The RahRahRah

"VPL"

We are talking today, of course, about Visible Panty Lines, those lumpy little lines that delineate the exact shape and placement of your undies for all the world to see.  You say you're wearing granny panties today? Yeah, I can see that, but thanks for sharing anyway. 

Most women deal with VPL every morning when getting dressed. Every day's outfit requires careful planning of proper undergarments to ensure that the outerwear is not eclipsed by the underwear. It's an exhausting practice and sometimes you just don't have the time to care...and that's the day you accidentally wear bright pink panties under white pants and you wonder why everyone keeps looking at you "down there."

Of course, you can always just go without underwear all together, although you expose yourself (no pun intended) to the risk of SAGF (Shameful Accidental Genital Flashing), not to mention it can get a bit drafty. These occupational hazards aside, there is sometimes no getting around going commando to combat VPL, especially when wearing a form-fitting dress. This is thanks to what I like to call "a negative BTPR" (Body-To-Panty Relationship). Let me explain.

I am not toned or particularly hard of body. I am soft, all over, but especially in my curvaceous bits. The result of this has been a lifelong battle against elastics.

You see, most undergarments are made with elastic bands - the contraction of the elastic is what keeps the underwear physically on your body. Now, if I had a body like a Victoria's Secret model, that contraction would probably not be such a big deal - my rock hard (or perhaps just skeletal) body would not give an inch when that elastic starts to contract. The outline of my hips would remain a smooth, unbroken curve, and would look pretty damn good in a dress! 

Well, I am not a Victoria's Secret model. When I put my underwear on, the elastic squeezes my flesh, creating a silhouette that is lumpy and bumpy. And so, when I put on a form fitting dress, it's not so much the panty lines that you are seeing - it's my mushy bum being squeezed by my skivvies.

I know I am not alone in this predicament because major lingerie companies, including Victoria's Secret, have created underwear meant to combat this problem. Thus exists "seamless" and "invisible" panties, underwear made of thin, soft material that lacks that severe elastic that cuts into your flesh. Well, I've tried these panties. They don't work. No matter how thin the material, or how forgiving the elastic, those panties still hug my body in all the wrong ways and because I don't have a butt that you can bounce quarters off of, I always end up with that lumpy bumpy look. I guess I could always just wear underwear about two sizes too big for me, but then I'd end up with baggy undies bunching up under my dress. I'm no fashion expert, but something tells me that that would be no better.

As you can see, I do not have a good BTPR. It's the elastic that is the rub, and if you're like me, it don't matter if it's granny panties or g-strings that you are wearing under that dress - that pair of panties will find a way to squeeze your tissue most unbecomingly, giving you a bad case of VPL and threatening to ruin your entire night. What's a girl to do.

Where a woman wears panties, there will always be panty lines.  I think we're just going to have to accept a sobering rule of thumb here: Sometimes, just sometimes, clothing and panties simply do not mix. SAGF be damned -  Tonight, I'm going commando.

Thank you to Kelly Reid of Brooklyn, New York, for this topic.

**Author's note: There are a few words in the English lexicon that make me decidedly uncomfortable and pink in the cheek. "Panties" is one of them. I hate this word and I'm not the only one who feels that way. For a hilarious article about the use of "panties" as a word, read THIS. You men out there should pay particular attention to the last two sentences of Paragraph 2. 

"Door Tags"

I would just die if you ever walked in on me:

1) Having sex.

2) Removing unwanted hair.

3) Vamping in the mirror.

4) Having made-up, speak-out-loud conversations with people who only exist in my head.

Yes, I do all these things, but no, you will NEVER catch me doing them. My fantasies about Ryan Reynolds are nobody's business but my own, thank you very much (but for the record, those fantasies do not involve hair removal).

I prefer to keep personal and private things "personal and private." Unfortunately, privacy is hard to come by when you live with other people. For ten of the last eleven years, I have lived with roommates, making me an expert at secrecy and stealth. Thankfully, I have never been walked in on doing anything mortifying, but I have caught some of my roommates in the middle of several embarrassing acts. 

For instance, I once caught a roommate flirting with himself in the mirror. He had been home alone trying on shirts in preparation for a big night out. From what I could gather, this process involved striking a GQ pose in the mirror while casting a sexy smile at his reflection. He had left his bedroom door wide open.

