All I have to say today is that if a man can cheat on Christie-fucking-Brinkley, is there any hope of fidelity for the mere mortals?

All morning, chattering on endlessly on Fox News, CNN, MSNBC – relationship and sex “experts” called upon to analyze and explain to the rest of us, who may mistakenly “blame” the man for cheating, that its biological and not really the man’s fault. This is important information as the tendency to point manicured, judgmental fingers and assign fault to the philandering husband is certainly basic and strong.

[Side note: How does one actually BECOME a sex or relationship “expert”? I don’t remember Relationships101 on the course roster at any academic institution I have ever frequented. Sex 101 could be found on any given Saturday night at the Sigma Chi house, but that’s about it. Personally, I think anyone who has lived and dated in the nation’s capitol for a year or more has earned at least an Associates if not an honorary BA in sex if not  relationships. It is my contention that to avoid the socially stigmatic label of “whore”, these women have just slapped the term “expert” on a business card in a swirly, pink embossed font and Voila! She’s ready to wax philosophical on all things romantic.].

As I was saying, these so called “experts” have offered some fabulous, non-judgey insights into the male psyche. More specifically, into the phenomena that the concept of monogamy acts as Teflon for men (i.e. never sticking).

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Q: Why do older men feel they can’t keep it in their pants when the opportunity to sleep with teenagers presents itself?

“Expert”: This behavior satisfies their biological need to feel young.

Scarlett: Because they don’t care about anyone but themselves. They don’t care about any marriage vows or commitments they made to their wives and the certainly don’t give a damn about using young women for sex. If he needs to feel younger, get some Botox and be done with it!!

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Q: Why do teenagers or “younger” women want older men?

 “Expert”: The teenagers are looking to find the love and affection they never received from their fathers.

Scarlett: Because they are in the throws of an eating disorder, have low self esteem, or are still bitter because they didn’t make head cheerleader last year. Add to that epidemic to stupidity and there’s your answer.

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Q: Why do men cheat?

“Expert”: Affairs offer these men a means of escaping from the everyday stress of marriage, commitment, children, etc.

Scarlett: Well boo fucking hoo and cry me a river the size of an Iowa flood. It’s called being a adult. If you need an “escape” from life, go to Vegas, watch some strippers, relax. Don’t sleep with you nineteen year old receptionist!

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Is it not possible to call someone a scumbag anymore on national television? Is it taboo to say simply – “bottom line: you’re a miserable human being”?  Where are the Simon Cowell’s of the relationship “expert” community who have the balls to stand up and say the romantic equivalent of “You suck. You’re not going to Hollywood. Don’t let the doorknob smack you in the ass on your way out of the audition room!”

Sigh. Hang in there, Christie. Listen to some Carrie Underwood and feel better!

Frankly,

Is it just me, or does everyone have that wonderful age in mind? That magical age, perhaps completely arbitrary, at which you think your life will come together, that by this age you’ll be mature enough or make enough money, or achieve enough zen-like self awareness to make greater sense of the world around you.

27 was supposed to be that year for me.

Don’t ask me why, perhaps it seemed the perfect distance from 21 while sufficiently at arms length from 30. Maybe because it was the age at which my mother tied the knot. Or it could be that I inexplicably prefer odd numbers to even. Who knows??

But 27, I must say – you let me down. You did not live up to your promise or your hype. Some may say that perhaps I had you on a pedestal, and it’s my own fault for attempting to hold you to such high expectations. But no. In my opinion, you didn’t even try. Let’s review your academic record, shall we?

You left me with not just a broken, but a shattered heart; you made me go crazy waiting for a security clearance, fearing unemployment; you gave me the perfect boyfriend but left us with no future; you got me mugged; and in the waning days of your administration you threw my back out, sending me to the emergency room via ambulance, literally paralyzed with pain leaving me bed ridden for the last four days.

Frankly, you flunked. You are the chronological equivalent of a juvenile delinquent. And so, to help you reach your full potential I’m holding you back.

I’m sticking. Today I celebrate my 27^th birthday part deux. And it has already turned into a beautiful day. Perhaps it’s the muscle relaxers and vicodine talking, but I know it’s going to be a GREAT year. I’m not another year older, but certainly another year wiser.

This newer, shiner version of my age has already found me waking up beside a hot man, the  gorgeous Tiffany’s watch he had given me the day before still glittering on my wrist.  My family  and friends calling to serenade me with wonderfully off key renditions of birthday songs. Breakfast in bed and then off to a wonderful new job.

Sigh. I do believe this 27 will undoubtedly trump its predecessor and I’m looking forward to enjoying the year to come.

Frankly,

So it took me awhile. It doesn’t mean anything. I love them just as much as everyone who went to see them on May 30! I’ve just been busy! But its OK. This weekend, I made time. And in true SATC fashion, the celebration of the rebirth of our beloved Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha began with brunch.

I’m usually a fan of the Clyde’s brunch – and ALWAYS a fan of time with TravelGirl, my chick-cinema brunch buddy. I ordered a mimosa, on the supposition that it would be a fun alternative to my staple Belvedere Bloody Mary. But when my pre-noon alcohol fix arrived, I couldn’t help but notice that it was delivered sans “O”.

TravelGirl chuckled at what could only now be described as a mim-sa, otherwise known as Champaign without so much as an orange slice floating among the bubbles or a wedge citrus perched on the side of the glass.  Sigh. There goes my Vitamin C intake for the week!

