Everybody will try to tell you that the hardest part of a break-up is the crushing devastation you experience when you lose the person to whom you’ve given your heart, and your heart along with it.

Everyone is wrong. Obviously, the real tragedy you’ll encounter is losing his friends, who turn out to be much cooler than he is. Because as delightful as you may be, they’re his friends, and thus their loyalties lie ultimately with him.

My ex-boyfriend had such a devoted entourage that he sent forth one of his minions on a quest to collect a camping chair he’d left at my house following our break-up. Never mind that his minion neglected to bring as collateral the items I’d left at his place, including a pristine stainless steel wine bottle stopper, the loss of which has devastated my attempts to split the consumption of a Ninkasi 22oz Believer ale into two evenings of indulgence. As I hurled the camping chair at the minion’s head gently handed over the camping chair to my ex’s loyal friend, we exchanged expletives pleasantries regarding the recent disintegration of my relationship.

Minion: I heard from a friend of your ex’s first cousin’s neighbor’s sister that you’ve been in contact with [name to be withheld for confidentiality]. You realize that [name to be withheld for confidentiality] was friends with [ex whose name not worth mentioning] first and thus he retains sole custody of friendship in the event of your break-up, which occurred yesterday at 2:00am PST at your place of residence.

Me: It’s true that I have been in contact with [name to be withheld for confidentiality] but I assure you I obtained prior permission for said contact from [ex whose name I've forgotten]. And while it’s true that [ex] and I may have briefly exchanged the requisite post-traumatic 24-hour period of grossly virulent emails, we are now on sufficiently amicable terms to allow continued contact with mutual friends.

Minion: I was unaware of cordial relations and remain skeptical that a treaty has been reached so soon after battle. I will consult [ex] and if it is determined that you speak the truth, I will begrudgingly allow continued contact with mutual friends. It will be noted in the post-breakup paperwork that these friendships belonged first to [ex] and thus [ex] may revoke your cavorting privileges with said friends at any time. Now kindly remove this camping chair from my head so I may take my leave.

And so it came to pass that at the culmination of our failed relationship, I was given the green light to maintain friendships with his friends, for which I was truly appreciative.

It is not always the case, however, that an ex will so generously invite you to remain included in his circle of friends. Moreover, there are those cases in which remaining within the circle of friends creates a false sense of hope, for one or both parties, of impending reconciliation. There is generally a legitimate reason for a break-up, a reason which can become easily clouded if 48 hours later you’re immersed in the same circle with the same ex, possessing the same feelings you held just 48 hours earlier.

So don’t immediately plunge into the same circle, no matter how comfortable and familiar it may feel. This advice is easiest to swallow if you’ve maintained your other friendships. Letting his friends become your primary friend group is like betting your life savings on a hand of poker before seeing your cards. You’re going to need that twenty dollars someday, and you’re going to need the friends to whom you can freely and privately bash your ex share your sad feelings about your recently imploded relationship.

For more break-up advice, act now and purchase Troi’s helpful handbook, “Breaking Up Is Not Hard To Do, But Staying Together Sure Is,” and receive tips on the latest break-up technologies, including via instant messenger, text message, and even by cleverly downloading a break-up song onto his iPod! Breaking up has never been so easy!

–Troi out

for a limited time only, more available than your average man

But a good beer is comparatively easy to find, especially if you live in Portland, which boasts more breweries per capita than any other city in the United States. So while you may not find the perfect man, the perfect craft beer may still be within reach.

If you’re wondering what makes a craft beer crafty, let me assure you that it has nothing to do with arts and crafts, which is quite a relief for someone such as myself whose 7th-grade arts & crafts teacher told the class my self-portrait looked like an alien (I thought it was a compliment—-I love science fiction—-until she flunked me), nor is a craft beer the kind of beer you drink to get over the trauma of being called an alien by your 7th grade arts & crafts teacher. Rather, a craft brewer is small (producing less than 2 million barrels of beer annually) and independent. And while 2 million barrels may not sound small to the last person who tried drinking 2 million barrels of beer, it is nonetheless relatively small when compared to a craftless beer corporation such as Anheuser-Busch, whose production well exceeds 100 million barrels annually. Most importantly, craft beers can be absolutely delicious, whereas I bet you’ve never heard someone say, while sipping on an Anheuser-Busch creation, “Oh, this Bud Light is absolutely delicious!” unless he was in a Superbowl commercial.

