So what if he doesn't have his shots?

You know how when you're driving down the street and you see a stray dog and you think "Oh no! Poor little fella! I'd better pick him up!" Then before you know it, you've taken him home, fed him, given him a bath and a warm bed and become emotionally attached to him? Yeah, I do that with guys. It's something I've come to realize about myself over the years. I've even given it the name: "Lost Puppy Syndrome".

There is something about a vulnerable guy... I could conceivably make a living out of helping sad, lost, down-on-their-luck dudes who are fresh out of relationships, get back on their feet and back in the game. I think perhaps all my nurturing, motherly instincts need an outlet since I don't have babies, but that's something I'll discuss with a therapist in a few years. Honestly, I've always been good at taking care of people and I enjoy doing it, even if sometimes it is to my own personal detriment. I am a "fixer" and as such, I am drawn to "fixer-uppers". I spent 3 years trying to "fix" my first serious boyfriend: an alcoholic; workaholic; ego-maniac, only to learn he had no interest in being fixed. Did I learn my lesson? Of course not.

I spent 4 years after that trying to mold my next boyfriend into someone he wasn't. I got up at 4 a.m. and drove him to work in the winter when his car wouldn't run and spent countless hours on the phone with his creditors, cleaning up his past financial mistakes, only to realize that no amount of help was going to make a difference. Four years in and he was still making the same stupid decisions and mistakes he'd made when he was 25, only now they were affecting me.

Then there was the young guy... We had the kind of relationship that only makes sense if we were in a movie where one of us was about to die. We had absolutely nothing in common outside of the bedroom, but I didn't care. I often joked with my friends that I was pretty sure I was using him for sex and he was using me for a comfortable bed to sleep in. He was such a mess that I regularly wondered if I should stop sleeping with him and instead, legally adopt him. But we got along really well and made each other laugh and genuinely cared about each other and let's face it... Colorado nights can get pretty cold.

The problem with all of these relationships and ultimately the reason I'm not still in any of them, is because never once did I feel "taken care of". I know I am strong-willed and independent and I probably wouldn't even know how to let someone take care of me, but the point is, none of them were even capable of trying. So what does it say about me that I consistently choose partners who are ill-equipped to provide me with anything I truly need? I'd imagine that's another question for my future therapist to tackle when I finally get around to hiring her. For right now, though, blog-therapy is waaaay cheaper.

Wait, werewolves exist, right?...

I just returned from a late Thanksgiving evening showing of Twilight: Breaking Dawn. Go ahead, scoff. Poke fun. Judge me. I care not. We all have our weaknesses, one of mine just happens to be bad acting and sparkly vampires. I had options as to how I was going to spend my night... eating and drinking way too much with some friends; hitting up some Black Friday midnight door-buster sales; watching the guys I work with play Skyrim for 10 hours.

While these choices varied considerably in their appeal, all I really wanted after 8 hours of slinging Mimosas and turkey to the decidedly UN-thankful masses, was to be by myself. I needed mindless entertainment that was pleasing to my senses. Enter: Twilight.

Now, I recognize that I am old enough to have mothered the characters in these movies (if I had been a really slutty 14-year old), and so I am on neither 'Team Edward' nor 'Team Jacob'. Instead, I took it upon myself after the first movie, to form 'Team Charlie' (who is otherwise known as 'Bella's Dad' for those of you who aren't hip to the Twilight groove). Not only is he handsome in a rugged, small-town way, but he has a good job, a nice, modest house and he's the strong, shy, silent type.

Perhaps it's because I'm all hopped up on "liquefied butter product" and Reeses Pieces, but since we're already on the train to the land of make-believe, let's keep riding, shall we? If I married Charlie and became Bella's stepmother, I would be hard-pressed not to grab that girl and shake her repeatedly. "What is the matter with you?!" I would shout. "Why don't you have any self-esteem, or a personality?!" I would say. "Why don't you have any goals aside from becoming a vampire so you can spend eternity with your dumb boyfriend?" I simply refuse to believe my beloved Charlie could have raised such a spineless dolt.

