PeeWee, one of my friends on FB, thinks I should go to San Diego this weekend and seduce hubbie. He also thinks we should have a real wedding one day. And that having kids doesn’t save a marriage.

PeeWee is full of good advice today. But I tell PeeWee I’m not in the mood for any of the above right now.

God I used to be such a bitch when hubbie would leave for a production gig. Like a night without him would just burst my little world. I’d make him pay for it, by whining or being cold-hearted or indifferent when I would see him or talk to him on the phone. I’m sure he was thinking “why the eff did I marry this attention whore?” It wasn’t about that though. I just want what I want, when I want it, and I can be really impatient.

Now, I want some alone time. I don’t think that makes him happy either. I know he was kinda upset that I didn’t want to drive down with him last weekend, “but I’ll be gone for three weeks.”

I stared at the ceiling as he packed and told him I needed to get more work done on the next book, and get my corporate sponsorship proposal finished, and continue looking for work. Get my life in order. Start kicking some ass and get somewhere with my life, like I used to be able to do, before this…identity crisis.

Besides, if I was going to seduce hubbie I would definitely need a Brazilian, and I don’t have the money for that right now. Sadly. I AM the cover story of this month’s Cosmo! Eeeeek. Except I know for a fact hubbie is NOT into bush. It’s probably good we don’t see each other for a couple weeks.

I’m also enjoying my girl time with our new roommate for the month, Berkeley. Every time she looks at my proposal she says “you can do better.” And she’s right. I like people that are honest, and smart, because I sure as fuck don’t need any “yes men” around me. “Yes men” just dumb you down.

So I guess I’m not completely alone, although Berkeley’s not around a lot. She’s also doing production work, and when she’s not, she’s trying to stop lamenting over her break-up with her girlfriend. I keep telling her “trust me, you’ll meet someone else, and someone even better for you.”

She likes that I make that statement so confidently. I tell her it’s ’cause I’ve been there and I know. I tell her even if hubbie and I were to break up we would both meet other people and move on. Nobody ever pines, alone, for a lifetime, except maybe some pervy stalker, but the majority of us move on.

Life is just not as romantic as we want to believe it is. It has romantic moments. And it’s bitchin’ when we experience those moments, but it’s also very real. It’s not like the movies. You want to believe it’s like the movies when you’re single, dating, looking for love. But even when you find that love you were looking for, there’s a reality that checks in eventually. It’s not good or bad, it just makes you realize that your time together is not going to be the day you fell in love on repeat. For better or for worse, for rich or for poor, in sickness and in health, that’s the reality.

Last note. I drove around hubbie’s big, old, diesel truck today. He likes to say it freaks him out, but I know deep down inside he loves the fact that I know how to drive big ass trucks. I’m sure it makes him feel like he didn’t just marry some bitchy attention whore, but a woman that knows how to handle things.

We’re at the glass case near the cash register looking at cock rings. Christian tells me he doesn’t want leather or rubber. The big Latin man behind the glass case looks impatient when I point to a big heavy brushed metal ring. “What size?”

I look at Christian. He shrugs.

The big Latin man rolls his eyes, “you wanna try?”

I’m confused.

“Me?” And so is Christian.

The big Latin man takes out several sizes of the same cock ring and points to two doors to his left.

“And her?” Christian points at me, and picks up the heavy metal. The Big Latin Man just stares.

I tell Christian I don’t think I have to go in for the sizing.

“Oh no, no, no,” he pulls me with his free hand, “this was your idea.”

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From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)

I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but…

I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect.

I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom.

My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings.

“Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack.

“Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera.

“Anyway…I get on the plane—”

“Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.”

I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days.

“Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!”

Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives.

“But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’”

“Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.”

“I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.”

I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with.

“Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.”

“No other stewardesses?”

“No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.”

I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer.

“So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.”

“And…” I prod.

“And it’s her. She walks in, grabs my face, and starts tongue-wrestling me like Super Barrio on Spanish Fly.”

