After a very nice week at Sophia’s (which all began because of my kitchen sink fiasco), I finally came home to my apartment tonight.  Why?  Simple.  Because we had a fight.  

I would love to describe it to you, but I just don’t know how to explain it in words without it sounding absolutely ridiculous.  The argument mostly revolved around me buying some Thai Fish Soup at a Thai Restaurant rather than a Hot and Sour Soup from a Chinese Restaurant.  But, of course, that’s not really what the argument was all about.

In December, I wrote a post about the difficulty of writing about domestic argumentsMelissa wrote a very intelligent comment that I’ve read over several times since:

People fight when they are emotional about something. It’s more intimate than sex because you are far more vulnerable in a fight. Your SO knows you inside and out, and they are the one that knows all your buttons – and exactly how to press them.

To write about fighting you have to write about feeling unheard or under appreciated or taken for granted or just plain unloved. Loving is showing your underbelly and fighting with someone you love leaves a lot of room for damage.

I wouldn’t want to show the world all my weaknesses.

Sometimes, when I’m arguing with Sophia about something, I’m able to disassociate myself  and watch it from the distance, almost as if I’m floating above.   I know that the argument is idiotic, but I’m helpless from stopping it.  I’m not the type of person who believes one of us is right or wrong.   The argument just takes on a life of its own.  When we start arguing about something, it’s more like a car going off the cliff and the best you can hope for is that you both survive — and the next day, forget all about it.

Sophia might kill me for writing about our argument without me asking her first, but I don’t think there’s anything to be embarrassed about.  Everyone argues, especially when you’re living together.  For instance, in her blog, Michele of Voix Michele writes about her constant battles with her ex-partner, Rachel.  She even turns to God for advice:

I just couldn’t get it, God. It doesn’t say anywhere in the Bible "Thou shalt not be messy in thine bedroom, lest thee piss off thine girlfriend." Where did she get off thinking her rules are more important than mine?

I never ask God these questions.  It’s pretty clear to me why there’s no Mrs. God.  Even God is afraid of getting into a serious relationship and sharing his great condo up in heaven. 

Mrs. God:  "God, there’s no way we’re keeping this old couch!  Sunday we’re going shopping at "Crate and Barrel.""

God:  "But the Mets are playing Chicago." (note:  God is a Mets fan)

Mrs. God:  "God!  Are we really going to have this argument again?"

God:  OK…OK… I’ll go with you.  But who’s going to watch over the Middle East while we’re out shopping?

Mrs. God:  Now you’re worried?  What have you been doing all day?  Playing solitare on the compuer again?  Maybe they’ll finally be better off without you watching over them!

I left Sophia’s place feeling pretty anxious.   It didn’t help that when I got home, the kitchen was a mess because Mario, the maintenance guy, emptied out everything from the under the sink when he unclogged the pipes.  I decided to take my mind off of things by relaxing with some type of distraction.  And I certainly had a lot of distractions to choose from.  I had DVDs of Crash and Brokeback Mountain, neither which I had yet seen.  I had the last two "Lost" episodes still on my Tivo.  I had the unopened Sunday Los Angeles and New York Times.  I had a half unfinished book by David Sedaris. 

But when I’m anxious, I’m terrible at making decisions.  I start developing "Information Overload."  What to read?  What to watch first?  Too many decisions.

I knew the answer — Blogging.

I looked over all my blogging friends on my blogroll — and for the first time since starting to blog, I got anxious over blogging.  Too much information.  Too many people.  Too many lives.   People getting surgery.  People with crappy boyfriends.  People with bad jobs.   I started getting anxious over my online relationships.

"Oh, my god — I haven’t read Ms. Sizzle all week.  She’s gonna be pissed at me and never read my blog again!  Maybe if I just click on her, it’ll look like I read her in the stats.  That’ll hold her off for a few more days.  Or will it?  She’s gonna hate me.  She’s gonna tell everyone that I’m a jerk and everyone’s gonna hate me…"

Usually reading through my blogroll gives me so much joy — except tonight.

So, what do you do when you don’t want to read, watch a movie, watch TV, or blog? 

Exactly. I decided to play with myself. 

Since it was after midnight, I turned on Cinemax, hoping to see one of those mediocre direct-to-video R-rated soft-porn movies with some actress named Tawny or Ashley. 

Luckily, one of them was on.  Some fake-boobed actress was playing a sex therapist who need to do some exploring herself… or something like that  (plot not important). 

I began to watch the movie — but it just made me more anxious.  I watched three boring badly-edited sex scenes.  Each proceeded exactly the same way:

1.  Man undresses woman, kisses breasts.  (you know there’s a lot of plastic surgery involved when a woman lays on her back and her tits point straight at the ceiling)

2.  Woman gives man oral sex.  (although the position of her head makes it look like she’s sucking his right thigh)

3.  Man gives woman oral sex.   (music kicks in)

4.  Missionary-style sex.

5.  Sex with man from behind.

6.  Woman on top.

7.  Man and woman orgasm as the exact same time.  Man scrunches face.  Woman throws her head back as if she getting ready for a shampoo at Supercuts.

I began to worry, as only I can:

"Am I having sex incorrectly?"

It seemed like a normal question to me.  After all, this woman just made love with three different men — and each time used the exact same lovemaking sequence — from #1 to #7.  Obviously a lot of people watch this movie and no one ever questions that.  Maybe I was the oddball, not knowing the rules of engagement. 

"Perhaps there’s some sort of sex "sequence" that I’m unaware of —  that somehow these are "marks" that had to be hit, much like a figure skater has to do a certain set of jumps and twirls in order to get a high score?"

As usual, I blamed my parents.

"Jeez, you know my father never really had that "birds and bees" talk with me.  Maybe I’ve been having sex wrong all these years?  Does everyone else follow these steps in this exact sequence?  Is it considered "weird" to do number 6 before number 4, or not to even do number 5 at all?  You know, I’ve never really spoken about this to anyone.  You’d think Sophia would have mentioned it, but then again — she didn’t even tell me I was wearing tighty-whiteys all these years like a momma’s boy!   Oh, no!  Maybe if I skip number 5 from the sex sequence, that means you’re a momma’s boy also?  Have women been laughing at me?   What are the six steps again?"

I couldn’t remember.  More information overload.  More anxiety.  I turned off the TV.


"Let me write some dumb blog post and then go to sleep."