If you’ve yet to try it, my first suggestion is Sierra Nevada’s Summerfest lager. For those of you not familiar with Sierra Nevada’s beers, their most popular standard brew is probably their pale ale, and their winter offering, Celebration Ale, is definitely worth the celebration. Even their stout is far and away the best stout in a bottle I’ve yet to try. Their Summerfest lager is light (5.0 ABV) and hoppy without being overpoweringly so. I’m not typically a huge lager fan (I’ve heard they cut down trees), but this is a lager that appeals even to environmentally-friendly darker beer lovers such as myself.

If clearing forests isn’t your style, another craft beer to write home about (for me, I guess that would be the alien home planet from which my arts & crafts teacher thinks I sprouted) is Deschutes brewery’s 2010 Once a Decade Ale, which is more like Nine Times a Decade Ale for me when I add up the number of bottles I’ve purchased over the last few months. Vaguely reminiscent of a barleywine-style ale but without that sickeningly sweet finish, the Once a Decade Ale (also known as Jubel 2010) is 10% ABV, aged in oak pinot barrels, and is my favorite craft find of the year. And much like finding a good boyfriend, you won’t find another beer quite like it for at least a decade, so stock up on a few before they’re gone for good and break one open every couple of years to temper the dry spell. Speaking of opening your beer, the biggest trick to the Once a Decade Ale is its wax-dipped cap, which can be troublesome to open. I began with more conventional methods such as using a standard bottle opener. But when mainstream methods failed me, I panicked and resorted to biting, clawing, stabbing, and coaxing, while my roommate finally found success melting down the wax with a lighter. However, I’ve since seen effortless cap removals with your tried and true average bottle opener, so perhaps it was just me. It usually is.

So while choosing the right boy may be challenging, choosing the right craft beer is entirely possible—-if you’re fortunate enough to call Portland home.

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

In today’s installment of “At Least My Love Life Is Better Than Troi’s” we entertain the following question: Is it possible for your romantic love of a previous partner to remain and yet move forward into a new relationship with somebody new? Or must that romantic love pass prior to giving your love to another person?

Having traced the checkered history of my past romantic relationships (See www.troihasn’thadagoodrelationshipsinceY2K.com), I’ve found that I traditionally subscribe to the philosophy that moving forward works best when not looking backward. When I walk forward but look behind me, it never ends well, because I miss what’s right in front of me (dog poop, a pothole, a cliff that one time). Similarly, in the Decidedly Ineffectual and Shaky Attempt at Striving To Establish Romance (DISASTER) that is my dating life, I find that moving forward works best when I avoid lugging yesterday’s heartbreak into today’s relationship. Moving forward means setting my sights on something in my future, and accepting that the love from my past wasn’t meant to last.

It sounds so straightforward, but what happens when that love doesn’t leave? How do we navigate new love when our feelings for a former flame remain well past the relationship’s date of expiration?

I’d like to think that as I approach the age of thirty-one, I’ve become sufficiently evolved as to acknowledge that deep affection for a past love without allowing it to preclude my capacity for love of another person or prevent me from accepting into my life someone else’s love for me. And while in principle my evolution may have indeed reached such enlightened heights, in practice I’m a tadpole waiting to sprout legs so that I can walk this fine line rather than wade uncertainly around it.

Imperfect tadpole that I am, I’m gradually beginning to strike touches of illuminating gold when digging through the sands of my past to uncover life lessons so that mistakes made aren’t made again. I do believe that a person can acknowledge the presence of feelings that remain without being vulnerable to them. It involves acknowledging not only the feelings themselves, but the reason those feelings weren’t enough to sustain the relationship. This acknowledgment is crucial, as feelings are typically first to come and last to fade, long after we’ve conveniently repressed the reasons the relationship failed.