Now, preening ain't all that bad - Hey, I do it all the time! I wouldn't have thought twice about what my roommate was doing had he not totally caught me catching him in the act. In mid-pose, he saw my reflection behind him in the mirror, and he jumped. He tried to act casual, like it was perfectly normal to wear a designer shirt with pajama pants at 3:00 in the afternoon, but we both knew that I knew that he had been macking on himself. He got all awkward and shifty; that made me awkward and shifty. I tried to think of something, ANYTHING, to say in that split second: "What's for dinner," perhaps. Or, "What's on TV?" Anything but what I actually wanted to say: "What the hell are you doing?"

Embarrassment sucks, but feeling embarrassed for someone else is even worse. There is nothing quite like feeling ashamed on behalf of another person. It's a combination of sympathy, pity, inappropriate humor and relief (that it didn't happen to you) that always leaves me feeling awkward and, well, embarrassed. So really, in the end, when you catch someone in a compromising situation, everyone loses! God help us.

Luckily, we have invented many things to help us preserve privacy and avoid embarrassment: Doors, locks on doors, curtains, Keep Out signs, vicious dogs, booby traps. Hotels provide guests with door tags. People on TV are always hanging lingerie or socks on door knobs to warn roommates that salacious acts are underway. Well, I don't know about you, but I have never known anyone in real life to actually hang clothing on doors, and I am always embarrassed to use the door tag in a hotel. I mean, doesn't a door tag do exactly what you DON'T want?: They tell the whole world that you are up to something on the down low! And no matter what it is you are doing in there, you know that everyone is going to think you're up to something perverted and nasty.

There is just no winning.

Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I must away.
I've some unwanted hair that needs removing.

Thank you to Young Hee Kim of Washington D.C. for this topic.

"My baby sister has breast cancer"

Everytime I visit my doctor, I prepare myself for the worst: A simple blood test could reveal that I have a terminal illness that I never knew about, an awful condition that was waiting to ambush my life when I least expected it. Call me a worrier, call me a coward, but I admit that I am terrified this will happen to me.

Is that so silly? After all, these things DO happen to people...

In fact, it happened to Marty, my friend Erin's baby sister.

When Marty was either 28 or 29 years old, breast cancer picked her out as its new best friend...and Marty had no idea. She had noticed a few lumps in her breasts before, but her doctors assured her that it was nothing. After all, breast cancer is rare - very rare - in young women. Like, .04% rare. It almost never happens. Marty continued on with her life and at the age of 30, she married the man of her dreams and started a new life with him and their three children. She was very happy.

But then Marty began suffering from excruciating pain all over her body, pain that was so bad she sometimes couldn't walk. Something was not right, so she went back to the doctors. This time, they told her that she had breast cancer. Stage 4 breast cancer, to be exact. The cancer had metastasized, spreading to her skeletal system. In no time at all, the tumors weakened her bones so much that they broke just from walking around. She's gone through radiation and hormone treatment. She's had her hip replaced. She's gone through forced menopause and chemotherapy and she's now facing a mastectomy and reconstruction.

Marty is 32 years old.

If this is just another sad story of an unfortunate person to you, someone suffering from something you know must really suck but you can't really relate, let me help put it into perspective. Think back to any frustrating moment you have ever experienced - something trivial, like being the next person in line at the bank only to have the second to last teller window close on you. "Man," you think, "this shit only happens to me." (I don't know about you, but I sometimes feel like this several times a day.)

Now, take that bit of bad luck and turn it into something deadly that really truly almost never happens to ANYONE...but it happens to you.  Something like, say, being a young woman in the prime of her life and discovering you have Stage 4 breast cancer. So now, something is trying to take your life away and you are very nearly the only person like you having to fight against it. Just how scary, sad, unfair, frustrating, and infuriating that must feel, I cannot imagine, but I can see how you would feel so...all alone.

Marty is the younger sister of my good friend, Erin Seitz, a pastry chef at Public Restaurant. This year, like last year, Erin will be walking for her sister in the Avon Walk to raise money and awareness for breast cancer and breast cancer research. She needs to raise $1800 and I am asking you to please help her. Erin's Avon Page

So the question is: Why should you? You don't know Marty. And who has money to spare in this economic recession? Besides, others will most likely give, so your contribution won't be missed.

These are all valid points, and I won't argue with you. But here is why I think you should give: You may not know Marty, you may not have a lot of money to spare, you may think your help isn't needed. But by helping, you show Marty that she is not alone. You show her that just because she's not like us right now - the perfectly healthy - she is still one of us. That although cancer has singled her out for a battle that only she can fight, we want her to win because we know it could have been, and can still be, one of us. That even though we cannot fight with her, we are supporting her any way we can. 

