Sex, Life, and Hannah » heartbreak

To forgive, or not to forgive.

hannah — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:26:42 +0000

In dealing with the life experiences of friends, lovers, ex-lovers, and my sometimes charmingly bitter self, I've found that nothing puts grey hairs on the head (and a grudge in the heart) quite like infidelity. Even the suspicion of infidelity can take your relationship from we-just-made-love-on-the-virgin-white-Nassau-sand to you-can-keep-your-stinking-engagement-ring. There are a myriad of reasons why cheating happens, and it's rarely "because I hate you so much and just want you to have a hopelessly miserable life" (unless you're vindictively trying to get back at your ex...for cheating on you). Most of the time, the psychology behind cheating is much more complex than that. Often, the reason has little or nothing to do with the person afflicted. Yet this particular wrongdoing feels about as personal as personal gets. ...

The Benefits of a Pre-Holiday Break-Up

hannah — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 01:27:57 +0000

photo: 1x43's Blog

If you didn’t do what Katy Perry did before the holidays you’re either selfish or on the fence, and definitely not one of the 73 percent that think you should have done it already, and while I understand, here are five reasons why it would have been better to break up with them before the holidays. ...

Why do we always have to be upstanding?

hannah — Wed, 18 May 2011 18:40:45 +0000

On the subject of Arnie, and I'm not saying it was "right" what he did, but what if one woman was just not enough for all that testosterone? I mean, come on, the guy is pumped from weights and god only knows what kind of supplements, and what if right at that time in his life, his wife wasn't giving it up? What if she was being stone cold in the sack? Or maybe she wasn't, but he was going through some kind of mid-life crisis? We can't always fight off our urges, because sometimes we just don't want to. Sometimes we've just reached a breaking point, or we just want to feel some feeling we haven't felt in too long, or we just don't want to be responsible for twenty minutes. It's just like the whole Hugh Grant with a prostitue thing. Yes, he was in a relationship with a rockin' hot super model, but maybe deep down inside, his biggest fantasy was to just once be with a nasty, dirty prostitute. What's wrong with that? Why do we always have to be upstanding in the face of society when human nature isn't always?

Keep your eye on the prize.

hannah — Mon, 16 May 2011 20:35:03 +0000

photo: http://innumerablegoods.typepad.com/innumerable_goods/

Saturday night, hubbie and me watched Julie & Julia. The movie where a 30-year-old woman—with not much going on in the career department—decides to start a blog chronicling her quest to finish 500-some Julia Child recipes in 365 days. Meltdowns ensue. Meanwhile, 50 years prior, we watch Julia Child battling similar career-lacking issues and her quest to get her love for food published into a book back when the world thought housewives wouldn’t want to read a voluminous account of how to make high-end French recipes. The notions are simple, but in the end, so inspiring and uplifting, especially when a few hours prior you are having a conversation with your hubbie that goes something like this:

Breaking up and moving on, for real.

hannah — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 16:42:00 +0000

We are nostalgic creatures, yearning for those perfect memories of the past: the first glance, passionate kiss, emotional fuck, that private chartered tour around Nassau he took me on... But we also have selective memory, and seem to conveniently forget the jealous, immature, off-kilter remarks, when we got our heart ripped out, or when he didn't just get a boner the moment my hand landed on his crotch... And so, when we hit a dry spell that lasts longer than a season of Weeds, and our vibrator batteries simultaneously peeter out, and we get a call from a number we recognize all too well, we start to believe it's a "sign". Yes a sign from, oh, I don't know, God, maybe, like stigmata, and we start making statements like this to our BFF: "He says he's changed, and wants to work things out. That things will be different now. And the sex was AMAZING".

Deception leads to disappointment.

hannah — Wed, 22 Sep 2010 20:02:57 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 2, Spring Season (CHAPTER 15: DOCTOR BIG LOVE) My shoes are off, and I’m lying on my couch nursing my third glass of the cab. I am in pain, but I have to make a decision—based on the only backup plan that seems right, right now. I call Cain. “I’m going to have to cancel. I pulled something in my back, and—” “You know, I am a doctor,” he interjects lightheartedly. “I can barely walk. And I have all this laundry…” I must sound so completely pathetic right now that he’ll be happy I canceled on him. “Then you should definitely not drive. I’ll come over and take care of everything.” He doesn’t seem phased. “Even your laundry.” Was this guy for real? Was I making a mistake? “You don’t have to do that.” “I know. I don’t have to do anything for you darlin’, but I want to.”

