Definition of The Metrosexual Male

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I have a fashionable, Baptist friend that finds sanctification in all things Christian...

Louboutin, Lacroix, and Dior...that is!

This fashionable friend is an anomaly in DC, because he can debate the relevance of politics and prose and the irrelevance of polkadots and ponchos. This friend is the epitome of an Upper East Side Manhattan, VISA Black Card-carrying, curly-haired, perfect-skin having, bleached-white teeth buppie. This friend is (and still could be) the ideal candidate for AKA Sorority EXCEPT he's a dude and he believes their official colors -  salmon pink and apple green - are so 2001!

Mr. Swagg (because he's the definition of...) would rather wear a fake polo from Wal-Mart than step his Marc Jacobs Oxford in the basement of ANY bargain store EVER. So how he became friends with a 23+  lover of Forever 21 - a woman's store packed with 98% nylon, $5 dresses, 16-year old allowance spenders and young professionals on a budget (raises hand) is beyond me....

Mr. Swagg is the gay BFF I've been looking for all my life, except he exclusively loves women (eliminating the gay part), and gives me a mad case of paranoia whenever I shoe shop for pumps at Payless (eliminating the BFF part).

He is someone I have tried to define for going on 324 days (<--respect the diligence), and all I've come up with is Mr. Swagg (the definition of...a Metrosexual Male).  In other words, he is totally in touch with his masculinity but not afraid to embrace the finer things in life (mani's, pedi's, pu@%!*).  He's flyy, smells fresh, stays clean, loves women and is able to converse about more than just basketball and beer (<---though he can do that too)

MOST IMPORTANTLY, Metrosexual Mr. Swagg understands CODE PINK girl talk and can provide the ever, elusive, desperately sought after: GUY OPINION.  Which was what I was looking for as I continued my quest to find out if  my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark (say that 2x fast) could still be a straight man despite having an inclination to munch carpet while calling his best friend boo with a winkface ;-)

"What's the deal Bree-dizzle?"

Swagg and I were sitting at a trendy restaurant on 7th Street called Oya where the chopsticks are sexy and the food is served in cute little miniature dishes that Forever 21+ me wanted to sneak in my purse (hey, it's a recession)!

"Dude, I think my girlfriend's, boyfriend Mark might be gay but I don't know."

Swagg glared at me from across the table.  At first I thought he was about to chastise me for wearing a dress from Target outside of the 'burbs, but then I realized....

"Rolled-Up Jeans Guy?" he asked.

he and I had already discussed boyfriend Mark a few weeks back in my attempt to bond with him over a fashion faux paus that wasn't mine (thankya Lawd!).

The gchat went something like this:

ME: "So Charm's boyfriend Mark had Double-Cuffed jeans on the other day."
SWAGG: "LOL...tell me he's from Europe?"
ME: "He's NOT from Europe."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "But he..."
SWAGG: "Whack"
ME: "They've been together for like...."
SWAGG: "Dude is whack or he's gay."
ME: "He's so not whack, though."

Then Swagg hit me with a Wendy Williams "How you doin'" and the conversation ended with Swagg emailing me an article about the all the reasons why rolled-up jeans were wrong (and whack and possibly gay...unless of course the dude wearing them was European - but dude in question was not though).

"It's deeper than a pants roll!" I said sliding one sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag and giving him the low down of the pictures boyfriend Mark carried of Midnight Rob in his wallet, the miss you messages between the two and the winkface.

Swagg looked underwhelmed. 

"So, what do you think?" I asked.

"Breez-tizzle, you may be clueless in fashion" (OUCH!) "But it doesn't take a genius to figure this one out. It's like a girl buying a Pucci bag - looks like one - but all you have to do is pay attention to realize it's a knockoff. A P looks nothing like a G, Bree-tonia!"

My Pucci bag suddenly felt disrespected!
 
