The Scarlett Letters

Dear Phantom, A Letter

2012-01-26T18:53:32Z

A Link to my new project. Find it here at: http://moreofscarlettsletters.blogspot.com/

Six Months of Short Sentences

2011-06-15T18:36:45Z

I was dumped.

He said he was sorry.

I gave him another chance.

He disappeared.

He apologized. Explained. Pursued. Attempted to make amends.

I kissed him. And said goodbye.

I went on dates.

I met a guy. He’s disarmingly mature, attractive and intelligent.

We go away for long weekends.

We spend time with friends.

I keep a toothbrush at his house.

He talks to me and not at me.

He likes my cats.

He tells me what he’s thinking.

He asks about my day.

He asks me to dance.

He sees me.

I turn 31 next week. And I’m happy.

Frankly,

Letter from my Father [Part 2]

2011-01-12T17:21:00Z

I received the below email from my father last week following the aforementioned break up. It made me think.

While somewhat hard to hear, I thought it was worth considerable reflection and I wanted to post it here, lest it fade into archived obscurity within the bottomless hole that is currently my gmail in-box.

Frankly, after your wonderful comments on the last bit of fatherly advice, I just couldn't resist the urge to share this honest and heartfelt bit of paternal correspondence.

Scarlett:

It's late and I'm worried about you getting home, so I thought I'd "scratch off a few lines", as they used to say.

Sorry about your last minute email from [The Chef], but that in itself was revealing enough to know it was for the best. In that context, I offer these thoughts for whatever they are worth.

Women like you, Scarlett (transparently needful of romantic love), are particularly at risk I think, because there are two ways most men will respond: (1) with reciprocal endearment and love or (2) as an invitation to exploitation. It's just the way men are. And, sadly, there are far more of the latter than the former. Therefore, I think that you should try to be a little more guarded in your interactions with, and reactions to, men. You have so much to offer the right man, but you cannot sell it too cheaply or offer it too readily. There is an old saying I heard a long time ago and never forgot: that people tend to disdain what is thrown at them. And that is all too true. Moreover, by being too eager you sell yourself short. The descriptions you have given me of your recent interactions did not convey much respect on his part, nor self-assuredness on yours. I guess my sense is (and I don't mean to sound cliched) that you need to take ownership of your own 'personhood', for lack of a better word, in such a way as to demand that requisite respect before offering love--not after. Real respect and love are mutually reinforcing and mutually sustaining.

You have been through so much for one so young, but you must resist the temptation to think of yourself as a victim. Down that road lies immense vulnerability, not to mention cynicism. You are in need of neither one just now. You must take stock of your incredible assets and value them commensurately. The question in your mind should always be whether or not a man measures up to your (preferably astronomical) specifications, not whether you measure up to his. Meanwhile, concentrate on the requisite self-improvement we all seek.

I'm not so old that I don't understand the need for intimacy with someone, honey. But this lurching from "candidate to candidate" in this fashion can't be good for you can it? I mean you are so much more than that. The mental toll, for one thing, must be considerable. And disappointment and despair tend to reinforce each other in a cyclic, toxic emotional cocktail. You really need to rethink your perspective, Scarlett, along with your own self regard, in order to concoct an antidote for it. And if you do, I think you'll find that the more you redirect that energy and emotional commitment toward self-improvement and self-fulfillment, the sooner fate will take a hand with the romance. I'm certain of it.

I actually wrote this several days ago but wanted to wait until after New Years eve to send it.

Our trip home to the 'Promised Land' [Texas] (that really ticks Mom off when I say it) was very enjoyable and uneventful.

Love you.

My Greatest Fans

2010-12-14T16:01:00Z

Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair.

After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice.

Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment uttered by one of his children, or deflected by "I don't want to talk about it" protestations, he finally wore me down.

I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned a general vexation with dating, men, and relationships. I expressed states of both emotional exhaustion, mental frustration and I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system at one point. Not my finest hour, I'll grant you but moving on.

The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration

Hi Sweets. Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low. Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid. I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett. Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly.