Kissing my gay neighbor. Again.

hannah — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 14:53:25 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE) I’m sitting next to Clark at the Pink Bear, getting drunk. “It’s my face isn’t it?” I slap my hand down on Clark’s forearm. “He doesn’t want me because something’s wrong with my face!” After leaving Mr. Smyth’s house, I called in sick. I didn’t sleep at all, and couldn’t eat. So I staggered through the day drinking coffee, re-examining every detail of our date a hundred times, wishing I could take back the “B-word” portion of it. I was convinced I’d still be bathing in afterglow if only I could erase that part. As soon as I’d heard a car pull into the front house, I’d run across the yard and told Clark we needed to go out. “Oh my god, no!” Clark recoils, aghast. “You’re as gorgeous as ever! Even more so with your saucy new makeup.” Beaming, Clark cradles my face in his hands. I’ve been pouring my heart out to Clark for over an hour, and for over an hour he’s been reassuring me that I’m still the cat’s meow. But I need to hear more. “You don’t think my nose has shifted left?” I down the rest of my vodka soda and order up another. “Absolutely not!” Clark leans in. “That man is a fool for breaking your heart, and mark my words: He will regret it for the rest of his life.” Clark is such a good friend, and he’s saying all the right stuff…except it wasn’t supposed to end like this. Mr. Smyth wasn’t supposed to be regretting anything, and I wasn’t supposed to be wallowing over my life with my gay neighbor. Mr. Smyth and I were supposed to be together forever. I grab the new drink in front of me and start chugging.

Hot lovin’ in an elevator…almost.

hannah — Wed, 26 May 2010 18:09:30 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 10: LOVE IN AN ELEVATOR) I’m sitting on the floor of the elevator with my head tilted back against the wall, the ice pack covering my face again. The Ex is beside me, his dress shirt back on, his undershirt glued to my nose. The bleeding has stopped, but the elevator hasn’t started. According to the maintenance man The Ex got ahold of, it’s going to be a while. Apparently all the elevators are down, and a woman in labor is stuck in one too; so we’re not a priority. I close my eyes and try to imagine myself elsewhere. I always thought The Ex was The One. When I was thirteen, we had to make a poster of what we wanted our future to look like, and he was it: tall, dark, and fashionable. Not that my whole collage was of the perfect man—I had included my fantasy wardrobe, too—but the male model I’d cut out of the October issue of Cosmopolitan was the centerpiece. And when I strolled up to the Beverly Hilton concierge that fateful Saturday morning looking for directions, I had an eerie feeling I’d just met my centerpiece. We were in love—through the growing pains and the glory. Even when he broke up with me eighty-seven days ago and I ran after him, tears, mascara, and eye shadow streaming down my face, screaming: “Are you sure? Because this is it!” and he stopped, and I went on: “There’s no going back after this! I’m done. No need to hang on to that engagement ring! Are you sure this is what you want?” and he paused, staring at me, and finally said, “I’m sure,” his voice cracking and his head turning away quickly, and I yelled out: “You’re dead to me!”—I still believed we would be together forever. I sigh deeply, wondering how the hell we got here: broken-up, broken, in a broken elevator. “How’s Genie?” I ask flashbacking to our last drama that took place on an elevator. We were at Nieman Marcus, going up to the men’s shoe department, when The Ex’s annoying little micro dog decided to take a whiz all over Charlie Sheen’s shoes. I started apologizing, and The Ex started yelling at Genie, before picking her up and realizing she was getting pee remnants all over his new polo…and pushing her onto me. Then he blamed me for not taking her out for a walk earlier, and I reminded him it was his dog. And worse, just another trendy phase he was going through. He handed Charlie his business card, apologized, and said he’d comp him an all-inclusive weekend stay at the Beverly Hilton. I rolled my eyes. “I moved into a new place that doesn’t take pets, so I gave her to one of the front desk girls at the hotel.” Figures. I move the ice pack, and then turn my head around to face the brushed steel interior of the elevator wall. I am immediately horrified. “I look like the pet project of Dr. Frankenstein gone wrong.” I want to cry. “I’m probably scarred for life. I’ll probably need plastic surgery.” I feel him squeeze my arm. “Hey.” He tugs me to face him. He puts his other hand under my chin. “You’re still sexy as hell.” He smiles. My stomach curls into an anxious knot. Sitting next to The Ex, on this sterile elevator floor, stuck between floors two and three, on this first day of spring, exactly three months before our six-year anniversary, in the midst of this chaotic night, and painful memories, and awkward small talk, I realize that…I am still in love with my ex-boyfriend...