Swagg (because he's the defintion of...) knew all about the bait and switch.  Being a curly-haired, pretty-boy metrosexual male that could never be found without a fresh shape-up, Swagg always got approached by men that thought he played for the Homo team!  And though his open mind was never offended, he was always clear where his hetero interest lay - with a green-eyed lady nicknamed Mulan, who had an eclectic personality that matched her sense of style.  Besides, she was the only other person he knew that lit an Archipelago candle (google it!) when Alexander McQueen took his life!

She was what he really wanted to discuss over cute little china and sushi at Oya.

So while I discreetly tucked the other sexy chopstick in my Pucci bag, and thought how I would tell Charm that boyfriend, carpet-munching Mark did not fit the definition of (a....Metrosexual), I wondered how often do women find themselves in a situation when a man's actions leave her wondering if she was dating a knock-off instead of the real thing?

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Come back next week and read about a How a Metrosxual Man Date's in DC....
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The Tail End of a Boo

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"I think she should just wait until he's sleeping and stick her finger in his..."

It was the tail end of Spring and one of those muggy DC afternoons where the air smelled of sweaty metro mixed with overheated tourist.  Flower Child and I were on our way to meet Southern Charm, who had called a CODE PINK (a.k.a.  emergency girls-only powow) to discuss the meaning of a "boo" and a "winkface."

Allow me to explain!


Two days prior, pre-boo, pre-winkface, and pre-CODE PINK,  Charm had broken into her boyfriend's gmail account desperate to find out if  it was alright to show a bit more of her bad girl side OR keep her Southern girl act going just a little bit longer.  After a few keyword searches -  "date," "kiss," "girlfriend"  - had confirmed she was the only lady in his life, she sighed satisfied and ready to show her Sasha Fierce. Then a window popped up...

"Hey Boo ;-)"

From Rob.

At Midnight.

....

It seemed that, although Charm was definitely the only lady, she may not have been the only love!

A "wtf, gtfoh, omg" three-way call ensued soon after, with us three fiercely debating the interpretation of "boo" and a winkface.  Maybe Rob was trying to frighten him electronically, and the winkface was an attempt to assuage his fears.  Perhaps Rob was short for Roberta (which wouldn't be any better - BTW)

Maybe it was all a mistake...

Either way none of us could agree, hence the impromptu meeting at La Tasca,  a Spanish restaurant that afforded us the chance to play the "what's that" game with our waiter Papi and had just enough sangria to assist us in pondering over the meaning of a semicolon paired with a parenthesis.

"I think you should stick your finger in his..."

But Charm was paying no attention to Flowerchild, instead she was slamming dozens of copied and pasted gchat conversations on the table like Johnny Cochran in Chanel.

Scandalous snippets jumped out of a sea of vowels and consonants, secret conversations between boyfriend Mark and Midnight Rob:


"Remember when I had you face down on the carpet."
"I'm not just a hit it or quit it type of dude."
"Can't wait to get down with you later. Miss you, my man!"

To Mark's credit.  He hadn't actually said he had sexual relations with that man. Then again, neither had Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky trial.

Maybe this had been ALL been a coincidence! Maybe they were both just two, straight men extremely comfortable with calling each other boo?

But then Charm started recalling how Mark enjoyed sporadic weekend excursions to see a male friend (gmail revealed twas Rob), the one picture he carried in his wallet (twas Rob, too), and the way he wore his jeans rolled up 4 inches above the ankle despite being 110 miles from the nearest beach (twas Rob's fashion tip as well).


Were these examples Ru-Paul suspect.

Maybe! 

But so was Fonsworth Bentley's neon-colored bow-tie and umbrella (in 90 degree weather, not a cloud in the sky!)

This did not make him gay, though...

So it brought us back to evaluating his words (the truth he told when noone was looking)....AND the words that none of us girls could really understand because like the La Tasca menu in espanol, they were all coded up in secret-boy language and all we knew was CODE PINK girl talk.

Deciding if another person was gay wasn't as easy as asking "what's that" to Papi or deciphering vague references to carpet munching and rolled-up pants.

Maybe you couldn't really call a man guy unless he self-identified himself as such first. 