On the other hand, I've been 18 and I've been in that kind of love and no amount of shaking or screaming would've convinced me I wasn't going to be with that person forever. So, I suppose I get it... I definitely understand the vampire thing. It occurred to me tonight while watching, that Edward is the age old quandary of 'youth and vigor' vs. 'age and experience', solved. He is youthful and vigorous on the outside, yet he has the experience and wisdom of having "lived" hundreds of years. It would be like hooking up with the hottie you dated in college, minus the fart jokes, video games and binge drinking. But, I digress... Obviously, vampires and fictitious, small-town cops aren't a viable dating option, so back into reality I leap to try to figure out what the hell I am doing.....

What could possibly go wrong...?

A friend with benefits... what a seemingly simple, yet deviously complex animal. It always starts off so idealistically--I have an itch and I'd like someone to scratch it. I've always had certain rules in place with regard to these situations, to ensure things stay the way they are supposed to be: casual, drama-free and emotionless. For example, and these are just guidelines of course, choose someone you like, but with whom you can't really picture being in an actual relationship with. Also, put some walls up--don't discuss your feelings or do anything that makes you feel vulnerable. What I seem to have overlooked however, is:

a.) For every rule, there is an exception.

b.) Rules-as a rule-were made to be broken.

Because of this, it's become clear to me that all fwb situations have an expiration date. It can vary, depending on exactly how much time is being spent horizontally, but the reality is if you like someone enough to continue banging them for an extended period, chances are there is a connection there, or at the very least, a mutual attraction and trust. This is where it gets tricky... when you spend enough time entwined with someone else's body, you're going to begin feeling something (unless you are a sociopath or just completely jaded and dead inside). It's at this point, the expiration date begins looming. Once feelings are put on the table, I think you have two choices. You can either decide to tear down your remaining walls and see where things go, or you can call off the entire operation. I don't like these options, logical or not.

My most recent experience with this began innocently enough. We both had our walls firmly in place, in fact, we didn't even kiss for the first 2 months. When I asked him what his deal was (since I really enjoy kissing) he said it was a really personal thing for him. 'Okay Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman', I thought, but I couldn't begrudge his point since we were both pretty set on staying detached. However, as time went on (can you guess where this is going?), we eventually did kiss, which led to holding each other afterwards, which led to more kissing, which led to out and out spooning and before I knew it, I found myself seeing this boy as more than just the occasional itch-scratcher. Intimacy is such a slippery slope.

Together we'll break these chains of love...

It has been over a year now, since my heart was last broken. That scarcely seems possible, yet when I think about everything that has happened in this past year, it blows my mind even more. Said heartbreaker is now shacking up with the girl he ditched me for and although I am legitimately over him, there are still times when I feel a tug on the old heartstrings. I watch them kiss hello or hold hands and I think "at least he's happy" and I'm happy for him, but then I think "why haven't I been able to find the same thing?" It's as though he's moved on and so has everyone else from my past, yet I'm still kicking it in emotional limbo. My mind is still trying to tell me I don't want anything serious with anyone, but my body and heart are screaming for an outlet for my lust and emotions. (A healthier outlet than what I've been using, anyway-more on that another time).

Honestly, all it would take is for me to stop being an idiot and take a chance... Every Friday afternoon at work, I give myself whiplash looking out the window every 2 minutes waiting for a specific delivery truck, which has a specific driver (a.k.a. my future husband), so I can make sure I am the one available to sign for the order. The problem is, I have approximately 30-45 seconds each week to make him fall in love with me and I get so nervous, I end up sounding like a functionally retarded person with a stutter. Sure, I have a winning smile and an ass that won't quit, but one of these days I'm going to have to have a conversation with him. Then there's the cute bartender across the street, who unfortunately used to be pretty good friends with my ex. They don't hang out anymore, but I think it might still be a "bros before hos" situation. Of course, I'll never know unless I try, but I am too skittish to try.

The most absurd thing of all is I'm not sure what scares me more: rejection or acceptance. Rejection is a little easier to get over since you can't really miss what you never had. But, if something were to begin with one of these butterfly-inducing studs, I am afraid of what I would become. I don't always like myself in relationships. To paraphrase a quote from a movie I recently saw "...if we were in a relationship, I'd become this weird, scary version of myself I don't like..." I'd like to think I am far more self-aware now than I was in the past, but there is really no telling what I'm capable of given the right (or wrong) circumstances. My first serious relationship left me bitter, angry, resentful and mistrustful of most people. That man could ignite a rage in me I didn't know existed--to my knowledge, I'd never thrown a coffee table across the living room before meeting him, nor have I since leaving. My last relationship brought my OCD to new levels of weirdness. Since I felt so powerless in every other way, the only thing I felt I could control was my surroundings and they were spotlessly clean and organized.

