He ate her food.

Ladies and dues with boyfriends who do not co-habitate, does this sound familiar to you?

You have made dinner. With minimal help from a boy, who's flopped on the couch catching up on whatever brand of Law & Order is on. Generally, he's stretched out as far as he can be on the sofa, a hand is on the belly and shoes are off. If he helped cook noodles, have a gold star handy, you'll need it.

This is fine. You like cooking. It's relaxing. You also know you are a better cook than your boyfriend, purely because of the training your mother gave you. Maybe because she liked it, or maybe because she was used to it.

You eat the delicious fruits of your labor: sometimes something that braised for 3 hours on the stove, sometimes something that popped fresh from the toaster oven onto a plate.

And yet you get stuck with the dishes.

Perhaps you, like me, inhabit that gray area-- where this is my house, and this isn't his house. I can't expect him to be as interested as dusting as I am, but on the other hand he spends a lot of time here. I'd like to not feel like he may start expecting turn-down service when he is around. I'm not wearing an apron, after all. Not even with a touch of irony.

A friend of mine has perhaps, the most illustrious experience.

Mine is known as the "get me water" fight. I'm sure you can see where that went. Let's just make it fair to say I was not headed for the kitchen.

My friend? Her boyfriend ate her food.

Hurriedly preparing for a fun night out, she had nuked a turkey burger to inhale before a few drinks with friends. This friend of mine has effortless composure, even after a few whiskeys. She's bad-ass. It must be the burgers! Her boyfriend arrived as it was freshly plated.

She turned around after greeting him, and found him mid-bite. In her dinner. In their rush. Because he was hungry. So hungry, in fact, that he didn't have the time to ask if he could forage for a snack. He just saw food on the table, and assumed he had full access to it.

This fight generally happens in the gray area of "we have been dating for a while and you are around, but you aren't living here, so you are a guest (?)". And guests get glasses of water handed to them when they ask. And plates of food set out are often for them.

But this dude isn't a guest, he's a part of your life. And when a part of your life puts you into a box without consideration, but in part because you let him-- the line of politeness and caring constantly shifts. You want to do nice things for him, but you don't want to be walked all over. Likewise, he gets used to being too comfortable in his divet in the couch and then when you pitch a fit, he's surprised. He had no idea, that in that moment, of his hands on his belly, or wrapped around your dinner, that he is not a guest. Nor are you the harried hostess who has a dinner party 3 - 4 nights a week with no dishwasher. And a monthly grocery bill that is triple his.

People aren't moving from their parents' house right onto marriage. People don't blindly accept that because I'm a lady I take care of the inside of the house, and a boy would take care of the outside. Because I rent an apartment, and I call shenanigans on whomever takes care of our front lawn (man or woman) because it needs HELP.

I'm already a multi-tasker, and I don't have children! I can put laundry in, clean the bathroom, update my Facebook profile, and make dinner all at once. FOR ME. FOR MY HOUSEHOLD OF ONE. I've lived alone for well over a year and I like things how I like them.

This brings me to the other issue: living alone has made me particular. Also my genes, but that was sort of undeniable anyway. I used to not get it when I "did the dishes wrong" as a child, but now I totally see it as clear as day. You're a fool to wash the pots first, and there's no argument you can make to change my mind. And that's an uphill battle with my own neuroses that I battle every day. The reality of it is that I can't imagine sharing an apartment, chores or DVR space with a boy. There's barely enough room for all the Top Model reruns and hit movies of the 90's in mine.

But that's what a relationship is: choosing your battles. Building a partnership requires give and take, but if both of you are carrying your relationship around in tandem, and one of you is constantly the one walking backwards, you start to resent his view of the future. Of course it looks awesome.

Because all you see is a trail of socks and shoes from your front door. And a collection of dirty glasses on the coffee table in your dishwasher-less apartment. But he sees a great gig with a girl who's funny but sometimes inexplicably furious. Suddenly, the boy who once "broke all the rules of dating" to take you out two nights in a row is completely unable to stand up and hydrate himself. Or if you're my friend, the boy who whispered sweet nothings in your ear in a language you don't speak had blatant disregard your schedule, and above all, your hunger.

So how do you fix them? How do you undo years of their mommies mommy-ing them and then even the years of your desire to be nice to them and do it the only nurturing way you know how? More mommy-ing? Greater interest in sports? More beer chugging like one of the guys? How can you show your appreciation without sacrificing your self respect so that when it comes to making big decisions you don't let your resentment speak for your heart?