If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize. But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones.

It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White. Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire. But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not. And you need to be prepared for either contingency. And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose.

My advise is simply to not allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good.

I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene. Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy. Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages. Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation. Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision. All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals. That's my take, for what it's worth.

I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially. But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are. We are your greatest fans.

Love,

Papa

Brick Walls & Picket Lines

2010-11-12T15:40:00Z

I tend to see the world through an Ansel Adams photographic lens, that is to say, “black and white”. While I keep attempting to inject a wider spectrum of gray into my two toned, “right vs. wrong”, “love vs. hate” world, it’s been consistent uphill struggle.

I believe boundaries to be an important part of life. Comfort zones. Deal breakers. The disclosure of privileged information. Whether they indicate the point at which a relationship reaches the end of its emotional tether or simply the line that, once crossed, lands you swiftly in an Iranian jail and resulting in years of imprisonment followed by equally scary Lisa Ling interviews upon release – boundaries, if not clearly marked, can be precarious places.

My therapist likened healthy emotional boundaries to the idyllic image of a house surrounded by a manicured lawn and bounded one each side by a picket fence. The fence is a clearly defined, yet semi permeable structure erected to keep undesirables at bay (i.e. negative pressures, cognitive trespassers, basically the in-laws of the emotional community); while still allowing for the option of admittance of positive emotions, constructive monologues and affirmative influences, (i.e. the puppies and kittens or free range hens romping about our mental yard).

After describing this Zen-like state of mental health to which she recommended I strive, she took a deep breath. Scarlett, at present your “house” is surrounded on the north, south and west by a 10 foot high brick wall, laced with barb wire. The east side, however, not only is void a wall, but any clear demarcation of property whatsoever. Moreover, you have posted a neon, blinking, “open-house” sign out front exposing the lawn to many an unwelcome trampler.

That is to say, either you go to inexorable lengths to keep people out, or you lay out the red carpet all too quickly, consequences be damned. A situation very much in need of modification.

I took issue with this image for a number of reasons not least of which being the necessity for an immediate change of setting from a suburban, “Leave It To Beaver” avec picket fence to one of a urban penthouse condo with a 24 door man. But that’s besides the point.

Whether we’re talking about 24-hour door men and alarm systems or brick walls and picket fences, both images denote unhealthy extremes, the hallmark of a black & white worldview. Either I’m walled up like Fort Knox, or I am constructing an emotional superhighway for which I have not even thought to charge a toll. More often than not I frantically switch between the two exhausting both myself and those around me.

All this to say, I met someone. He’s kind of great. I like him. Comfort zones have been pushed. Boundary lines obscured. Needless to say, I’m more than a little bit freaked out and those brick walls with their height and strength and ability to obscure look mighty appealing in the face of vulnerability. And so up and down I go in on the "he loves me, he loves me not", "I'm safe, I'm going to get hurt." yo yo.

Its painfully elusive, this emotional balance. Can a boundary line be redrawn once crossed? Do I permit him to wander unchecked about upon my emotional real estate? Do I change the locks just in case?

Or do I stand here and first let my eyes adjust to the newly emerging shades of gray?

Frankly,

Kindred Spirits (Part One)

2010-10-14T19:04:58Z

"I wonder what Piglet is doing" thought Pooh. "I wish I were there so I could be doing it too." ~ A. A. Milne

I was told that I blog too much about sex, relationships, soulmates, not having sex, dating, bitching about how I’m not having sex, or social commentary relating to any and/or all of the above subjects. But as Carrie Bradshaw and her cohorts so wisely taught us - sometimes your soul mates really can be your friends. This past year that very concept has rung true more than ever.

I met my best childhood friend on the swing-set outside of the red brick pre-school building on my first day of formal education. I sat there swinging next to her, gauging the height and overall swinging prowess and sizing it up against my own. She must have passed muster for I immediately jumped off the swing, ribbon adorned pigtails floating behind me, turned around and said “will you be my friend?”. The rest is history.