Logic and experience tell me I would certainly spot the warning signs more quickly the next time and get out before getting too involved and falling in love, but I'm not 100% confident of that. Regardless, I'm going to start taking chances because if I don't find someone to snuggle with soon, I'm going to lose my shit.

Love the one you're with?

It has long been my contention that people can fall in love with almost anyone, given the right circumstances. I'm not speaking of the couples who meet, are attracted, realize they have various things in common, date for awhile and build a loving, lasting relationship together based on mutual respect. I'm talking about those who are tired of being alone, so they basically close their eyes and point. They decide (however subconsciously) to open themselves up to love with someone, not because that person is "right" but because they are "there". I've heard it explained with regard to men (though I think it just as easily applies to women) as the "Taxicab Theory". Men will go through life having fun, doing their thing, until one day they wake up and realize they want to settle down and get married, at which point they turn on their metaphorical "taxicab light" and whoever happens to hop in next, gets to be his wife. It's not a matter of who, but when. This depresses me to a point and would certainly serve to feed any feelings of inadequacy or low self-esteem one might already have. If I let it, this theory could make me the most paranoid future-girlfriend of someone ever. I would constantly be questioning whether he thinks I'm his soul-mate and can't live without me, or if he just really wants some babies and I happen to have good genes, a fine set of birthin' hips and, oh yeah, I'm standing in front of him.

But should it even matter? After all, isn't timing everything? I've often pondered whether certain exes and I would have worked out if only we'd met 5 years earlier, or later, or under different circumstances. If there is an attraction and commonality that is capable of growing into a lasting situation where both parties are happy, in love, and secure, does it make a difference that you don't see each other as soul-mates?

Last winter, I read an entire book on this topic. I read 2 books, back to back, actually. One called: Be honest, you're just not that into him either. The other: Marry him: the case for settling for Mr. Good Enough. Obviously, I blatantly judged these books by their covers and thought surely I would enjoy the hell out of the former and loathe the latter. Much to my surprise, Be honest... was cute and good for a laugh, while Marry him... had me thinking for weeks and recommending it to all of my friends as a thought-provoking read. The author basically states that most woman have this ideal vision of "the perfect man". They even make lists of qualities this person would and would not have and they refuse to even consider dating someone who doesn't fit their mental profile. (I do this. Although my "vision" is somewhat amorphous, I definitely have a list.)

She points out:

a.) How unrealistic it is to think you're going to find someone you consider "perfect".

b.) How even if you found this "perfect-on-paper" person, there is no guarantee there would be any chemistry, or passion.

c.) Who the hell are you to demand this sort of perfection from someone else in the first place, since we are all flawed and have idiosyncrasies.

I recently found myself fantasizing about how wonderful it would be if I could cut and paste things from all the guys I've known/dated and make a perfect little voo-doo doll of awesomeness. I'm sure guys wish they could do the same. Although my ex-boyfriends probably all enjoyed my odd sense of humor and my sweet ass, I am certain more than one of them wouldn't have minded slapping a pair of DD's on me, or removing my ability to belch/fart. The point is, perfection doesn't exist and "settling" is not a negative thing if you can find someone who makes you happy...lists be damned.

Home sweet home...

I have always wanted to live in a Pottery Barn catalog. The problem is, I'm always drawn to older homes that are "eclectic" and "have character". Oh, how strange that the bathroom sink is in the kitchen and there is a random door that leads nowhere, but look at that 1930's crown molding!! It's been a constant struggle to find a happy medium, until now. I recently moved for what is hopefully the last time for many years. I got out from under my previous landlord, who I am fairly certain has narcissistic personality disorder/bi-polar disorder (thank you web m.d.) and is clearly not diligent about taking medication for either. The weirdness began when I moved in a year ago and steadily escalated until he professed his love for me 4 months ago. Ick. As a Cancer and a woman, it's crucial for me to feel safe and comfortable in my home, something I never achieved living there. Now I have a cozy little cottage, tucked away in the trees, where I feel so protected I rarely want to leave. The best part about it, is not having neighbors on either side with nothing but poorly insulated, paper-thin walls separating us.