Nostaligia. No, just heartbreaking history.

hannah — Mon, 17 May 2010 16:12:59 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 9: ACCIDENTAL) Still in traffic and not even two-thirds of the way home, I start looking around my car for something to keep me occupied: reading material, leftover food, a CD I haven’t listened to a hundred times, anything. I notice a duffel bag behind the passenger seat. I reach around and grab it, and unzip it to examine its contents. Mud-ridden sneakers…were those from the time The Ex and I went hiking in Griffith Park and it started raining? Black sweatpants cut off at the knee—I’m pretty sure I cut those off for the hike. A beat-up old grey t-shirt…the t-shirt The Ex had to change out of because it got so wet. A glass pipe lined with black pot residue, because we decided to wait out the rain in my car and needed something to do. We ended up getting stoned, then horny, and then making out like two teenagers on their parents basement couch in front of a rented movie. Finally he reclined the passenger seat as I whipped out his dick and he ripped off my sweatpants so we could screw our brains out...

Trying to numb the regret.

hannah — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 17:38:38 +0000

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 7: FRIDAY NIGHT CUTS) I’m sitting on Ireland’s balcony. We’re smoking a joint to help me numb my feelings of regret. It’s eleven. Mr. Smyth dropped me off at my house half an hour ago; even though—after being made to look like a complete two-timing whore—I puked out a flurry of apologies for what happened and how it wasn’t what it looked like. Mr. Smyth told me not to worry about it. But our moment was lost. We finished our drinks and left. “He told me to call him when my schedule opened up a bit more.” I suck hard on the joint, devastated. Ireland inspects the red polish she’s applying to her toenails. “If I had access to someone who looked like Ben and wanted to have sex with me, I’d be over there right now. Forget the old guy.” “He’s not old! He’s sexy.” And that’s when I finally relinquish what I’ve honestly felt since the first time I had sex with Ben: that I don’t think Ben is right for me—not even as a fuck buddy. Mr. Smyth is much more my type, which is why I’m kicking myself for ruining my perfect Friday night date with him...

Breaker’s Remorse: The Mindfuck of a Lifetime

hannah — Mon, 29 Mar 2010 17:44:44 +0000

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about Cain. I’m not sure why I blew him off the way I did, and without even a proper taste test of his Superman bod. I keep telling myself I did the right thing. Cain and I only had a couple dates, my hopes were pinned on Mr. Smyth, and I was just being…honest with myself. Or a delusional fool in love as it turns out. But we often do strange things when men, our heart, and our over-analyzing brain get involved. Post-parting penitence is a crafty little bugger that presents itself in a variety of ways. It’s like a little Linda Blair that creeps into your bedroom at night: Sometimes she’ll spew green slime in your face, sometimes her head will spin around… and sometimes she’ll simply call your mother a whore and leave. You really never know what you’re going to get, or how long it plans on lodging in Newly Detached Inn. Two months since I blew Cain off, I still find myself obsessing. The fact of the matter is, when you cut out an individual with whom you’ve had even a couple fond memories with, you’re bound to second guess your decision. Yes, I'm still wondering about Ben too... As we learned in our “friends with benefits” discussion, our good friend oxytocin doesn’t discriminate based on compatibility. Even if you want to strangle the dude with his favorite Armani tie (the one that makes him look like Rambo in a gay pride parade), chances are, you’ll miss seeing him put it on and wink in the mirror before heading off to work. Things you’ve grown intimately familiar with, like scent and touch, could give you phantom pains for months. For many—a good portion of the 78% Think Tank majority, most likely—this remorse is founded. Your life is lacking something he provided (or thought he would eventually), and suddenly you realize that he was more than a fine ass, master of cunnilingus, or metrosexual—he was also a great listener, sincerely sweet, and even though your vagina quivered at the thought, he wanted kids… Being alone with a bottle of wine at night can do strange things to the mind—it can drown you in confusion, or coddle you in clarity, and break-up remorse clouds your ability to discern the two. Luckily in this instance, time is on your side. Time gives you the opportunity to meet someone new, and learn from your mistakes, so that you don’t break-up with the next eligible bachelor over something silly like thinking the other guy will eventually fall in love with you, and regret it later. Next we ponder the gold digger in us: If they don't make enought money, is it a deal breaker? Weigh in.