I met my best adult friend on a park bench bordering the National Mall while taking a break from our kickball game one hot August afternoon. She likes to say I was “sizing her up” (Apparently an MO of sorts before determining someone to be befriendable). A week or two later, our relationship blossomed over a night of crab dip, a chain-smoked pack of Marlborough lights and more than one bottle of Pinot Noir.* The friendship was sealed over the impulse purchase of airline tickets that would take us on a New Year’s adventure through Paris, Amsterdam and ringing in 2010 surrounded by kilts, whiskey and Scottish brogues in Edinburgh. .

I don’t know what she saw in me initially - but I saw in her a social, sarcastic, intelligent, independent woman adjectives I would eventually discover to be horrifyingly inadequate.

Its been quite the year for both of us. For me, its been a year of rebuilding, self discovery and above all, friendship. For her its been a year spent regaining her voice, making tough choices and landing on her feet.

I’ve held her hand during a nerve wracking medical procedure, she held my hand while I got a tattoo. She wheeled my crippled ass through Charles De Gaul airport and enjoyed the advantages afforded too a handicapped individual and their escorts. We’ve danced at rock concerts, shared the most honest opinions and the snarkiest of comments, hugged after romantic disappointment, yelled over misunderstandings, cried at movies, hashed and then rehashed the absurdities of life, scoffed at the impossible and consumed more mimosas and filthy martinis than I dare count.

A friend knows everything about you and loves. you. anyway. She loves me in spite of my aversion to traveling to her local venues in Old Town, my chronic lateness, the painfully slow pace at which I read books, my incessant need to fill a silence, my routine deletion of at least 75% of the pictures she takes of me, my ability to completely demolish a hotel room within 5 minutes of check-in, my thoughtlessness, my big mouth, my love of the outdoors & camping, my tendency to over-share, my horrific singing voice on road trips and my obsession with all things Harry Potter.

She’s a musician. She’s a teacher. She’s a student. She’s dedicated and fiercely loyal to her friends. She keeps secrets. She calls it like she sees it. She doesn’t smile until the P.M. hours. She’s known both abuse and loss and has come out stronger on the other side. She knows when to walk away. She has performed her original music at the legendary CBGBs. She loves horror movies but hates being scared. She’s up for anything as long as it doesn’t involve sleeping in the great out of doors. “Drinks? yes!” “Oysterfest, sure!” “Edinburgh via Amsterdam & Paris - why not!?” She’s, in equal measure, a lover of Opera and Ani Difranco. She’s unapologetic. She may take time to warm up to you but you’ll find that time well spent. She has a temper to rival that of any redhead. She has a guitar shaped tattoo on her shoulder. She hates eggs. She refuses to waste her time on people who “aren’t worth it”. She has an uncanny radar to detect the insincere, the hypocritical and the duplicitous and summarily shuns all such offenders. She prefers Converse All Stars to Vans. She has no idea how beautiful she is on both the inside and out.

She’s my Bestie and for that I am grateful.

Frankly,

*That was the last time either one of us smoked.

Landscape Architecture

2010-10-08T22:00:36Z

I’ve never been one for jigsaw puzzles. My mother can’t get enough of them and will stare at microscopic pieces for hours, days, in fact, until she manages inexplicably to find the order amidst chaos.

I’m not a visual person. I don’t work well within the confines of compartmentalized thought. Edge pieces, blue pieces, round, square, etc. I'd much prefer to admire a finished work of art and drill down into its individual, interesting elements of texture, style, medium rather than working from the ground up.

My very right brained style of thinking is rather limiting in that sense - needing to be sure of the forest before taking notice of the role of the individual trees, leaves and branches. I like the big picture.

So it is with life. I like to make the pieces fit neatly together to form a seamless mosaic of complementary tiles, structured form and interesting texture.

However, I'm finding it to be increasingly true that there are moments painted within the overarching canvas of life which don't quite fit in with the whole creating a jarring effect akin perhaps to embroidering Van Gogh's "Starry Night" upon the narrative of the Bayeux Tapestry* in place of Haley's Comet. Such an insertion would, if not alter the overall narrative, certainly change the setting so abrupt would be the effect.