The money goes to a great cause: breast cancer research that will hopefully cure Marty and save millions of women in the future. But in the end, I think that our contributions to things like this mean much more than the value of the dollars we give. They show Marty, and people like her everywhere, that although cancer is incredibly unfair, life has surrounded her with as much love and support as she needs to get through it. Every dollar that is given - even if you can only give one dollar - stands for one more person behind Marty giving her strength and reason to fight hard.

Please donate to Erin's Avon Walk cause for Marty by visiting her Avon page:

Erin's Avon Page

It can be just one dollar. Anything you want.

If you want your contribution to go directly to helping Marty and her family as she fights her cancer, that can be arranged as well. Email me at TheRahRahRah@gmail.com.

If you cannot contribute anything right now, please pass on this article to everyone you know. I promise to tell Marty just how many hits this article gets so that your spirit of support is passed on to her.

By all accounts, Marty is a much stronger and more courageous person than me. She has done remarkably well over the last year and has remained in good spirits. She made a recent trip to New York City to visit Erin, and she even walked all over town like a true local! So you see, Marty doesn't need your pity. She needs your support, as does her family. Let's show them we are all in this together.

Thank you to Erin Seitz of Brooklyn, New York, for this topic. Erin's Avon Page

"The process of making Lace Doilies"

I am not a tatter (one who makes lace), and I own no doilies (alas), so you almost stumped me with this topic. But, what with technology these days, a few clicks on the Google pointed me in the direction of someone kind enough to help me defend my facade of wisdom: Lady Shuttlemaker, tatter extraordinaire.

The process of making a lace doily is called tatting a doily. When you tat a doily, you basically make thousands of tiny little knots to create lace in your chosen doily design. According to Lady Shuttlemaker, it can take "weeks and weeks and dozens of hours" to tat a lace doily; she once made a doily that was comprised of 9,456 double knots. That's a lot of freaking knots.

Needless to say, making lace doilies is pretty hard and time-consuming work and, as Lady Shuttlemaker pointed out, so many things can go wrong: You can have thread run out on you. You can have thread break or get tangled. You can make tragic miscalculations in your pattern that "can take hours to correct and be disastrous to one's enthusiasm." Indeed. Unless you really, really wanted that lace doily on your table, the odds are great that you may just abandon the whole project altogether. 

Take it from me, I know. Although I have never had the pleasure of tatting a doily in my life (but I have quite enjoyed saying "tat a doily" in the last few days), I did once start a cross-stitch quilt that featured a pastel picture of baby animals romping around in the jungle. This was supposed to be a gift to my newborn nephew. He's two now. At the rate I'm going on this blanket, he'll get it just in time to take it with him to college...or, you know, never.

Things that require a ton of effort on our part are naturally - surprise surprise - the hardest things to complete, especially when you have no real obligation to anyone or anything to ever see them through. When I take a stroll through Memory Lane, I always stumble upon a heap of rubble made up of the things I started and then put aside for whatever reason. I obviously didn't care enough to see these things through to completion, but why, then, do I always feel a little guilty and regretful that I didn't finish what I started? 

When we were in school, we were forced to complete all our homework and see all our projects to the close. Otherwise, we'd fail the class. Although we are not being graded on our lives, perhaps it doesn't feel good to have incomplete endeavors hanging over our heads because they are, in essence, failures on our part. They're a reflection of the effort we couldn't find, the time we didn't carve out, the commitment we shrugged off. Finishing something like a doily may not rank as an extremely important affair on the activities we can engage in, so it's understandable that things like this might get pushed off for a later date, but to fail to ever complete it? Well, you take a walk down Memory Lane and tell me if there aren't a few things you don't regret finishing. They may not make you feel all that bad, but they may not make you feel all that proud of anything, either. 

In completing something to the end, we stretch our limits of patience and effort, and the reward is not only the completion of the project, but pride in the classic cliche: Overcoming A Challenge. In fact, we may be surprised at how meaningful an activity turns out to be, precisely because of how miserable it was. 

As Lady Shuttlemaker says, "Tatting is very time consuming, but I think because of the time and work involved, it is also very rewarding in the end."

So go on, you - tat that doily. And don't forget to finish it.

Thank you to Brian Wendlandt of New York City for this topic. Thank you also to Lady Shuttlemaker for her time and tatting knowledge. Visit her Etsy shop at www.LadyShuttlemaker.Etsy.com.