In a scene from one of my favorite movies, 500 Days of Summer, a character simultaneously mourns and fights the passing of a relationship that wasn’t meant to be. Another character tells him:

“You’re just remembering the good parts. Next time you look back, I think you should look again.”

When he looks back, he sees the perfect picture he’d painted, but he sees it for the first time against the backdrop of an imperfect pairing that couldn’t be salvaged by a few touch-ups.

It is an inevitable fact of my life that I have loved people with whom I wasn’t meant to be. But when I, too, take another look, I see a discrepancy in commitment and values that simply wasn’t bridged by the depth of my feelings. Every time I look back, I see the love that remains, but every time I look forward, I hope to see the possibility of love that shares not only depth of feeling but also shared values and a mutual respect for our differences that remain.

–Troi out

*Tegan & Sara

Dear Readers, you have put up with listening to my most dearly held beliefs regarding dating, cooking eggs, and why you should never cook eggs while dating (wait, I didn’t write that last one, that was just a dream I had). Now on this rare occasion I offer you a brief reprieve from my rants. A loyal Reader sent me the following letter in response to my last post, which, as an unbiased blogger, I felt compelled to share as a guest post. I hope you find his knowledge helpful.

(Really—-I did not write this. Thank you to the dear friend who sent it to me. You are hilarious!)

Dear Troi,

As a long time reader, I have always enjoyed your pithy proverbs, clever witticisms, and honest observations on life. As usual, I eagerly awaited this week’s subject matter, which I assumed from the title would be a celebration of an excellent song from a brilliant band.

But I am shocked and dismayed with this, your latest virtual entry! You’ve always striven to keep from advertising to the general public, (unless, understandably, you would directly benefit from the product, of course). But now? Have you lost your objectivism? Have you sold your journalistic integrity? For shame, I say! This blatant sponsorship of RATboy, avaricious young upstarts that they are, is simply unconscionable. There is an original and far superior organization I must defend; the Men Accompanying Neglected Women (Having Obtained Remuneration Enthusiastically).

As a dedicated member of this esteemed organization, I must provide the public with the education that you have withheld from them. MANW(HORE) is an organization, nay, some would claim it a profession, that is as old as time! In fact, it may be the oldest profession in the world.

Unlike RATboys, MANW(HORE)s offer their services for much less, some for practically nothing! Also unlike RATboys, who need to be called to arrange for service, MANW(HORE)s can be found in every restaurant, bar, and street corner in order to be readily available to any woman at any time. In fact, some members will approach women, even going door to door, to offer their services, simply for the convenience of the customer! They are always agreeable and ready to please; and when the time comes to say goodbye to one, you’ll find another member waiting in line. Yes, those tireless, ubiquitous MANW(HORE)s are far superior to the RATboys, though the membership screening is, admittedly, much less stringent.

So I ask, oh reasonable blogger, that the public be allowed to be fully informed of their choices. Let all women know that no matter what their situation, there will always be a MANW(HORE) ready and available. I am sure that in the future you will return to your objective reporting, or at least reflect a more egalitarian approach to your advertising, and so I remain your most fervent fan.

Sincerely,
G. I. Golo

Dear Readers,

*The individual appearance of each RATboy may vary slightly.

Have you noticed lately that your significant other seems to be monopolizing your time and energy? Are you bored of always spending your time with the same person? Have you ever wished you could rid yourself of your other half*?

*Not your left side. You need that.

Have you hesitated to throw in the monogrammed towels because the boyfriend still comes in handy at couples-friendly events like weddings and parties?

Well, now you can throw in the towel and throw out the boy, with the comfort of knowing a perfect date is just a phone call away!

Thanks to my easy and convenient Rent-A-Temporary Boy (RATBoy) Rental Service, you can revolutionize the way you live your life! RATBOY guarantees the instantaneous elimination of that annoying ESPN sportscaster from your television, an immediate decrease in arguments, and an increased amount of time to spend doing what YOU want to DO!