Because hearts generally are better leaders, and often lead you to the good sense to have a dishwasher. And boys, take note-- they are necessary.

Going hard

I like to pretend I'm a bad ass. See my blogger profile photo. Ooohhh tie and vest and short hair. SEE HER REBEL. BOY DOES SHE HAVE SOMETHING TO PROVE. I have a motorcycle jacket. Chuck Taylors. A belt chain. A wide array of footless tights. An ipod-induced commuting sneer.

But really, I couldn't be squishier inside. It's a bad holdover from high school.

Shhhhh, don't tell. I sleep with a stuffed panda. That my boyfriend gave me. And I knit things for babies, and cry at work, and TiVo Extreme Home Makeover. Punk rock I am not.

But one thing that I think is a little bad ass is my ladies-only poker night. It's become extra enjoyable now that we're all finally better at it (i.e. thinking in flushes and straights aside from wishing desperately make two pair).

Also, it comes with a serious amount of rib-poking. It's fun to be only chicks, talking the girl talk, sassing each other, and doing something "the boys do". Just pass the pinot grigio, shut up about your boyfriend, and call someone a naughty word for your own ladyparts if they mess it up. It's the absence of men that makes it so fun, actually. But the fact that there's some risk involved, quick thinking, and lots of wine help.

But with the bad-assery comes the squish. It's a $10 buy-in. Sometimes we'll sing with Lily Allen. Often, chocolate and cheese are involved.

But hey, like all tough players, regardless of gender, we stand up when we go all in.

It seems to me

That the "shorter period" birth control commercials have cornered the market. And by that, I mean they know how to sell birth control pills. By featuring basset hounds to capture my attention before I go "OH, another birth control commercial! Telling me how much I must surely be suffering in some way for my chemically responsible decision to not have children."

Usually when these commercials come on I laugh, and think "Buy the three extra packs. And maybe just never have your period?" and roll my eyes and go back to looking at the internet while watching TV while talking on the phone.

There are a few exceptions.

There's the commercial for Loestrin 24, featuring Cammie and her basset Shorty. I like that fellow. He's wee and has ankle fat. Floppy ears and is leash-trained. What's not to love?

Perhaps the idiotic dream that his doggie-mama lives in alphabet city, sits around googling birth control and THEN calls up her man. When I googled the commercial, you find a whole RUN DOWN of how this character lives her life.

But I'm not going to switch my birth control in hopes of becoming like her, and having a loft, I "fix up with flea market and second hand" finds. And no, I do NOT believe she lives in Alphabet city, but NICE ONE Loestrin. I'm sure some teenage girl might think that is EXACTLY what she might do when she graduates college and becomes suddenly aware that brilliant good luck like Cammie's TOTALLY exists. Move to this New York and see if she can't have a loft in a pricey neighborhood, with a dog and a man and skinny-ass legs in jeans tucked into boots.

The basset hound is the only thing in that commercial that's real. That chick is perplexed enough by lady times to spend an idle afternoon googling it. Thankfully, she doesn't hide for a whole WEEK when her period comes and ruins her life, she only hides for up to three days! It's like four whole extra days to LIVE.

And then! Today! One minute, staring dreamily at Anthony Bourdain in Tahiti talking to drag queens, then another and THERE IT IS. Some chick, alone at the beach because her friend wouldn't come with because she had her period. The bad, bloaty friend texts back and forth with her sunbathing, well-adjusted friend about how shorter periods would bring world peace. Or feed children in developing countries.

Or rather, how the sunny, skinny friend is SMART! Takes birth control that lightens everything up. Lame bloaty friend seems to think you must sequester yourself in shrouds of lady-misery and communicate only via text.

Friend at the beach is all "whatever, Bloaty", cuz she has two ice cream cones and a man waiting for her on the boardwalk.

See that? Sit at home with a sweatshirt tied around your waist to hide any potential "issues" and you could miss out on meeting a MAN. A handsome man who loves mint chocolate chip as much as you do. AND ALSO, HAS A BASSET HOUND.

I'm telling you.

Clearly, market research has been done. I'm mad ad agencies know this. And tell pharmaceutical companies to capitalize on it. A bunch of old white guys must know the twenty-something ladies, like me, seem to think that the trifecta of happiness is skinny, man, and dog.