So it is with the impact one might experience upon and unexpected and intentioned meeting. An unexpected connection felt for someone with whom you might never pictured yourself and were completely prepared to dismiss as nothing more than a passing flirtation. And even thought you don't quite yet know what to make of this ill fitting piece of the puzzle, you find it makes you feel alive intellectually and physically in a ways you'd forgotten.

And when that happens, suddenly none of the pieces fit because you find the landscape to be fundamentally altered.

Frankly,

*For those of you who snoozed your way through medieval history class, the Bayeux Tapestry is an embroidered cloth (dating roughly around 1077) depicting the events prior to and concurrent with the Norman conquest of England.

Start Spreadin’ the News

2010-10-01T16:40:00Z

A couple Magners pints past too many, a friend and I were debating the merits of making the first move vs. letting the guy “come to us.” Me: Of that school which believes one should pursue their desires. She: a proponent of treading the waters of passivity waiting to see what the current brings her. At one point, obviously frustrated with my immutability, she ultimately replied “what do you know anyway? You don’t have a boyfriend. You don’t have a perfect relationship. Why are you in a position to even GIVE dating advice? Why the hell should I listen to you?!”

I confess to be initially caught of guard by her arguably harsh rebuttal, however, it sparked a train of thought from which I could not derail. What do I, and for that matter, what do ANY of us truly know about dating and relationships? Clearly I am not the expert (and for the record have never professed any such distinction) clearly since my longest and most devoted relationships with men have failed to extend beyond the confines of the turning page (ala Fitzwilliam Darcy and Jaime Frasier).

Sure, I've been in the trenches, knocked a few first dates out of the park, entered the perilous combat zones of match.com and eHarmony miraculously escaping with both my heart and dignity in tact. Yet, what have I or anyone else who can trade similar war stories, really learned?

Much like the ancient Greeks that went before, we singles and coupleds alike desperately and relentlessly seek answers to help us better understand the mysteries of the universe. Pythagoras spent his life in search of a²+b²=c². We seek an equally important equation namely, how can 2 people = a happily ever after?

Some have concocted personal formulas on which they base their own version of love geometry all in an attempt to make the pieces fit. Par example: “he’s just not that into you”; “men are from Mars, women are from Venus”; “The Rules” or my personal favorite, “men love bitches.”

Like all earnest truth seekers we plug in the variables, test the theories and yet the formulae never quite add up. Following such romantic theorems how could one possibly go wrong!? The answer: all too easily.

Yet we continue on, undeterred, if slightly bruised, through the trenches of romantic warfare onto the next equation trying to solve for that elusive “x factor.”

It is in that hopeful spirit that the equation can, in fact, be solved that I am asking you, my readers, do YOU have the answer? Can you whisper the secret to a happily ever after in my ear? In short, what insight do you have to share, what advice do you have to give on the the subjects of dating or relationships?

I know that good advice, much like good champagne, don’t come cheap (at least not according to my most recent therapy bill) but apparently, I need it! Therefore I will give 2 off Broadway Tickets for the most sensible, shrewed, clever advice I receive over the next 12 days. The winner will get to spend an evening with NYC’s newest dating guru at “Miss Abigail’s Guide to Dating, Mating & Marriage,” now playing at Sofia’s Downstairs Theater, 221 W. 46th St., NY, NY.

The comedy centers around the story of Miss Abigail, the most sought-after relationship expert to the stars (think Dr. Ruth meets Emily Post), and her sexy sidekick Paco, as they travel the world teaching Miss Abigail’s "how-to's" on dating, mating and marriage! (contest rules and details below).

I’ll announce the winner on October 13th so put your thinking cap on and show me what you’ve got!

Frankly, you might even learn a thing or two yourself!

MY RULES

1. All submissions should be sent via the Comments, Contact Form OR Tweet it to ScarlettL with the hashtag #ScarlettChallenge.