"When Borrowing becomes Keeping"

A few years ago, I went home to Hawaii for the holidays. Hawaii winters can be humid and hot and you don't want to be the unlucky girl who is caught outside without anything to tie her hair up with. Trust me: There is nothing worse than when your hair sticks to the back of your neck on a muggy day. As the way most things go in my life, I was that unlucky girl.

I asked my friend, Lauren, if she had anything I could borrow to tie my hair with. She handed me a yellow hairband with a knot in it, as if it had snapped apart long ago and she had painstakingly tied it back together to repair it. I accepted it with enormous respect and seriousness - Lauren had gone to great lengths to save that hairband. She obviously loved it very much, and I had to be sure to return it.

Well, hoooooo-wee! Did I come to love that hairband, too! I know it's so very humdrum, but I'm sorry: It was the best damn hairband ever. It was thick, strong and mightily elastic. I swear that it even made my hair look better. By the end of the day, I didn't want to give it back. 

If you've been reading this column long enough, I'm sure you can guess what I did. Yup! I kept it! I told myself that I would of course return the hairband if Lauren asked for it back, but she didn't ask for it back. The correct thing to do would have been to get my own hairband and return hers promptly, but hers was just so great. 

And that was when borrowing became keeping.

Why is borrowing so complicated? It's a simple concept: If you borrow something, return it. We all know this, but I bet we all have a few things on our shelves that don't actually belong to us. Take me for instance. Books, combs, hairbands, sleeping bags, an aquarium - these are all things I have borrowed and just......never returned. You may actually be the owner of this stuff. I like to think of myself as a reliable person, but why I have not returned these things to you, I have no idea. And why you have not asked for your stuff back: equally mystifying. 

I never understand how people can just forget about things they lend out. When I let someone borrow anything, I always remember it and I warn the borrower that failure to return the item will result in a loss of life. But the thing is, I find it awkward to have to ask for my things back, especially if it's something trivial like a pen or a book. I don't really like having to say, "Yo man, where's my shit?"  No, I'd rather wait for you to just return it, on good faith. But that's when things get tricky.

That's when borrowing becomes keeping.

Because you never really know if the person doing the borrowing is going to return your stuff. They could lose it. They could forget that you lent it to them. They might move away and take your stuff with them. Or they might just like the damn thing so much that they hold on to it, hoping that you'll eventually forget about it or that possessing it for a certain length of time automatically grants them ownership. I am guilty as charged.

But the story does have a happy ending. I eventually returned to Hawaii for another trip home and this time around, on a particularly hot and humid day, it was Lauren who was the sorry girl without a hairband. She asked if I had anything she could borrow. I did: Her yellow hairband. I sheepishly handed it back to her, profusely apologizing for having held onto it for so long. I told her that I knew I should have returned it sooner, that I could see that it had been special to her because she had taken the time to repair it and that I should have respected that and just given it back right away. 

She looked at me like I was the village idiot. "What are you talking about, Anna? It was just a hairband. I don't care. Anyway, it was made with a knot in it, I have about 10 more like it."

It was a classic case of "One man's trash is another man's treasure." When borrowing becomes keeping, it could just be that the lender doesn't want their crap back. It could just be that if you had returned it, they would have given it to you anyway. That doesn't say anything good about YOU, you stealer, but maybe it'll help you sleep better at night (and by "YOU" I do mean "ME").

Only you can prevent borrowing from becoming keeping, but don't listen to me. As I have just shown you, I'm no better than the next person and I know that none of you are ever going to let me borrow anything ever again. I guess I can't really blame you, but can I ask you for just one last thing? 

Can you please return my sweater now?

Thank you to Omar Sanders of New Jersey for this topic.

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"Puppies in space"

I've just realized that my imagination is probably best left to talk to and spit up on itself in some dark corner of my mind, not unlike that relative you keep locked up in a closet far away from decent company.

I was terrifically excited to pen a short story about baby doggies in outer space. Sad, I know, but true. It has been about 10 years since I have written a short story and I was eager to make a new contribution to the world's stock of tales. I now perceive that the world has not missed out on anything of quality during that span of time. What follows is the gist of my creation:

A trio of exceedingly cute puppies are stowaways in the pantry of a spaceship. The puppies snore really loudly at night,the sound traveling through the vents and keeping the residents of the ship awake and grumpy. Everyone wonders: What is causing this awful sound? And: How can it be stopped? 

A team of able-bodied men is put together and assigned the task of unearthing the source of the sound. Captain of the ship commissions a huge gala to kick off the mission. Chef of the ship is enjoined to create a fantastic menu befitting the occasion.