I'm not going to lie. It's a bit my life dream to be skinny, have a nice man-friend (check!) and have a dog.

My life's dreams are being sullied. So that I might be marketed to.

More dogs, less whiny friends in commercials, please.

In defense of girly music

I bought the new Tori Amos album today. It was F-ing $14.99 on itunes.

Big surprise, I know.

Me!

She who sleeps in a Righteous Babe Records T-shirt!

I'm a huge slut for "girl music", which I'm sure defeats the purpose of girl music, but who can care? I love it all. Any lady who plays her own instrument and sings I will support. You got me. I am your target audience. PREACH! I will buy it, even though it's $14.99 on itunes.

What I think is funny is the sneering girl music gets. Yes, I know the Spice Girls ruined everything early and loudly, but they've since all mostly procreated and found other things to talk about, like Katie Holme's new house, or whether or not Eddie Murphy is their babydaddy.

I think it's all fair in the great equilibrium of music. If women are still bitches and ho's, then there's an asshole to sing about and you SING IT loud and all purdy-like.

And I don't feel the need to be ashamed of this. Yes, I like other music too. It's not like I'm monogamous with girl music. Like i said, it's my weakness. Like boys who wear glasses and have blazers with elbow patches.

So this album is my weakness, that is, if I could just get past the 2nd song on the album.

I cannot stop listening to Big Wheel, the first single.

I should get past it. There's a whole rest of an album to love! I mean, I'm a freak of a fan. I have B-sides and T-shirts.

And an example!

My parents did not know what to do with my combat-boot wearing, slip-sliding good-girl attitude in high school. They soon figured out their idiot 15-year-old daughter was making out with someone older than she was. They may or may not had figured out exactly what that "Icicle" song was about and they were appalled that was oohey, gooey and girly could be so nasty.

So they tore through my room for my diary and read it. Where I kept detailed accounts of my trials and tribulations getting to second base when I couldn't drive myself anywhere to make out in peace. I had been writing everything down in EXCRUCIATING (read: embarrassing) detail-- so much so, that they feared it was going to burn our house down with the fiery fury of the Virgin Mary.

They broke us up. I knew it was trouble when my mother AND father were both home from work when I got home from school.

I screamed and yelled back at my parents screaming and yelling. At one point my mom actually said out loud she blamed the music I listened to (?!) as a reason for getting to second base. As if 15-year-olds aren't surrounded by overt sexual messages, she blamed my role models! My swearing, combat boot wearing, men-dissecting idols.

So I screamed back, "MOTHER, Ani and Tori did NOT TEACH ME THE WORD", and I paused for teenage drama, "FUCK!!".

And then she promptly took the Cd's, tapes, posters and everything and tied them up into a neat little bag and hid it.

And so my friends furiously taped me everything they had. They clucked as they stroked my hair how wrong my parents were were for robbing me of my two lady loves on top of stopping me from seeing an OLDER boy from ANOTHER school. Oh, the humanity!

So I have a long history of being dramatic and fiercely loving Tori Amos.

And this new album is no exception. AND THIS SONG! I have listened to it no less than 157 times today. That is freakish! Adolescent! Lame!

I. DO. NOT. CARE.

This song just SLAYS me.

Yeah, it's nice sounding and stuff, but it's not pretty. It actually rocks. PRETTY HARD. Impossible not to tap your foot in a slow white girl "Proud Mary"-esque way.

It's the big belt on my swagger of a playlist. I imagine this song is what I'd hear if I were starring in "Saturday Night Fever: DC Faux-Hipsters Don't Dance, They Just Stomp To British Music" (Does she count? She lives in Cornwall.) It makes my spine straighten up. It makes my lips purse in some ridiculous Ashlee Simpson impression. It makes me think of that "Sex and the City" episode where Charlotte poses in drag for that weird artist guy and all she can talk about afterwards is the power she felt. I can imagine what it would feel like to be a man in a suit walking down a street in this town and feeling like it's his god-given right to tell me about how my ass is looking today.

And I think that's why I like girl music. Especially THIS girl's music. Yeah, yeah, women's rights blah blah blah. I know. I know. Life isn't hard for me, in 2007, a 25-year-old white girl. Boo hoo my rights, your laws, my body blah blah blah.

But every woman who has walked down the street in front of a construction site, a frat house, or your ex-boyfriend walking hand in hand with another woman needs to have this song blaring in the boom box of her brain.

Or at least, the recording studio of your bathroom.