Here’s how easy RATBoy is to use. Pick up your phone. Dial: 1-800-RATBoys. One of our operators will do a brief intake to collect information regarding your age and location, and will then match you in our database to a list of potential RATBoys. When an event arises that requires you bring a guest, you can rest easy knowing your handsome and clever date is just a phone call away! Simply call RATBoy Rental Service within 24 hours of the event to ensure an age-matched RATBoy in your rental area is available for use.

Just listen to what my devoted clients of RATBoy Rental Service are saying about their experience:

“My old boyfriend was so difficult. But my new RATBoy is so easy to use!” –Anonymous #1

“RATBoy is so convenient, I’ll never go back to an old-fashioned relationship again!” –Anonymous #2

“I needed a date for a party. I called RATBoy Rental Service, and my RATBoy showed up twenty minutes later! Thanks, RATBoy Rental Service!” –Anonymous #3

“I used to have to beg my boyfriend to be seen with me in public! He never wanted to go to parties with me! RATBoy always wants to accompany me!” --Anonymous #4

Order your free six-week trial of RATBoy now and receive a bonus RATBoy at your next event! Just imagine how you’ll look showing up at that party with a RATBoy on each arm—-you’ll be the envy of every woman there—-they’ll be wishing they could leave their long-term boyfriends for the ease and convenience of a RATBoy!

–Troi out

Disclaimer: RATBoy is not for everyone. Please contact your psychiatrist immediately if you feel pain in your chest from missing your previous long-term boyfriend, or if you experience weight gain or an increase in cholesterol from boredom-induced overeating. Side effects of RATBoy include growing old alone, buying too many cats, talking to your cats with increasing frequency, and the eventual belief that your cats actually care what you have to say. RATBoy is not available for use as a full-time boyfriend.

*This post geared toward female audiences

“I don’t think, therefore I am not”

Dear Readers,

I am pleased to announce I have secured a coveted interview with esteemed dating guru, Donna T’Needaman, author of The Evolution of A Man, whose two-paragraph analysis of the male psyche was second on the New York Times Bestseller list only to its stiff competition, The New Religion of the Stars: Socialstudiesology. Donna T’Needaman chose trekkychick.com as her medium for conveying her wisdom about men to the masses because of trekkychick.com’s large (fluctuating between a record high of 12 and 16 readers) and diverse (all live in Portland, all are within the same age range, but all enjoy very different breakfast foods, ranging from hot cereal to cold cereal) audience.

Troi: Donna T’Needaman, did you expect that your completed book would be longer than two paragraphs?

Donna T’Needaman: Actually, it was only one and a half paragraphs. I altered the text and spacing and widened the margins in order to achieve two full paragraphs.

Troi: But, certainly, don’t you think the male psyche is more complex than that?

Donna T’Needaman: Before completing my research, I was hoping that it would be. They always LOOK like they’re thinking about something.

Troi: You mention in the commentary section of your book [that would be paragraph two, for those Readers who've yet to pick up their copy] that your in-depth analysis brought you to the conclusion that you would no longer choose to include the practice of dating in your daily life. Can you expand on this idea?

Donna T’Needaman: Certainly. I don’t need a man to make me crazy. I can be crazy without the help of a man.

Troi: You also suggest, in the epilogue [that would be the last sentence of the second paragraph, for those Readers who are still reading the first paragraph], that nobody has a “perfect person” who is just right for them. Are you suggesting that you don’t believe in the notion of soulmates?

Donna T’Needaman: I believe in the concept of soul-crushing mates. Your soul-crushing mate is the man you fall in love with, who is utterly devoid of the concept of “you” as a being separate and unique who may differ from him in opinion and philosophy. He attempts to change you into his idealized version of you, crushing your soul in the process.

Troi: Donna T’Needaman, rumor has it you’re slated to revise your book with an update soon. What can we be looking forward to?

Donna T’Needaman: Yes, I was going to complete an analysis on the psyche of a pig, and compare and contrast the two psyches. I’m hoping this revised edition adds a full paragraph to the anaylsis, which will really change the look and feel of the book.