I stop dabbing. “Super-what?”

“Oh my god, you are so not international. He’s a famous Mexican wrestler who helps impoverished children.”

“Helps them do what?” I reach for the foundation and a sponge.

“Who cares! Anyway, she tastes like a total French stereotype: red wine and cigarettes, and it’s almost making me nauseous; but then she stops and jumps on top of the little toilet seat that leads to nowhere, and says ‘Eeet ma chatte.’”

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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.

There is something about this picture that really says it all to me. The man is being taken by a woman. Perhaps he just met her, perhaps it’s a regular tryst. His wife, in the corner, is watching him. Of course she’s not really there, but he knows she’s there. No matter how good the blow job or how tight the pussy, he can’t deny she exists. And his wife is not alone either. She may not be enjoying it, because perhaps she’s doing it out of spite, but once trust is broken anything goes.

And there’s the rub.

I’ve been there; the cheater, the other woman, and the scorned lover. You know what I remember? I was drunk. Cheating is not a logical decision. You’re usually wasted off your ass, set up in some swanky hotel in a different city, with a $300 expense per diem begging to be spent on that top shelf…oh wait, that was 2003. Yes, the secrecy and spontaneity can be thrilling but YOU’RE DRUNK, three sheets to the wind, off your rocker, and if you’re not and you’re cheating, you’re in a fucked up relationship and you should get out. Unless you’re in an “open” marriage or swingers, and the only reason she’s standing in the corner giving you the stink eye is because she’s pissed you ended up with the better half of the couple. More on those confessions in the Summer Season…

Sober the eff up people! As I wrote on my facebook page after I posted this Esquire article that spurred some healthy debate: When you are not completely honest with yourself and the people around you, you are simply living in a mirage of yourself. And if that metaphor doesn’t make any sense to you, just get sober before you do anything.

Now off you go to that happy hour.

From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Winter Season (CHAPTER 6: VALENTINE’S DAY MARTYRDOM)

Mr. Smyth and I walk inside. I toss the bouquet onto my coffee table. We look at each other in silence for a few moments.
     
And then, in typical drinking-all-night-and-picking-up-the guy-you’ve-been-drinking-with-all-night fashion, I grab hold of him, and we start making out hard and fast. Clumsily our hands fondle each other; clothes get unbuckled, unhooked, unbuttoned, and unzipped. We stumble toward the bedroom, then the bed, our lips furious and our hands adamant.
     
And then I pass out.
     
I wake up feeling my hangover. I turn my head and attempt to focus on my neglected alarm clock. Shit! I’m late.
     
I turn my head the other way. Shit! Mr. Smyth!
     
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I get an email the other day: I was sitting in a bar two nights ago and this very cute, somewhat drunk boy I was talking to invited me to his place to…listen to Eric Clapton. I bought him a drink but I didn’t take him up on the offer. What’s a cougar to do?

Ummm…take a pack of condoms everywhere you go. Seriously, what’s a cougar to not do. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this lately (hence the recent poll) and as far as I’m concerned, if you’re a cougar you have it all. You’re old enough to take care of yourself, and experienced enough to know exactly what you like in the sack. And the best part, you feel no pressure to get married or have kids because you’ve been there and done that. Relationships are suddenly not complicated because they don’t have to go anywhere, and there is a sea of eligible bachelors dying for a no-strings-attached rendezvous. Being a cougar is like getting to relive your twenties the way you always wanted to. So my advice to you: go ahead and be a slut. I’m so jealous.

p.s. more questions always welcome:)

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.
     
I need us to make it. I’m done fucking around. I’m twenty-eight and I don’t want to be single.
     
And I do not want to be like my older sister who has no direction or aspiration. And never wakes up before noon. And devotes all her affections to three birds and a cat. I unroll each thigh-high and try to attach the hooks evenly. I take another sip of my cocktail.

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.