Chapter 2: Breaking Up With Bad Habits

hannah — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 19:10:29 +0000

Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (Chapter 2) CHAPTER 2: BREAKING UP WITH BAD HABITS. I’m on my couch, flipping through a “chick mag,” eating Brazilian Acai Berry Sorbet Häagen-Dazs. I’m reading an article about ten things not to do after your boyfriend dumps you. It’s about what so many seriously co-dependent, emotionally unstable women digress to whenever a relationship goes sour: They start eating dessert all day; or drinking their favorite cocktail all night; or having pointless sex with pointless men; or running up credit cards with irrational wardrobe purchases; or chain-smoking; or incessantly calling their ex-boyfriends to try to work things out. Things I would never do. I scoop a spoonful of sorbet out of the pint in my hand. Thank god I have no bad habits, I think, biting at the hangnail on my pinky finger. It starts to bleed. Okay, none that are really bad. Unless I’m under the influence of pissed off. Or totally depressed. Or sometimes bored. And definitely if I’m at some pretentious and superfluous Hollywood party. But seriously-I am in total control of my environment. I shake an aspirin out of the bottle sitting on my coffee table.

Chapter 1: New Year’s Ex

hannah — Tue, 21 Aug 2007 19:00:43 +0000

Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (Chapter 1) CHAPTER 1: NEW YEAR’S EX. I am going to seduce my boyfriend. We’re supposed to go to this glossy New Year’s Eve Party at the Beverly Hills hotel my boyfriend manages. He’s supposed to pick me up at seven. It’s six twenty-three. I’m not planning on getting dressed. I lift my vodka cocktail off the bathroom counter and take a sip. Tensions have been running high in our relationship. This is nothing new. After five and a half years together, no more than five months have ever gone by without some kind of drama, incident, or break-up. But we are going to make it. We’ve been together way too long to not make it. I fidget with my garter belt, trying to figure out what’s supposed to sit left, right, and center.

Mourning my new single life.

hannah — Tue, 07 Oct 2003 04:32:36 +0000

I’ve decided to call my new single life my mourning period. Oh yeah, that’s how excited I am about my new single life. You know I totally get why things didn’t work out with Mr. Smyth, but it still sucks. Or maybe I was right last week when I concluded that perhaps I just suck at being single. Or maybe the real problem is that this time I don’t have someone like Ben to keep me distracted. Why is it that for some reason if you have a hot piece of ass to distract you, all of a sudden the trauma of breaking up with someone miraculously disappears? Where oh where is Dr. Bod when I need him, and why don’t I have a business trip to New York planned anytime soon?

The Safety Blanket goes to Vegas.

hannah — Thu, 10 Apr 2003 04:34:54 +0000

I’m driving to Vegas. Luckily I have a conference in Vegas for a few days. Luckily I can get the fuck away from the Mr. Smyth situation. I hurt. I’m totally disappointed – again. But you know what - I’m over it. I’m fucking over him. He wants to be single – right on. He can have it. He "likes" me. But just not enough. Not enough to be more than just…. just what? The re-bound girl? No, I’m not the re-bound girl. If I were the re-bound girl this would have all been wrapped up a few weeks ago when we had “the conversation”. That was his easy out. But if I’m not the re-bound girl, what am I? Am I the convenient lay? No, it’s not just a sex thing between us. We’ve hung out and not had sex and had a great time. So if I’m not the re-bound girl, or the convenient lay…what am I?…. Holy shit. I’m the safety blanket.