Flowerchild had an idea, "Try sticking your finger in his..."

But Charm and I barely heard her on the way out the door.  Suddenly the idea of eating a Legal Sea Food where we knew exactly what was on the menu of options seemed a bit more appetizing.

Later that night Charm texted me and said:

"He finally told me the deal :-?"

Now it was my turn to decipher exactly what that emoticon meant. 


...........

Stay tuned later this week for "boyfriend Mark's"response
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Facebook Pimping & Sexy Status Updates

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I first employed the skill of "deception" the moment I grew tired of running down my 5th grade crush, jumping on his back, and getting mushed in my face as I attempted to give him a kiss.

I couldn't understand why my little boy crush was more amused with kicking rocks than kissing me! 

So, I abandoned back jumping in favor of a new approach.  If the boy was afraid of cooties, I would tell him that the answer to a cootie-free life was printed on the inside of my bottom lip. Eager to be cootie-less, the boy-in-question, would dive in to take a look and....VOILA...my first kiss would occur!

And, it did - in fact - happen that way.  He leaned in to take a look and I took my first kiss, and though the boy walked away with more cooties than he had before, I - all kissed up and happy - learned that persuasion yielded more results than force. 

Deception, I thought - or "the art of making false information seem real" - was the answer to never being mushed in my dainty, little, 5th grade face again.

I have since put the playground games to rest, opting instead to tackle another virtual realm of opportunity.  Enter: Facebook Status Update!  The method whereby women are able to convince unsuspecting boys (over 21) that they do things they actually do NOT...such as:  wash their cars and shave their armpits every other day.

My girls and I called it Facebook Pimping, the new playground ploy to get a kiss. 

For example, a woman didn't have to know the difference between a field goal and a three-point shot, as long as she updated her status every time "the game was on" (discreetly copying updates from her little brother's status).

SCORE!

Likewise, if she talked about boiling collards and frying chicken (even while she ordered Kung Fu chicken for delivery)...she could obtain instant comments and dating options in a matter of nanoseconds!  

Facebook Pimping - we dubbed it - the new, online equivalent of getting a man's attention WITHOUT hooker heels and a get 'em girl dress but via 180 characters in a small, white window.

On this particular day, I was bursting a few brain cells trying to figure out how I would pimp my Facebook status.... My current status had generated a measly 2 "likes" and 1 comment:

Bree is just getting home from work.
To which...
Flowerchild commented: But it's Friday, you're lame....

I was momentarily ashamed that my Friday's were never as interesting or acrobatic as Flowerchild's...

I scrolled through a few status updates and found Longwalk's....

Longwalk is home listening to old school Justin Timberlake and OD'ing on a few bag of skittles.
He was probably scratching his balls, texting and watching Family Gay.
I left a comment, anyway....Save me a skittle :-)

Next was...

Big Chocolate...ya'll boys just left with a car full of boys, but me I left the party with a dime. you know how Big Chocolate get's down...

Starfish69 Jones Commented: thanks for gettin' it right last night, boo

Big Chocolate Replied: anytime "mama."

I guess Big Chocolate had found a place to shove his "pretty, shitty key" after all.

It seemed like everyone had a facebook gimmick but me...so I tried a few...

Bree is looking for a good reception to attend.

No Likes, No Comments

Bree is dowloading Janet Jackson's "I Get Lonely"

No Likes, No Comments

Bree wants at least 1 of her 400 friends to comment on her status

To Which...
Flowerchild Commented: WTF, Bree. It's Friday! Get out of the house!

Bree at this point was wondering if Flowerchild was having so much fun, why the heck was she all up on (yes allupon <-- one word) my Facebook page...I posted again....

Bree is putting on the mini dress and stiletto heels. 

(Then I changed my profile pic to me wearing a dress from BeBe that was 14 inches above my knee and had a neckline that was on a serious quest to meet my bellybutton)
22 Likes, 17 Comments (and counting)

I felt momentarily triumphant, as my tata's stared back at me from my Facebook picture.  Then I had a "WTF am I doing?" moment and realized I had officially become the newest DC Madame and pimped myself.  I quickly took down the picture and deleted the update. 