Chef is actually talentless and agonizes over creating the perfect menu. The night before the gala, Chef goes down to his pantry, hoping to be struck by inspiration, or by lightning.

Chef discovers puppies. Chef worries that he will be humiliated for not having known about the stowaways. 

Chef kills puppies, chops them to bits, and serves them as stew at the next night's gala.

"Huh," I thought when I got to this part, "Now where did THAT come from?"

Imaginations are interesting things. Without them, the world would be a lot less colorful and I'm sure that people would get into a lot less trouble. Personally, I can't say that I have ever had an overactive imagination - I didn't spend my childhood daydreaming during class and I've never talked to invisible friends that dressed up like clowns. There was one time I spent an entire school day in the eighth grade speaking with a bad Brooklyn accent and demanding to be called Laverne, but that had more to do with an episode of 90210 that I had watched rather than my own creative brilliance. When I did turn on my imagination, it was all fairies and talking flowers and Brad Pitt.

So, I'm seriously shocked to discover that, after years of neglect, my imagination has turned into a murderous entity hellbent on committing dogicide. Honest to God, I love puppies. I do! I would never do them any harm. Who would? They're cute and cuddly and they poop all over the place. I love puppy poo! No, I swear to God I would never do anything to harm a pooch...but I can tell you who would: The Russians.

In late 1957, a mongrel dog from the streets of Moscow became the first creature to survive in outer space. Laika - or, as the Americans liked to call her, Muttnik - was a three-year-old Siberian husky who had been rescued from vagrancy by the Soviet space mission. My resources say that she was "trained for spaceflight," but what on earth that even entailed I do not know. I do know that she was placed in a life support system that looked something like an oven, and this was placed in Sputnik 2, and that was launched into outerspace. Sputnik 2 was outfitted with everything Laika needed to stay alive - everything, that is, except for one small, itty-bitty, practically insignificant detail: a system that enabled the vessel to return to Earth safely instead of blowing up into bits once it hit the stratosphere. 

Bye bye, Muttnik. 

Those damn Russians.

I'm not really saying that Russians are puppy killers, at least not on the whole. I'm just pointing out, in my defense, that puppies were dying in space long before my demented mind conceived of puppy stew. Even still, I remain slightly disturbed with my imagination and I suspect that it cannot be fully trusted. So off it goes back to its closet where it will eat cottage cheese and be refused baths until it learns to behave itself in public. 

That day may never come, but rest assured: the world (and outer space) will be a whole lot safer for puppies. 

Thank you to Caleb Mitchell of Portland, Oregon, for this topic.

"Advice to young girls"

I have something rather embarrassing to confess: It seems that I have bamboozled you all into thinking that I possess sage wisdom of any sort. God save me, because I don't. But, I guess I have some experience in growing up as a girl, and I was paying attention for most of the time, so here, in no particular order, I humbly offer you my advice to young girls.

#1: You have a mind. Use it. Be smart, and by that I don't mean that you have to be the best in your class. Be informed about things and be proud of your knowledge. Have an opinion and share it. Stick up for yourself. Your mind is your most important and impressive gift, far more than your looks. A pretty face may stir up some attention, but a beautiful mind captivates everyone. Don't act dumb.

#2: Learn how to install an air conditioner. Learn how to put up blinds. Learn how to set up your Airport hub. Be a handygal. You'll be amazed at how easy all of these things are, and you'll save yourself the trouble of having to ask someone else to do it for you.

#3: Learn to take care of yourself. Be independent. Don't expect someone else to solve all your problems. Over the course of 28 years, I have learned how to manage my own money, how to find a job, how to rent an apartment, how to negotiate, and how to trim my cat's scratchy nails. I have moved myself into new homes, purchased my own jewelry, fed myself, paid rent on time and never asked my mother for money. There are times when I work 18 hour days, sometimes 6 days in a row. I work hard for what I want. You do the same. It's not always easy - in fact, it's pretty hard going. All I can tell you is that there is nothing more comforting and rewarding than having the confidence of knowing that you can see yourself through anything. Be strong, don't be helpless. 

#4: Have at least one special recipe that you are the best at making. Mine?: Spam Fried Rice. 

#5: Have close friendships with girls. I was always a girl who got along great with boys, and at one point or another I may have had more guy friends than lady pals. In the end, however, it is my friendships with other girls that have gotten me through life. Despite our individual challenges, girls understand each other's feelings, dreams and frustrations. So many times, I have been surprised to find that my girlfriends have been through the same things as me, and the advice they had for me always rang true. Cherish your girlfriends, and be a good friend to them.