There you have it ladies and gentlemen, famed author Donna T’Needaman, speaking to humble blogger Troi. If you have any questions for Donna T’Needaman, please direct them to me by way of comment.* Or you can go directly to www.donnatneedaman.com, which is not a real website, but who knows, might be someday.

–Troi out

*The views and opinions stated in this interview are not the opinions of blogger Troi, but the views and opinions of the character created by blogger Troi. Any similarities in views and opinions are an unexpected coincidence.

Engagement diamond or polar ice cap? Impossible to tell.

Dear Readers,

So as yet another single female friend recently jumped onto the wedding-band wagon, I could no longer sit silently by without issuing this warning to the world (or, the eight readers of my blog):

Marriage is a safety hazard.

You think I joke, but I’m trying to save lives here. Have you seen the size of the average engagement ring these days? (You have, but you mistook it for one of those melting polar ice caps, since they’re about the same size.) These rings are twice the size of the women wearing them. It’s like trying to lug an ice rink around by your finger. And as more women fall prey to marriage, the number of cases of ring-fingeritis (inflammation of the finger that bears the weight of a lifetime commitment) has skyrocketed. Ring-fingeritis now ranks among the leading cause of finger loss in women under the age of 35. (Second only to chopping them off inadvertently while trying to cook stir fry, although I’m still glad I gave it a go.)

But finger loss is only the beginning. Wearing an engagement diamond also increases one’s risk of being assaulted by a burglar looking to upgrade his or her style by investing—-freely—-in better jewelry. Nobody takes a burgler without glistening diamonds encased in a shiny platinum band seriously, whereas a burgler wearing an engagement diamond commands a sort of dignified respect as he catches the light just right with a reflective finger, momentarily blinding his victim and whisking her wallet away. As you can probably imagine, crime rates, like lost fingers, have also escalated since the rise of the giant engagement ring.

I implore you, Readers, to step up to the ring—-instead of wearing it—-and fight for your fingers! Take a stand against finger loss and burglary. Because “I do” think I’ve warned you sufficiently.

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

I’m still getting acclimated to the universe of online dating.

In this new universe, I’m allowed a few dates with anybody I choose until I decide to pursue one of the anybody’s to make him my somebody.

I suppose it’s what dating was always meant to be, but it’s a far cry from what dating always meant to me.

To me, dating was developing an overpowering, all-consuming crush on a boy. The object of my affection was then subjected to me—-on my best, most adorable behavior—-conveniently overlayed on approximately 90% of his daily activities. (You call it stalking, I call it “availability.”) I sat at his lunch table, I dragged myself out of bed to attend morning mass instead of evening, and yes, I even started playing on his ultimate frisbee team despite the fact that I didn’t know what ultimate frisbee was or how to play it.

Eventually, the object of my affection would reach the inevitable conclusion that, despite my poor table manners, tendency to fall asleep at morning mass, and generally atrocious frisbee skills, he wanted me to be his girlfriend. Our relationship would be inaugurated with much rejoicing, by me; being at that point exhausted both by early morning mass and by having had to ceaselessly maintain my best adorable behavior for the past six months.

During those six months, it never crossed my mind to entertain the affections of others; I never noticed another man nor did I particularly want to explore my options.

And once my crush and I became a couple, we stayed a couple, for a couple of years.

And when we ceased to be a couple, I didn’t want to be part of another couple, for another couple of years.

It was simple and sweet, and I only had to remember one guy’s name.

I by no means intend to knock the very system in which I am a willing player. But I hope, as I play a new game with new rules, that at the end of a long line of anybody’s will come my somebody.

–Troi out

There is widely held, by such reputable sources as storybook fairytales and audiences of Dawson’s Creek, that there is one perfect person out there for each of us. That kissing frogs not only leads us to bacterial meningitis, but also to that perfect person who suits us hygeinically and romantically. Who loves us, understands us, and desires us equally as we to them. Who wants to commit past the height of excitement into the comfort of stability. And who doesn’t want to think that such a person lies past the frog pond?