If I had to get a man by utilizing the art of deception, than what type of "pimps up, ho's down" game would I have to employ to keep him?

I went for a safer status update instead....

Bree is learning to be 100% myself.   I am me.  Take it or leave it.

I got 1 like and 1 comment, surprisingly from the guy in the 5th grade who had me eating concrete until I convinced him to look inside my bottom lip.  But now, one degree and 15 years later, he was smarter than the little boy of yesterday.  He had moved past kicking rocks to reading books like the one he had listed: Think and Grow Rich!

I sent him a message....

hey you, it's the former cootie queen! i just finished reading Think & Grow Rich!! hit me back if you're interested in chatting about it.

If Facebook Pimping could be defined as attracting attention in 180 characters or less.  I had successfully accomplished this goal MINUS the hook 'em girl heels and get 'em girl dress and still managed to keep it all the way 100% me!

...........

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Beyonce v. Sasha Fierce....Meeting a Man's Representative!

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Hi!  My name is Breeanne (that's one word).
I am 20 (something)
I am from Chicago (the Southside)
I am a journalist (for a really boring periodical...so...)
I like reading on my free time (really girly, ridiculously romantic, novels) ...AND...
I like cupcakes (from Georgetown Cupcakes MINUS the long line).

These are all the details that I share on my Facebook, Twitter and used to share on my Myspace page when folks still logged on religiously 25 years ago.  I also share these details with random men that ask me "what yo name is," with potential contacts at networking events, and during the 7 minute wait for the metro train.


These details are my Beyonce, before I introduce a man to my Sasha Fierce!  They represent a small snapshot of me, a small innocent pile of meaningless facts that allow a person get to know my representative!  And, trust me, everyone in the District of Columbia (and any major city or small town) has a representative!

On this day while having ice cream with Big Chocolate (my blind date from two weeks ago), I was slowly revealing a few unknowns about myself like: where I got my new pair of shoes for 75% off, my six week fast from red meat, and how I preferred granny panties over boy shorts! The latter was totally inappropriate (I know!) but hey...in the interest of revealing the unknown....

Satisfied with my reveal, I mentally brushed off my shoulder, popped my proverbial collar...and dared Big Chocolate to show me the man behind his representative.

Well, "mama" he said....

I am 29. (good!)
I am from Atlanta (getting better, I love a Southern boy!)
I am in school working on my Bachelors (awesome!)
I am gainfully employed!  (YES!  YES! YES!  Where's Oprah's couch when you need to jump on it!) 
And...I'm getting started in my rap career.  I got a hot new track coming out this summer. 

I hesitated....

For one second....

An aspiring rapper?....at 29?....

Now, I am not one of those chicks that hates rap!  In fact, I love rap.  On any given day, you could find me bumping Kanye's "Diamond Are Forever" or Lil' Wayne's "Mrs. Officer," on my ipod Nano and on super high volume.   If it was a good day, you might even catch me stop and do a little booty pump in time with the beat.

But...ummm...dating a rapper...I wasn't sure.  I mean, didn't Lil' Wayne just get three women pregnant at the same time, and didn't Jay-Z secretly (keyword: secretly) date Beyonce for like 12 years...I am no man's (I repeat...NO MAN'S) baby mama or badly kept secret...

Maybe I could do this date-a-young-geezy thing, though.  After all, there was Pharell (the cutest, classiest nerd ever), and Common who wrote that love song/rap for Erykah Badu!

So...I inquired....

"Tell me about this new single."

"Mama!  This joint is going to be hot in streets." He pronounced streets with a "z." Then he promptly pulled out his I-phone and googled YouTube...

I was hopeful...

"BAM!  There you go!" He said slamming his "youtube" video in front of me.

A track started playing.  The beat was hardcore, had a little base, and the drums were making my foot tap  just a little bit....

Then...I heard the lyrics....