#6: Dream big. No, seriously, I mean BIG. You can do whatever you want, and you can change your mind, too, at any time. Remember that stuff I said about working really hard? This is where that should be put to use. 

#7: Yes, the boy who teases you on the playground is doing it because he likes you. But don't worry so much about that booger-head! Boys are cute - believe me, I know! But boys can also wait. Someday, when you are married, you will spend 40-50 years listening to your husband fart, picking up his dirty laundry and forgiving his inability to live up to human standards of cleanliness. While you are young and free, explore your own interests, travel, learn to play an instrument, laugh, and always remember there are many fish in the sea! Live life for yourself. If you do so, you'll be much happier when you eventually find Mr. or Mrs. Right.

#8: You will go through some awkward years, yes. You will suffer pimples, gain weight, and not know what to do with your body once your curves take over. You probably won't always feel good about yourself when this happens, but hold fast to that self-esteem, even if it sometimes feels like you are defending an illusion. When I was in highschool, my face was blanketed with acne, I didn't know what to do with my hair, I wore glasses and I had chubby cheeks. Today, I still have those chubby cheeks, but my face is clear, I actually own nice clothes and my hair is finally cooperating with the team. Relax - you will turn out just great.

#9: Your parents are only human, not monsters from planet Hard as Hell. Someday, you will find yourself sounding just like them, and when you are an adult and don't feel ready for all the responsibilities of the real world, you'll realize that your parents probably never felt ready either. Someday, you're going to view them as cute and funny. You probably won't believe me right now, but that's something to think about later.

#10: Relish your youth but don't be afraid to turn 25 and don't dread getting even older than that. The older you get, the more you know about yourself, the less you apologize for your likes and dislikes, the more you have what you want and the more comfortable you feel in your own skin. Trust me when I say life gets better the older you get. Really, no tricks. 

Listen, I am not a wise woman. I don't have all the answers. I've made many mistakes, I've come to many grand conclusions about life, I've had many farfetched ideas. I have changed my mind repeatedly and I've often doubted my actions. I've taken perhaps far too many chances. Take my advice with a grain of salt. But, if it's any consolation, I can tell you that I regret nothing in my life, and I think I turned out okay. I am sure you will too.

Thank you to Anne Loder of New York City for this topic.

"Why is being mean and bad easier than being good sometimes?"

Between the ultimate extremes of Good and Bad is a very fuzzy gray space that is purely subjective. I am not going to enter into a debate about what is right or wrong, although I think we can all agree on general ideas of Good and Bad. All I want to do is talk about why it is so damn hard to be good sometimes.

Once, when I was in the fourth grade, I was completely unprepared for a pop quiz in math. I didn't have the vaguest clue how many fish Raul had in his stupid basket. Who cares how much money Lucy made babysitting? I normally aced my exams and now all I wanted to do was pull my hair out. But, I was the teacher's pet, I was the girl that got all the A's. I couldn't just FAIL! 

So, I cheated. Lord only knows why I thought Jeremy would have all the correct answers, but I copied every single unsure pencil stroke he made on his test and turned my paper in along with everyone else.

A few days later, Mrs. Senaha called Jeremy and me up to her desk at the front of the class. She held our identical quizzes in her hand and told us that we had both failed the test. Even worse, we had had the exact same answers for every single question. "This is a very serious thing," she said. "I cannot allow cheating in my classroom."

I burned with shame about what I had done. I stared miserably at my feet, trying to come up with words to explain my actions. I was on the verge of tears and just when I opened my mouth to beg for forgiveness, Mrs. Senaha said, "Jeremy, I want you to tell me why you cheated off of Anna."

My eyes went big as saucers as Jeremy protested that he had done no such thing! Mrs. Senaha would have none of his denials, however, and she sent him home with a note to his parents. In the meantime, I did nothing. I let it all happen to Jeremy. I felt bad, but I was also relieved that I had avoided getting into trouble.

To this day, letting Jeremy take the fall stands out in my mind as the worst thing I have ever done, not for the degree of badness of my deed (certainly there are infinitely worse things one individual can do to another) but for the fact that I knew that what I was doing was wrong yet I did nothing to stop it.

Why did I do it? Easy: I didn't want my friends, teacher and mother to see that I (the good girl, the good student) had failed a test, and that I had cheated, no less. I didn't want to be humiliated or have people think badly of me. It was easier for me to just let everyone think that Jeremy, the lesser student, cheated; it was what they assumed anyway. I'm not at all proud to have thought that; in fact, I think it's pretty contemptible. I can tell you now that I have never cheated since and I wouldn't point the finger to someone else ever again.

