In my last blog, I wrote about the splendors of holiday hookups. (If you haven’t read it yet, get on it!) Now that most of us have exhausted the extent of our winter break hook-ups, I thought I’d take a second look at this most treasured of holiday traditions. As it turns out, there are a few things that actually can go wrong…

The Parent Thing: Even though we’ve moved out, most of us hate the thought of our parents knowing anything about our sex lives. This proves to be a huge problem when you’re actually hooking up under their roof. Nothing makes you feel like you’re back in high school more than tip-toeing through your house with a guy in tow. If you stay at his house, on the other hand, you run the risk of being discovered by his Mom and becoming “that slut” that’s sleeping with her baby.

The Small Town Thing: No matter how big of a city you live in, you can’t deny that we live in a very, very small world. And nothing proves that more true than a hometown hookup rumor spreading like a wildfire. I swear, once one person finds out and spills the beans, it’s all over. You can bet by the end of the week anybody and everybody, from his Mom to your 8th grade woodshop teacher, will know of your little rendezvous(s). Or, if you’re like me and accidentally leave a hickey on his neck, you don’t even need anybody to say anything for the entire world to know. My bad. Read More »

Today, while sitting in the salon in my hometown and having the prerequisite hairdresser chit chat with the guy who’s been doing my hair since high school, the old “so, you got a boyfriend?” question came up.

These days, I don’t even try to stop my chuckle when I answer, “nope”.

We talked a little about why my river has run so dry for so long, and as he ran his scissors through my bangs, my hometown hairdresser goes “well, it’s probably because you’re a real person.”

This is not the first time I’ve been called real. And it’s not the first time this “realness” has been connected to me being single.

What are we to surmise from this?

Does being real immediately put me in some kind of realness cage? A desolate place where people who can’t be anything other than themselves are gawked at by the rest of the fake society? Is being real like having some kind of horrible birthmark on my face — something that frightens potential suitors away with its blatant obviousness? Are we real people like the cyclops kitten; so weird no one wants to get too close but can’t exactly look away? Read More »