"Shawty got a big, juicy booty...got a big, round booty....got a big, juicy booty....got booty booty booty for days!"

Ummm.....

"Shawty got a big, juicy booty...got a big, round booty....got a big, juicy booty....got booty booty booty for days!"

I tried to look impressed.  I mean I really tried.

But then he got up from his chair and started rapping an impromptu verse...something about booty shapes and butt cracks....and then after two (excruciatingly) long minutes, and nineteen (ridiculously) long seconds...the track ended!


THANK GAWD...there was a Jesus...somewhere....

"The name of the track is "Juicy Booty," mama."  Big Chocolate said. "I figure if I could get the strip joints to  bump this then play it at a few college parties, the radio stations may pick it up,"

I wasn't convinced.  Not because he didn't sound incredible sexy while rapping, because he did...but I guess I just wasn't into the whole booty rap thing.  In all fairness, this was probably because I didn't have J-Lo's ass, but if I had to keep it all the way 100....it had more to do with my one visit to see a stripper that had resulted in the dancer farting in my lap (true story!)...I mean, how could I support a future boyfriend if I had been scarred for life by a stripper's wayward flatulence.

YES...Big Chocolate and I moved past answering the top TWO most annoying questions in DC...."where are you from"....AND..."what do you do"...

BUT....

I was NOT a fan of booty songs...but who knows...he might NOT have been a fan of 20 (somethings) in granny panties....

He and I had to decide if we liked the person behind our representatives...


Either way, I knew I could add another detail to my "getting to know me" list:

Hi!  My name is Breeanne (that's one word).
I am 20 (something)
I am from Chicago (the Southside)
I am a journalist (for a really boring periodical...so...)
I like reading on my free time (really girly, ridiculously romantic, novels)
I like cupcakes (from Georgetown Cupcakes MINUS the line)....AND...
I am not a fan of booty songs (...and no, I can't turnaround so you can see why)

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The Ex Files

I was being chased by a man who could create fire with the snap of his fingers.  No matter where I ran, he would follow, sadistically smiling as he set my world aflame. 

As he pursued, I ran...sometimes stumbled...sometimes fell...

Soon tiring from his pursuit,  I resigned to being burned alive...and curling my knees close to my chest...I sang...AMAZING GRACE. 

In my hour of need...in panic...I closed my eyes and sang at the top of my lungs. 

AMAZING GRACE.

The fire subsided and I woke with my heart beating fast, droplets of sweat formulating at the midpoint of my temple, and tears filling the corners of my eyes. 

Rolling over, I  reached for my phone, dialing the first few numbers of my ex, the person who  - in the twilight hours...1:28am...2:34am...4:14am... - had whispered me back to slumber: "Babe, go back to sleep." "Sweetie, is everything okay?"  "Love you Bree, don't worry.  It was just a dream."


But, it wasn't just a dream...

It was my first nightmare without him...and my first nightmare as a single woman....

Being single and dating in DC had been...okay....A Long Walk had started to call me at least twice a week, even though he still preferred to text constantly.  And, Big Chocolate was still attempting to unlock a desire to date him using his pretty, shitty key...

However...

In those quiet moments I could still remember the deepness of my ex's voice, the slight powdery smell of his skin,  the softness of the inside of his lips, the way it felt to turn over and pull his body close to mine, or wake up with my fingers lightly grazing the small curly hairs of his chest.

I still missed him...

Sometimes I still wanted us back together...

And I had to ask myself, in my persistence to enter the dating world while simultaneously attempting to heal...

Had I allowed the proper time to nurture the wound of my still broken heart?

In other words, how could I learn to miss someone in my present...if I was still missing someone from my past?

And...I was missing him...

Badly...

I was missing him in the first quiet moments of the morning hours, in those last few moments right before I fell asleep, and on nights like these when a nightmare reminded me that sleeping alone was not the exception but now the rule...

I never finished dialing his phone number that night.

After all, over is over is over is over.

He was no longer mine.  My dreams were no longer a concern of his.

