world of the newly single male and female. Chief among these would be The Friends.

Depending on the nature of the post-break-up agreement -- I think there are three basic types: 1.) Mutual hatred; 2.) Mutual ambivalence; and 3.) The "Let's Be Friends" route, which is perhaps best suited for people who would like to defy the laws of reality, a category which clearly includes me -- there are a host of possible issues involving The Friends. If you were together for an extended period of time, the primary issue is who even gets to keep The Friends in the first place. Do you divvy them up, and if so, how does that work? Do you just keep the ones that were your friends first and cut off ties with the ones who belonged to the ex? Do you force them to choose sides? Or do you perhaps attempt to defy reality yet again by remaining friends with all of them?

Luckily, I've never been in a relationship so long and so invested as to require such a custody battle. But beyond who can claim ownership, there is one other very important rule about The Friends. You can't date them.

Here again, I point to some potent cocktail of teenage romantic high school sitcoms and dramas as the source of my knowledge and strict beliefs on this topic. And I don't think I'm alone here. Am I?

The not-dating-the-friends rule has always seemed to me to be the most black-and-white, cut-and-dry of the post-break-up commandments. No matter how things ended, you just don't do it. And I'll absolutely concede that where the responsibility falls in terms of policing this matter has everything to do with the conditions of the break-up. For example, if the break-up agreement is one of mutual hatred, I don't think you can really enforce these types of rules on an ex. He or she can and probably will do whatever blows their dress up when it comes to payback, revenge and other assorted cold cuts. In that case, the responsibility falls on The Friends. And clearly The Friends have been watching teenage sitcoms, too, so they are completely aware of the terms of friendship which dictate that they are to 1.) Always be on your side; 2.) Hate any and all exes immediately upon dissolution of the relationship; and 3.) Never, never, NEVER date any of said exes.

But if you're me? (Read: Crazy.) If you're trying to be "friends"? Then the responsibility (while not entirely off The Friends, of course) falls much more squarely on The Ex. Because if they'd like to meander over from the Significant Other category -- passing through The Ex category -- and land amongst The Friends? Then those rules apply to them, too.

Clearly this diatribe, much like an episode of Sesame Street: The College Years, was brought to you by a recent personal life experience. I won't get into the specifics, but I think you can probably figure this one out, gum shoe. What it's left me wondering, though, is whether I'm completely off-base about the concept of post-break-up etiquette, or even the basic social commandments that, when violated, would elicit a cringe out of just about anyone. They did what? That kind of thing. Do those commandments exist? Or am I just imagining that they do, in a Utopian 20-something society?

I want to know what you think -- are there rules? Do they matter? Or does The Break-Up mean that anything goes?


cheers,
elizabeth