If I knew how to get in touch with him, I'd apologize to Jeremy and tell him exactly what happened. It's probably all water under the bridge by now, but that doesn't mean I don't feel bad for what I did, and 20 years of time past doesn't erase the fact that what I did was wrong. 

We all go through the individual struggle to choose doing good over bad. In his book Why It's Hard to Be Good, Al Gini says that we do bad things because we are reluctant to do the right thing. Being good requires us to put others ahead of ourselves. This means that we must sacrifice something when we do good, and this is always hard. Who really wants to get themselves in trouble or face their own shortcomings when it's so much easier to point the finger, criticize and lay blame elsewhere? Who really wants to deny themselves anything, especially in our age of indulgence, when it would be so much easer to just take and do what you want? Being good is hard because it requires us to stop thinking about ourselves first. When we really get down to it, it can take a lifetime of practice to get good at being good.

I don't want to end this post with a platitude about going forth and being good, although I think we should try our darndest to do so. But, as with most human behavior, there's nothing like a warning of consequences to keep us in line: Being good ain't always easy, but being bad ain't a walk in the park either. Your bad deeds can haunt you and in some cases even harm you. Do your best to be good. Someday, we'll all be called up to the front of the class to explain our mistakes. Let's keep the red markings on our tests to a minimum.

Thank you to Lauren An of Honolulu,Hawaii, for this topic.

"Neighborhood Attraction"

My friend says he is attracted to the same kinds of neighborhoods as he is women: "slightly grungy, highly amusing, never sleeping" and "crazy." I don't understand the appeal of cute-yet-fucked-up girls, but anyway---my friend's observation is interesting, and I wonder if I could say the same about my 'hood and men.

As far as neighborhoods go, I'm on the quiet, clean, healthy and vibrant side of things. I like new developments that are modern and luxurious. I prefer young people and families in parks over young people and bands in dirty bars. I like to live in places with great food and culture, preferably near the water. Well, it just so happens that I am keenly attracted to successful lifeguards who like to cook in parks. What a coincidence!

If we are attracted to neighborhoods for the same reasons we are attracted to people, then it's not too big of a jump to say that choosing a place to live is akin to entering a new relationship. And that relationship, like all relationships, says a lot about us.

When I first moved to New York City, I lived right across the Hudson River in Hoboken, New Jersey. I originally refused to live anywhere with the word "hobo" in its name, and I remembered that the crazy people from Being John Malkovich lived in Hoboken, but I followed a boy out there and discovered it to be a charming town with an adorable Main Street full of shops and eateries, albeit too many overgrown jocks. My first apartment had sloping floors. When my roommate and I acquired a large bureau for the living room, we watched in dismay as it leaned alarmingly over our TV, causing my roommate to decry, "It's a freaking fun house!"

I was fresh out of college, ambitious, in love with an ex-athlete and starting a new career in advertising. I could easily say that Hoboken was all of this as well, in that it was full of young people and professionals...and did I mention a lot of overgrown jocks? In short, Hoboken was exactly what I needed when I was just starting out in New York.

Three years later, I relocated from Hoboken to the tragically hip locale of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. By then I was dating a boy who was an urban planner slash DJ. I had just quit my job in advertising to pursue my dream of acting. Moving to Brooklyn was perfect for me, although I didn't know that then - I simply moved to Brooklyn because that's where my boyfriend lived. However, Brooklyn teems with creativity. Living in such an environment and making new friends who believed in the value of their creative ideas and passions was inspiring. Part of my personality that had lain dormant during three years of corporate life reawakened. My imagination sputtered back to life and it helped me identify myself as an actor. Even if Williamsburg was grungy, dirty and not put together at all, that was okay because I was being creative and young and carefree, and it was wonderful.

Then, early this year, I spent four months living in Australia. I admit, I went there partly because of a boy (again), but it was also for so much more. I always knew that Brooklyn wasn't the perfect match for me, but I was having so much fun that who cared? Eventually, though, I broke up with the urban planner DJ and began moving away from acting when I realized that it wasn't making me happy. In time, my personality began to clash with the hipster parade of Williamsburg. It all got to be really, really annoying. I began reassessing my goals in life, trying to figure out what really made me happy and making decisions to start living the way I have always wanted to live.