I’m certainly not one to rain on your perfect person parade. But I would like to sprinkle some statistics on the sidewalk alongside your parade. That is, if you live in the United States, and you assume that your perfect person also lives in the United States, then there are approximately 305 million perfect mates. If you are female, and hope that your perfect partner might be male, you now have approximately 150 million perfect mates from which to choose. However, keep in mind that you probably won’t visit every state, and even if you do, it’s unlikely to dip into all of the single possibilities each state has to offer. Your pool will most likely be limited to your state. If you live in Oregon, like I do, your state population is approximately 3 million, rendering a rough estimate of 1.5 million men.

Approximately 2/3 of them are not in your age range.

Of the remaining 500,000, half are married.

Of the remaining 250,000, 2/3 don’t live in your geographical area, which excludes them from the dating pool since you’re a working woman who doesn’t have time to commute five hours a day just for a date.

83,000 remain, 82,500 of which you won’t meet in your typical professional and social circles of primarily married friends.

You’re thinking, great! 500* eligible single men! My perfect person could be swimming in that pool! Sign me up!

And I would, except that according to this website, there are only 91 single men per 100 single women in Multnomah County, in which I reside.

So even if you meet your dream man among the 500* eligible local bachelors, you’re likely going to have to fight off the other local single women with a crowbar, because there’s always going to be a surplus of nine women relegated to permanent singleness.

Therefore, don’t be discouraged if you find that your life doesn’t imitate art a la Dawson’s Creek. The statistics aren’t on our side. And statistics don’t lie.*

Anyway, I’m off to purchase a crowbar. Good luck in the dating world!

*Disclaimer: Troi is gifted with many skills, none of which are of the mathematical type. All calculations found here are to be interpreted with caution, loosely interpreted, misinterpreted, or better yet, not interpreted at all.

–Troi out

Dear Readers,

I have for the past several years attended a Catholic young adult group, not only for the plentiful happy hours, nor exclusively for the fabulous parties hosted by Mike and his Keg, but for the genuine friendships that have developed and the pleasure I derive from enjoying fellowship with these friends (often, I enjoy them at our weekly happy hours, or at Mike and his Keg’s fabulous parties, but I assure you that is purely coincidental). The single members are dwindling in numbers as we are gradually overtaken by those members who meet, pair off, and take their vows at such an accelerated pace that I’m often clueless as to their pairing until I inquire as to their absense at happy hour and am informed that they are on their honeymoon.

It is with such swift and efficient grace that these Catholic mergers materialize that I often suspect the fleeting daliance they call dating is really just a requisite pre-merger period to allow the future bride sufficient time to rank her female friendships into a hierarchy from person-who-hands-out-the-program-at-the-ceremony at the top (that’s me, AWESOME!) to maid-of-honor at the bottom (loser).

This marriage pandemic has become so severe among Catholics that a break-up, also known as the complete rejection of the Catholic pre-merger phase, shakes the group to its core.

I witnessed this several weeks back as two members failed to transition from their pre-merger phrase of dating into its properly finalized form of unconditionally-unending union. The Catholic male in question was met no less than fourteen times at a party with the following inquiry:

Catholic partygoer: Where’s [Catholic female]?
Catholic male: We broke up.

The collective horrified reaction of “What happened??” led me to suspect there are probably only two justifications that would have been deemed acceptable in response, and these would have involved untimely death and/or deportation.

Or that she wasn’t Catholic.

Of course in stark contrast there is me, who has become so phenomenally successful at the art of breaking up that if I go three weeks without one I become concerned that I’m losing my edge. My pre-merger phase of dating tends to stagnate and then reverse into the classic pre- pre-merger phase of friendship, and sometimes the break-up is so successful that we are catapulted back into the pre- pre- PRE- merger phase of “Do I know you?”

I would like to think there’s a happy medium to be found somewhere between dating for three weeks and getting married, and dating for three weeks and breaking-up. Two good friends of mine dated “through every season” to experience each other for a full year before taking the nuptial plunge, and after three years of marriage continue to experience and demonstrate mutual devotion at its finest. If I were to one day experience unbridled devotion to another human being who could both receive and return it, I would hope to emulate theirs.

In the meantime I remain your proud singles sponsor.

–Troi out