I laughed and sarcastically expressed my appreciation to the waiter for the apparent dedication of the Clyde’s management team to the successful mid-morning intoxication of their patrons. The poor boy smiled obliviously, the dry humor evidently escaping his notice. An exchange to which TG so astutely pointed out an obvious explanation: “Um – I don’t think he knows that a mimosa is supposed to have orange juice in it” – and true to form, she was absolutely right. I laughed it off and we proceeded to the movie after my uncharacteristically sub-par meal.

Once the light went down in the theatre TG popped one of the two (I shit you not) contraband bottles of Champaign we smuggled individually into the theatre. TG, ever the fabulous friend, supplied the travel friendly plastic wine glasses which came in handy for the several toasts we made throughout the duration of the film.

The movie was utterly wonderful. I laughed. I cried. I cried. I laughed. I cried. Maybe it was the Champaign. Maybe it was the joy of witnessing the reunion of familiar characters. Or perhaps the degree to which I related to the story line. In any event I found myself tearing up twice throughout the film and one particular instance of what could only be described as sobbing leaving MAC mascara to forge a river unceremoniously down my cheeks.

The punchy dialogue, the poignant narration, the brilliant story line. I didn’t quite realize how much I missed them until Saturday.  The same sentiment could also be said of TravelGirl. If you haven’t seen the movie yet, please run to see it – and please take one of your most stylish, sarcastic, fabulous single friends to enjoy it with you.

But while you watch it, allow yourself to be inspired and infused with the rediscovered knowledge that Love can be real; hearts have the eventual ability to mend; hope is a renewable energy; and safety does, indeed come in numbers.

So here is the literary equivalent of a Champaign “pop” and toast for my girls: my rocks and truly, my family. To those of you that read this blog and those that catch up on life over dirty martinis and pints of beer. Thank you. For all you do for me every day. All the hugs, the emails, the smiles, the memories, the encouragement, the shoulders that bear my mascara stains (I really need to start investing in the water-proof variety), the ears the listen and the hearts that forgive. You are ALL the Charlotte’s, Miranda’s and Samantha’s to my inner Carrie.

And even though we all spend the majority of our time looking for that “big love” this movie reminds you to stop, look around and try to appreciate the forever love you receive day by day.

Frankly,

Though its well into the month, I feel compelled to say – June (le sigh) . You’re everything I hoped you’d be. I’m so glad you’re here. Please stay forever.

A New Kind of Vacation: June is and was supposed to be the month where GOOD things happen. For me it started with vacation: a whole week of relaxation. But not a mere vacation, oh no – most vacations don’t allow you to fully relax or to exhale due to the thoughts of what might be happening at the office in your absence, the proverbial fires which will be singing your heels upon your return. But not this vacation – and therein lies the beauty of my weeklong courtship with unemployment.

A New Job: which I’m slowly but surely easing into. The federal government with its security badges, bureaucracy, and labyrinth-esque corridors is certainly an intimidating and confusing place to say the least. But I’ve already met some amazing people and I feel as though I will definitely be challenged by the work, and working for causes in which I sincerely believe.

A New Birthday: I’ll go into greater detail regarding this personally auspicious occasion later, perhaps tomorrow (I know – the mind reels at the possibility of three posts in one week!). But it is coming – and it WILL be fabulous.

A New Start: Finally, “they” say it takes half the time you dated someone to get over them. And by that calendar, by July all thoughts of what’s his name will have completely eroded from my mind. All resentment, anger and residual inexplicable emotional attachment will have past its expiration date.

It’s a good month.

Frankly,

I know many of you took my last post to be a fond farewell to these pages. Silly readers, I’m simply back from the land of hopelessly slow dial-up internet connections and negligible cell phone reception, otherwise known as my vacation.

I ultimately didn’t have to catch 2 planes, travel however many hundreds of miles and brave the infamous security implantations deemed necessary by the revered Department of Homeland Security in order to indulge in a significant amount of personal reflection. I can internally analyze and obsess ad nauseam just as well in Washington, DC as I can at the family lake house I suppose.

But it was the wolverine state I picked as the chosen locale for my attempted rejuvenation and relaxation. And it was the wolverine state in which I found a rather quieter inner monologue. It’s truly amazing.

Thoughts seem thoroughly digestible, truths seem more self-evident and life seems to travel on a more unencumbered road when the daily cranial pressure of worry, stress, and routine is eased and contemplation is given the space to roam freely. The constant meeting Lake Michigan’s waves to her shores introduce a certain peace and a sense of timelessness to those entrenched on her sand and thus, the need for self-analysis, fixation, and cerebral obsession seemed almost non-existent.

Free of the urban congestion and fighting throngs of strangers on mass transit systems, I traded my SmartTrip card in for a chair turned flotation device drifting on the wind directed current. Lounging in a swimming pool equipped with cup holders for margarita glasses on a beautiful June Monday morning at 11:00 a.m. when one is normally and reluctantly at one’s place of employment.

I traded in the cracked sidewalks of Dupont Circle in for backcountry roads I could drive blindfolded. And I exchanged the din of tourists, political pundits on never ending news cycles and coffeehouse chatter for the chirping of crickets, the crunch of the dirt road under my running shoes and the high pitched giggles of my cherubic nieces.

It was indeed a rejuvenation and a reminder of places born into me. Helping me to reconcile, though never allowing me to completely irradiate past wrongs and regrets but hopefully fortifying me for a stronger future.

Today is the first day of my new job (deep calming breath). Needless to say I’m slightly terrified, feeling akin to a newly minted high school freshman wondering if she’ll be accepted at the “cool kids” table at lunchtime.

Wish me luck!

Frankly,