So I went to Australia because I had the opportunity to. And I was astonished to find myself living on a clean, quiet street, in a modern home, near the water, with healthy people and great food all around me, a skip away from the heart of one of the most vibrant cities in the world, Sydney. It sounds too good to be true, but it's true. For the first time in my life, I felt like I had found a place where I could be deeply happy. With Sydney, it was love at first sight. 

Unfortunately, our affair lasted only four months (my visa expired). I'm back in Brooklyn now, pining away for Sydney, or at least some other place that is more in tune with me.

There is truth behind my friend's idea of neighborhood attraction, and it raises an interesting question: If we live in places that are best suited to us for certain times in our lives, what happens when we change but still linger in a place that we have metaphysically moved on from? I can tell you from experience, it's a nasty dysfunctional relationship. Stop the insanity!

So, Brooklyn, this isn't easy for me to say but I have to be honest with you: I want to break up. It's not you, it's me. I'm just in a different place. I will always remember you fondly and I hope we can still be friends. 

Thank you to Hershy Ash of New York City for this topic. You can read his blog at hershinthecity.blogspot.com

"A crush on a man who won't reciprocate your lust"

This one time, in college, I offered my body to a football player. He didn't want it.

 

Now, there's some cock-and-bull story floating around out there that boys never turn down the opportunity to have sex. Well, I can tell you a personal story that proves this to be false - all bull and no cock, if you will. Shall I regale you with the tale? Let's begin.

In the spring semester of my Junior year of college, I briefly dated a football player. We'll call him Chett. Chett had huge blue eyes and a dazzling smile.  He oozed masculinity. He had a quarterback's body and he was also very smart, writing his senior thesis about philosophy and metaphysics or some shit like that. He chased me down in the street one day at the beginning of the semester to tell me that he had admired me from afar for quite some time, and that he had promised himself he would ask me out for coffee before he graduated that year. I remember standing there stupidly in front of him, my jaw hanging open in disbelief. Holy of holies! This total hottie was asking me out! I said the only thing that seemed appropriate: "Um, okay."

A few days later, I went on my first date with Chett. I fell hard for him. We talked for five hours straight on our first date. Four weeks of coffee dates later, we were swimming in caffeine up to our eyeballs and Chett finally kissed me on top of Science Hill. All I can really remember about that kiss is that I felt like he was going to eat my chin - he had very big lips. Even still, it was electric and I quite enjoyed it. In fact, dating him and making out with him thrilled me. This was the first time in my life that I felt ready to have sex (I was a late bloomer). In other words, I was horny as hell and wanted more.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Chett was getting the picture. For about two months, all we did was kiss. I couldn't figure out what he was waiting for - after all, he was older and assumedly more experienced than me. Maybe he was just trying to do right by me. Aww, what a gentleman! It looked like I was going to have to take the bull by the horns and rip my own clothes off. I figured: I could do that.

 

So, one cold winter night, we went for a walk in the nearby park. "It's so cold outside," I said. I shivered and pressed my body against Chett's, practically forcing the pheromones out of my pores. I knew what I was getting myself into: My mother always said that if you offer a man sex, he'll only use you. This was it! 

I got even closer to Chett and kissed him. I could tell that he was turned on, if you know what I mean. I suggested that we get out of the cold and go back to his place. He pulled me close to him, wrapping his gorgeous arms around me. He looked deep into my eyes. I thought we were having a moment. Then, in a husky voice he said, "Anna, as much as I would love to take you back to my place and ravish you, I can't. I'll take you home now."

Sorry...come again? I don't think I heard you right. "You can't." Yes, you can. I'm giving you permission to ravish me. Please, ravish me as much as possible. You CAN'T?! Freaking ravish me, damnit! And who the hell says "ravish" these days anyways?

I was humiliated and completely rejected. A boy had just looked me in the eyes and said no to the #1 thing all boys are supposed to want no matter what. I must be repulsive. No one wanted to have sex with ME! I wasn't attractive! Or sexually appealing! I wore glasses! And now I was a two-bit hussy.  :(  It took me a while to get over this one.

Looking back, there were probably a bunch of reasons why Chett refused to reciprocate my lust: Maybe he didn't want to get too involved with me (the relationship ended shortly thereafter). Maybe he had a secret girlfriend. Maybe he was impotent. Or maybe he was gay - this was, after all, a guy who suggested one night that we go to Ethan Allen Furniture Store and pretend that we were engaged so we could pick out our dream living room set. Hmmm.

So, there you go. There are men out there who will turn down sex. There are men out there who enjoy furniture shopping. And apparently there are men out there who still use the word "ravish." Who knew? 

Thank you to S.S. of New York city for this topic.