WHATEVER HAPPENED TO A BOYFRIEND?




Those of you who don’t know me probably think I’m some kind of tough-talking, tequila drinking hottie in a low-cut dress who actually enjoys drinking and dancing and drugging with wild abandon and bringing home three boys home a week – even THOUGH I’m 34 and should be spending my time worrying about how my darling, dark-haired daughters are doing in elementary school (Rachel is going to be a writer like me, you know, and Sarah is going to be a doctor just like her father!) and why my darling dark-haired husband is acting so odd – is he tired or having an affair with one of those blonde f***ing nurses again?



Well, you’d be right. I do enjoy it. The last six months post-Loser have been a sexy, social whirlwind of the kind we Geminis crave. Full of one adrenalin rush after another. The kind you don’t get in a relationship, when you're kissing the same boy over and over, but which you trade for stuff like stability, security, and love (cough).



But you’d also be wrong. I hate it too. Especially now that this spectacularly slutty week has climaxed with me finally, FINALLY, getting some action from that dashing, diabolical d-d-doctor.



(Yes, go ahead and sound your warning calls. I won’t listen, of course, but don’t take it personally. I love you all. If only you could lash me to the mast then I might be able to resist his deadly song.)



But the story, my loves, in all its wild and drunken glory, will have to wait, because today’s topic is not the minutiae of how I finally asked him what was going on and how he finally told me about his ex, who is sort of back in the picture but sort of not, and how he finally agreed he’d been “emotionally unavailable," and how he finally planted a big wet one on me, and then how the rest of the night he finally proved himself to be every inch the man all of us were starting to doubt he was.



No, that’s not what today’s story is about. Today’s story is about how I just can’t take it anymore. This dating game is getting old, OK? I’m lucky to have all these dates, and all this action, and all this fun, but it's hard, OK? Because I'm not really a tough-talking, tequila drinking hottie, I'm just a girl who misses her father and her ex and who wants a man in her life again. ONE man.



I want to wake up in the morning and know that this man loves me just as much as he did the night before, when he was under the influence of three Manhattans, three G&Ts, and one joint (and do all boys of my age have addiction problems?) I want to kiss him and know when he kisses me it means something more than in ten minutes he's going to try to to f***k me.



I want stability back in my life so I can get to work at a reasonable hour, and actually work while I'm at work instead of waiting for e-mails from cute boys that never come. And really, I want to not want someone and just be happy with my friends and my writing and my work, but I gotta face facts. Like Liz Phair said (so much better than me): I want a boyfriend.



I raged against AmbiguityLand months ago and swore I’d never go there again but I was full of s**t. I LIVE there now, people.



Because none of us in this l’il love quadrangle of which I'm suddenly part— me, SBDB (who returns tonight after mistakenly leaving me alone for two weeks), the doctor, and his ex (who lives right around the corner, where I plan to bring her a cake—a poison cake) wants to commit. Everyone is gunshy and afraid and whacked, yet at the same time all we want is love.



Go figure.