I prayed for grace that night...relief from the fear I had to shut my eyes again...but deep in the recesses of my mind all I wanted to hear was the sweet, sweet sound of someone's voice who was now a difficult but deeply missed part of my past...

Let's Talk About Text

Cinco de Mayo marks the day when Mexicans unexpectedly defeated the French in a battle over territory and a misunderstanding.  This victory was of particular note, partly because the French had more troops, more technology, and more training.  The Mexicans - however - had conviction...and they used this to pursue a unexpected victory, surprising everyone but themselves...

On this holiday, I was fighting a small war of my own. 

A Long Walk and I had been texting almost daily, and I do mean "just" texting. 

I would wake up to a cute little message from him:  "GOOD MORNIN' BREE-BREE."  Then spend a full 8 hours communicating with him in a series of LOLs, LMBOs, OMGs, and BRBs at work.  After quitting time - without fail - Long Walk would text a WADDUP BREE-BREE, in which I would reply later via gchat.  This would ultimately lead to another few hours long conversation littered with SMHs, J/Ks and a series of emoticons :-) :-( :-? :-/

No matter how many times I called to hear his voice, and to experience the pleasant enjoyment of actually hearing the sound behind a LOL, he would not answer....

Instead I would get his voicemail...

WTF?

Who did Long Walk think he was, anyway? 

A walking version of the Motorola Qwerty Board!

Against my better judgment,  I called him and I left a long, acronym free message demanding he call me back, as in (use the phone), as in (channel Alexander Graham Bell), as in (open your God-given mouth) and put away his fingers and talk to me...

Minutes later I received a text....WADDUP BREE BREE!

SMH!

Chat-induced, text-crazed, electronically-challenged bad, bad, bad words exploded out of my mouth...I couldn't understand why A Long Walk preferred to communicate in person or via a computer...

I wondered...

In the age of tweeting, Facebook updates, Myspace pages, Gchat, MSN messenger, BBM Chatting and Texting, had the simple art of verbal communication been lost?

I decided to unwind over a margarita on the rocks at Alero - a local Mexican restaurant in DC - with my girl, Flower Child.

Hundreds of young, inebriated (read: drunk), young professionals had descended into the venue that night, eager to be one of the lucky few to get a free taco or two.  Because of the festive spirit and the complimentary food, it's wasn't uncommon to see 250lb. dudes in a Gucci Suits wearing Movado watches, elbowing petite blondes out of the way in order to get a few 4 inch chicken tacos.

Add 1/2 price margaritas...and

Es un Partido! (It was a party)

When I arrived, Flower Child was at the bar chatting it up with several guys, hustling them for a free drink. Flower Child never pays for anything.  She greeted me with an air kiss on both cheeks while casually winking at two men that were checking us out.

"What about Baldy (her current love interest)?" I whispered.

"Baldy who?"  She shoved me behind her, beckoning the two gentleman to come over.

While she jointly entertained them, I stepped away to get a few tacos (thank God there seemed to be a few left)...and checked my phone...

Long Walk: R U MAD @ ME BREE BREE

To which I replied: Y CAN'T U CALL?

I elbowed a few eager and starved looking young professionals out of the way, and returned to where Flower Child was, having successfully secured 6 tacos on a plate. 

It wasn't even 12 seconds before the short, round, dimple-cheeked guy that Flower Child was not cooing to approached.  He reminded me of the Pillsbury Doughboy.

We exchanged introductions, before I felt my phone vibrate:

Long Walk: DONT B MAD BREE, U KNO I'M NOT A FONE PERSON. BUT I LIKE U. DONT ACT LIKE WE DONT TLK. WE DO!

Frustrated, I turned my attention back to Pillsbury.  He was talking about his long day, how he had worked hard, how he had missed lunch, while casting desperate eyes at my taco plate.  I shoved one in my mouth to let him know the plate was still there.  My phone vibrated again:

Long Walk:  I TLK TO U MORE THAN N E ONE ELSE. DONT BE MAD. WRK WITH ME BREE!