2. Deadline: All submissions must be received y 11:59 p.m. on Monday, October 11th to participate.

3. Multiple Entries Accepted. Are you a smarty pants? Been in the trenches and have war stories and sage wisdom just dying to be released? No problem! Throw all of your wisdom at me! I can take it, I promise!

4. The winner will be announced on Wednesday, October 13, 2010.

5. The tickets may be used for the following performances: Wednesdays at 2PM, Thursdays at 8PM, Fridays at 8PM, Saturdays at 2PM & 5PM and Sundays at 3PM and 7:30PM.

6. The tickets are valid thru November 28, 2010. This date cannot be extended.

Good luck and I can’t WAIT to see what you come up with!

Break Up Letter

2010-09-20T18:27:00Z

Dear eHarmony:

We need to talk.

I’m not ready for a commitment of this magnitude.

Six months ago, not entirely certain of the degree to which I was ready to submerge myself once again into the DC dating pool, I timidly dipped my toes back into the pond to test the waters. The time and consideration with which you professed to offer a “deep and more meaningful” online dating experience, seemed the best way to better ease myself back into the life of a single Washingtonian. Unsure of my readiness for significant emotional involvement, I thought it best to, at the very least, stretch my dating legs lest all romantic muscles become atrophied with disuse.

I want to see other people.

You have set me up with not one, but THREE ex boyfriends. Well done, swifty. Well done. While this detour down “Poor Decision Lane” followed by jaunt along “Regret Blvd” was diverting, I could have had a V8.

Add to this your consistent and seemingly unrelenting parade of men who reach an average and unimpressive vertical limit at 5’9. This stature, or lack thereof, leaves them at an inconvenient eye level with my rather substantial bust line. Standing at 5’10 in my shortest pair of heels, any way you solve this equation is sure to equal distracted disaster.

I need some space.

You attract immature ~~men~~ boys who throw hissy fits and pouting tantrums worthy of a 2 year old deprived of his [insert popular toddler toy] on my front doorstep when I fail to invite them in at the end of an evening. My neighbors thank you for the entertaining spectacle, but I am not amused.

I’m not saying its you…but its DEFINITELY not me.

You’ve served as a beacon to boys apparently still residing if not physically, then definitely mentally, in the frat house. In what universe did you think that the way to win this Irish girl’s heart is to pound back Guinness after Guiness until you're about as articulate as Obama without his teleprompter. In fact I can concoct no rational scenario in which I should worry about the means by which my date will get home safely.

Please note, if a man is drinking in an attempt to get to girl drunk and trying to take advantage of her, he better make damned sure that he'll be able to drink her under the table without breaking a sweat. A drunk man is physically useless and frankly, nothing sobers me up faster or turns me off more than I man who is more intoxicated than I. Call me crazy but I like my men IN control as opposed to slurring and staggering.

In addition, spare me the “I’m too drunk to drive, can I stay at your place until I sober up”, sob story. I'm not unsympathetic, I promise. In fact, I have two very helpful suggestions for you. Option #1: “grab a cab." Connecticut Avenue is one block that-a-way. Make like an urbanite, stick out your arm and hope for the best. Option #2: I’ll be happy to point you in the direction of the Starbucks around the corner where you can caffeinate your way back to sober.

I need to concentrate on ME.

Let’s face it, doll, I don’t think we’re compatible. I'm sure am partly to blame. After all, It takes two to tango. I have been described as too sassy, too outspoken, too sarcastic, too cynical – many qualities which might turn off a romantic suitor.

However, I just feel that at this point in my life, I’d rather take the $29.95 I’m throwing at you every month to be fixed up with the aforementioned, sulky, vertically challenged, future AA leaders of the greater DC metropolitan area and shove it at a new pair of suede, Kelsi Dagger over-the-knee boots.

Perhaps I’ll turn to your bastard fraternity brother, Match.com for other options? Perhaps we’ll meet again someday? Perhaps fate will intervene and drop Russell Crowe on the pub stool opposite me? Who knows?

I think we’re better off being friends.

Frankly,