I've long believed that apartment dwellers know far too much about their neighbors' lives, often not by choice. I'll never forget a place I lived in years ago... It was a smaller rental house tucked between 2 larger homes owned by some middle-aged couples. It was on a quiet, side street near the mountains, so we got our share of wildlife in the yard from time to time-skunks, raccoons, the occasional fox. One night, however, I was lying in bed on the edge of unconsciousness, when an unfamiliar noise outside my window startled me into lucidity. I listened carefully--it was close by. It sounded like an angry bear stalking a frightened bunny. My heart raced and I strained to hear which way they were headed. When I finally got out of bed and peered cautiously out my window, I realized it was neither a rabbit nor a bear. It was my middle-aged neighbors having something resembling sex, very loudly, with their windows wide-open.

Then there were the hipster kids that lived below me at my next place. Now, I am a night-owl and as such, I try to be quiet and respectful of the fact that my neighbors often aren't. These kids enjoyed having "band practice" at 3 a.m., and when I say "band practice", I mean they would sit around with their hipster friends sampling old Atari and Nintendo music over guitar and keyboard tracks. I think I even heard a kazoo once. Ear plugs only muffled the nonsense and if I were a more confrontational person, I would have gone downstairs, slapped the clove cigarettes out of their mouths and smashed their Casio keyboard into a tree. Instead I suffered in silence.

Most recently, I lived in the middle apartment of a tri-plex. On one side, was a 20-something hippy dude who smoked copious amounts of weed, played excessively loud music and had a girlfriend who I feel confident was faking her orgasms. On the other side, was a quiet 30-something couple who likely hated me for similar reasons. I often wondered if, when I ran into them at the mailbox, they were secretly judging me for listening to nothing but Kelly Clarkson for 3 days straight. Then I realized I didn't care; Ms. Clarkson has the voice of an angel. It soothes me and I've had a rough year.

More from the "What-if" chronicles...

This week marks 11 years since I packed up all my worldly possessions and lugged them, my cat and myself, 2000 miles across the country to start a new life. As much as the "what-ifs" annoy me, they also provide hours of contemplative amusement. When I pulled into town over a decade ago, it was with an open mind and a hungry soul. My best friend had driven the U-haul behind me and stayed a few days to get me settled in before flying back east. We were a couple of carefree 22-year olds, making what was a somewhat bittersweet trip as exciting and fun as possible. (Doesn't everyone almost get arrested in Kansas??) After she boarded the plane to fly back home, reality hit as I realized I didn't even know how to get back to my new apartment from the airport. I burst into tears and although I found my way after an hour or so, my excitement had already morphed into fear, trepidation and regret. "What the hell was I thinking moving so far away from everything I've ever known?" Obviously, as the days went by and I became more comfortable with my new surroundings, I perked up. But that is a lot of stress to put on ones' body and mine reacted accordingly. Before I'd left home, I had sowed a few last minute oats in the spirit of closing that chapter of my life. One particular Oat and I had a condom-related mishap. It took me 2 weeks of settling into my new life to realize I was 2 weeks past due for a rather important monthly occurrence. Panic set in and I booked down to Walgreens to purchase my first ever pregnancy test. Clearly everything was fine and my life went on to become what it is, but waiting for that pee stick to show me a 'minus' sign was quite possibly the most intense 60 seconds of my life. When I look back now and play the "what-if" game, it is almost unfathomable that if it had been a 'plus' sign instead, I'd be sitting here next to a 10-year old child. How different would the last decade have been? Would I have met and fallen in love with either of my exes? Would I have gotten right back into that U-haul and returned home to deal with it there? The possibilities are endless. Not to mention, would I have told the father? I saw him recently at a wedding for the first time in 8 years and he has since married and had 2 or 3 kids with his wife... how different would his life be if I'd had to make that epic phone call?

Lately, much to my utter shock and chagrin, I've wondered if maybe I do want kids, or at least kid. I seem to have these nurturing instincts I don't really know what to do with. Don't get me wrong, when I hear children screaming at work I want to bang my head into the wall, but then they stop screaming and I look at their cherubic little faces and think "Hmm. Maybe." I'm clearly in no place to be seriously considering this, but the prospect no longer terrifies me to my core. I'd call that progress.