I shoved the phone deeper into my pocket, and looked at Pillsbury.  He wasn't that bad looking.  He had all his teeth, pretty skin, and hungry-looking little eyes.  I decided to push the taco plate between us.  Want One? I asked... Pillsbury's little pudgy fingers dived into the plate scooping up two tacos in a single grasp.

Impressive.  At least, I thought so?  As I watched him attempt a flirtatious smile, with a large amount of lettuce and taco sauce dripping down his cheek, I felt my phone vibrate again...

Long Walk: I TLK 2 U 8HRS @ WORK, 2HRS @ HOME, 1HR B/T WORK & HOME. THATS 11HRS A DAY.  I TLK 2 U MORE N E ONE ELSE.  LETS COMPROMISE.

So, Long Walk could add whole numbers.  I was proud of him, but wasn't convinced.

I told Pillsbury, I would give him another taco, if he gave me advice about my "friend" who was having a texting issue with a guy she kinda liked.  I could almost see the the Taco Bell dog materialize out of nowhere barking "Si, Si"...."Yes, Yes."  Shoving the plate at him once more, I quickly told my story while he bit, chewed and swallowed.  His advice was simple: tell him what I like, and agree to compromise.  He said eleven hours was a long time to be talking to one chick each day.

I grabbed my phone and typed:  I LIKE THE PHONE.  YOU LIKE TO TEXT.  LETS COMPROMISE 2NITE.  CALL ME!

The phone buzzed back immediately.

It was Long Walk: CALL YOU 2NITE.  9PM.

Victory!  I turned around to hug Pillsburry and poke him in his cute, little round stomach.  But Doughboy was gone, along with my taco plate!

SMH

I looked over at Flower Child, who being drinkLESS, had resorted to sharing the margarita of the gentleman she was pressed up against, casually taking long, leisurely sips each time he turned around to look for Pillsbury. 

It was getting late, closer to 9PM.  I wanted to be home to get this call.

My phone buzzed...


A Long Walk:  CANT WAIT 2 TALK @ 9 :-) MISS YOU, BREE, BREE! THINKING ABOUT U, 2!

I smiled, totally recognizing the odds had been against me.  A Long Walk had been right, he had exhausted all forms of electronic communication to talk to me daily: Facebook, GChat, Text Message, etc.  Logically, his argument made sense;  there were more non-verbal ways to communicate than verbal.  But I knew what I wanted, a man who would appreciate hearing the sound of my voice every day....

Technically, I had won this battle...

But I was still willing to offer a peace treaty...

I texted him back:  THX 4 THINKING ABOUT ME, TLK TO U SOON :-)

In Case of Emergency!

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My Saturday morning began like most, single women...lounging on my couch, in an oversized t-shirt flipping between E! and Bravo trying to catch the latest episode of True Hollywood Story or Real Housewives.  Vague thoughts of doing laundry and vacuuming scrubbed through my head as I settled deeper into the crevices of my couch. So, this is what being totally satiated feels like...

Then, I a gray spot move in my peripheral vision...

I thought for a moment, that the power of my lazy mind was willing my floor to clean itself...

Oh Bliss....Simple Bliss...A self-cleaning apartment....

Then the gray spot moved again...I turned my head, only to catch the tail end of Mickey scurry around the corner of my living room closet!

OH

MY

GOSH

Was that a mouse?

Was that a f**** mouse!!! 
(side note: I only reserve this word for the most dire situations)

I leaped off my couch, grabbing one knee-high boot, a cabbage-patch bedroom slipper, black lace bra (don't ask) and  my cell phone...ran out of my door....screaming the whole way down the hall...

THERE'S A MOUSE....IN MY HOUSE!  THERE'S A MOUSE...IN MY HOUSE!!

THERE'S A MOUSE...IN...MY...HOUSE!

My flamboyant gay neighbor delicately peaked his head outside his door, and after peering at me a through mascara-encased queer eye...shut the door!

I cursed!  Clearly he was hoping for a really hott, really available....straight guy!

I had to think!  I started scrolling through my phone book.  Mom (lived in Topeka - NO!), Ex Boyfriend (probably boning some chick - NO), My Girlfriends (would probably be just as scared as me - NO!)....so "in (this) case of emergency" I had to call my good male friend, Andrew!

......

In the dating world, every woman has an Andrew...   

...he's the shopping partner (even though he's straight), a shoulder to cry on (without minding the make-up streaks), an extra pair of hands around the house (including helping with mani's and pedi's), a Dr. Phil when you need advice...the resident GUY FRIEND!

 ...he's a good guy....and always available when the boyfriend leaves, the girlfriend flakes...or

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY....

So, I called Andrew...and after mumbling that it was 6:00am in the morning, he was hungover, was I really serious, he finally agreed to come over...

Hours later (okay really it was minutes) I was forced to return into the mouse hole that was now my place...and wait for Andrew on the top of my dining room table, holding my Raid Roach & Ant spray...

but it was okay...no really, it was okay...because Andrew was on his way....

"What a friend we have in those who call at 6am?"

"A friend indeed, is a friend in need!"

"Friends are like buses, you can't catch one every minute."

Okay, so I was horrible at friendship quotes...but I had to admit Andrew was a good one to meet me at 6:00 am to calm my rodent-inspired fears.

When Andrew got there.  He diligently searched every inch of my apartment, setting down mouse traps he had brought along...while I resumed by post back on top of the dining room table sharing Andrew-inspired friendship quotes for encouragement...

"If a friend falls in the forest and no one is around to hear, does he make a sound...."

"Is it better to have friended, than to never have friended at all." 

My quotes were getting better....I think.


After two hours...lack of new quoting material....and mouseless...Andrew offered to have me spend the night over his place in order to give Mickey a chance to get caught in one of the 50-eleven traps in my house.

YES!

Andrew cooked us dinner, and we sat and chatted.  It was just like having girl-talk, except he didn't have breasts.  We giggled about some of the awful dates we had been on, sipped on apple-flavored martinis with a cherry in the middle, shared a pint of raspberry sorbet (YUM), and watched the Devil Wears Prada!

When it was time to go to bed, I put on my doo-rag, settled on the couch, and waved him good-bye as he went into his bedroom and closed the door.

Somewhere between the butcrack of down and the 19 and half minutes after midnight, I heard a sound.

Then I felt a warm, soft object touch my waist and slowly begin moving upward.

Had Mickey followed me over to Andrew's house?

I jumped off the couch, and there was Andrew standing there, looming over the couch in his boxers, grinning like those axe murders in horror films... right before they behead unsuspecting girl.

Well, maybe not!  Don't blame me.  I don't have good night vision.

"What the hell are you doing, Andrew?" I screamed.

"I just thought I'd come out here and check on you," he said.

WTF!

"You're checking on me by trying to grab a handful of boob!  What is really going on here?"

"It's my house, Bree!  You're on my couch.  I thought I'd see what's up?"

I snatched up a pillow from the floor and pitched it at his head..

"Take me home!  Right Now!  You are totally out of line for this!! My boobs are none of your concern.  We are just friends!"

Just friends!

Weren't we just friends?

On the silent ride back home to my apartment, I vaguely listened as Andrew apologized over and over and over again for "the incident."  He offered to come upstairs, but a quick and evil glare solved that.

As I walked VERY, VERY, VERY slowly back to my place, terrified to spend the night alone with Mickey, I wondered....

Was Andrew really my boy friend, or guy who was secretly hedging his bets to become boyfriend?

When I opened the door to my place, I saw Mickey had been caught in the trap.

Instead of dialing mom, the ex, or Andrew the "boob-grabber", I decided to move past my "pull-up stage," put on my "I'm a grown a** woman" face, and dispose of it.

"Friends are like buses, you can't catch one every minute."

Or, however that saying goes....

I had to remember that - in myself - I could always find that friend I "needed"...even at 6am...and sometimes even IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.