Uncut

In the world of dating, many of us girls have deal breakers: habits we can’t stand or features we dislike. It is important to have standards when meeting men because settling for less is not something any of us want to do, but one common standard I have never quite understood is the height requirement.

Since when did women start fashioning themselves after roller coasters? Is it really necessary to draw up a mental sign in our minds stating you must be this tall to go on my ride? Men are not giddy children at a carnival; there is no safety law for height in dating, so why are women so fixated on this aspect?

I am a female of average height; around 5’5 and I tend to be attracted to men in the same vicinity, a few inches up or down doesn’t bother me. I have always found it fortunate that I am in to shorter guys since I am absolutely hopeless at walking in high heels; I also just don’t feel comfortable being that high in the air. In fact, taller men are a slight turn off to me, and I don’t want to feel like I have to climb a beanstalk every time I want a kiss. This is a rarity among females I’m aware, but I truly feel that women constantly rule out really great guys for something as insignificant as height. Their fear that such a pairing might be awkward is the most commonly cited reason; my feeling is that it’s only the case if you make it so. If you instead learn to see a person for the characteristics that are actually important, shouldn’t it equate more in the long run? Does our happiness really revolve around something so petty?

I am not saying women shouldn’t have preferences, of course we should, as for me I’m not usually attracted to blonde men, but I would never make it an absolute deal breaker. What I’m saying is, taking all aspects in to account is a more holistic method, rather than writing a guy off because he doesn’t meet one requirement. As revolutionary as Michael Jackson was in saying, “If you want to be my baby it don’t matter if you’re black or white,” I’m saying the same applies for short or tall. So let’s open up those minds ladies, discard set rules just because they are the norm, because there are all kinds of men out there, not all of them are built like basketball players, and that is A-okay in my book!

(Source: renegadechicks.com)

There are certain clichés in the dating world, and I have broken almost every single one. I’ve linked up with younger guys, older guys, shorter guys, long distance guys, and even a distantly related guy. However, the one rule, which I have always valiantly upheld, is to not hook up with co-workers, or as it is also known, do not shit where you eat.

I’m very impressed with my resolve in this area, for I have had some rather attractive co-workers over the years. Then others of course are just made to seem more attractive by the surroundings, and lack of anyone else to look at for hours on end. It is very important to determine with work crushes who is actually worthy of some harmless flirting and who is, what I like to call, a Purple Popsicle.

What is a purple popsicle you ask? Let me explain. Say it’s a particularly hot grueling day. The sun is beating down. It seems as if the end is near. All you want is a delicious popsicle to fend off the heat. You go to the freezer and to your dismay that all the good flavors are gone. The only popsicle left is purple, which is subpar at best, but given the situation, it will have to do. Men can be purple popsicles. Think of it as a kind of situational set of sober beer goggles.

If you are considering taking it to the next level with a work crush, here are some things to try to consider. Most importantly, spend some time together outside of work. You want to make sure you have something to talk about that isn’t just about how the day is going. This also is a true test of the purple popsicle. If you still find attraction amongst a sea of others, he may be a keeper. If you prefer him in work clothes, it’s time to reconsider.

Also, you want to make sure he isn’t known for dipping in the company ink. It doesn’t hurt to innocently check out the word on the street, and see if this kind of thing has happened before. This is to avoid situations at company holiday parties of getting attacked by crazy ex flings. Yes, I’ve seen it happen before—it isn’t pretty and doesn’t reflect well on anyone involved. You want to make sure any consequence caused in pursuing a co-worker will be worth it in terms of your professional reputation in the work place.

Plenty of women meet significant others at work and are quite happy. Others end up with awkward encounters and may even leave the job because of it. That’s a gamble I’m not willing to take. So when it comes to the work place, I am very fond of casual flirtation, but I have a look but don’t touch policy, which has served me well so far. There is one amendment to this rule, if you happen to get fired with an attractive co-worker all bets off, at that point you should get as drunk as possible and wake up in their bed. But that my friends is a story for another time.

(Source: renegadechicks.com)

First post from my new columnist gig! See the original post here: http://renegadechicks.com/no-matter-what-anyone-says-size-does-matter/#sthash.E1CKtCgg.J3dOt0oN.dpbs

Ladies, let’s face it, at the end of the day no matter what you tell yourself, size matters. Men who have it know it, you can sense their confidence in the bedroom and in all other facets of life. They have never had the unpleasant experience of a lady friend reaching down there and being disappointed.

However, men on the opposite end of the spectrum, lacking in size and confidence, make up for it in other ways. I once had a guy in my life that could make me laugh like no one else in the world; everything he said was hilarious to me. I truly enjoyed spending time with him, like a best friend I could make out with, but in the bedroom it was a disaster. It was apparent he was terribly insecure about his size and his abilities due to that. When we managed to be successful in getting started, the act never lasted long or was all that satisfying, but somehow he could still make me laugh, even in that circumstance.

Because men are aware that size does matter so much, they improve in other areas to compensate for that which they cannot change. I was completely happy being in a romantic situation that was lacking in the bedroom because it was that much more enjoyable in other areas.

The ego is a funny thing; it doesn’t even necessarily have to be completely correlated with reality. Studies show that the supposed largest condom for sale in the market is not truly all that much bigger. Still, everyone knows the name and appearance of a magnum condom, that shiny gold wrapper; it’s an established status symbol.  Never be fooled when you see a guy with that supply, let yourself be the judge. Nothing implies a bigger egomaniac than a guy who unnecessarily uses magnum condoms.

I have also had great sexual chemistry with men I did not get along with much at all. At times it seems as if well endowed, experienced men, completely forget any sense of decency and just expect you to fall at their feet. And some of us do, a great sex life can be as good a reason as any to stay with a guy. But sooner or later we will end up wanting more. In this way men with size shortcomings are better prepared for the dating world, they are more well-versed with people and can sweep us off our feet in more substantial ways. There is a part of me that looks for the best quality in every guy I date, if that quality is your large penis then you never had to work for it, while it is initially impressive, without reinforcement of other qualities that will fade.

I have never been an athletic person, and I doubt I ever will be. My cup size made jumping jacks highly embarrassing in gym class and I have never fully recovered. While I have never been “in shape” I did have that awesome metabolism thing working for me most of my life, I had the kind of body most people would see as ideal. Super thin, with giant breasts that it appeared could almost topple me over.

All of that changes of course when you stop being a teenager, namely because the amount of alcohol we pump into our bodies as 20-something year olds. All those empty calories we never thought or cared about suddenly linger and haunt us, mocking the end of our youth with excess belly fat. There are different names for this epidemic, the “freshman 15”, beer gut, or vodka pouch. Basically we are punished for our good times and gluttony with the uncomfortable feeling of having a muffin top.

There are a few reasons this condition is a million times worse as a female as opposed to guys. For one having a beer belly as a guy seems like as a status symbol, it’s joked about, common, and socially acceptable if you live in more destitute parts of the country. For females it’s acknowledged too, we give it cute nicknames like love handles; idolize pictures of Marilyn Monroe and other icons that aren’t size 0. But let’s face it, no one enjoys feeling pudgy.

Girls have the worst end of the spectrum of the spectrum mainly because we more often wear binding clothing, making our imperfections more apparent. Ever hear of the game fat or pregnant? Don’t play it. This is a cruelly devised but seemingly innocent practice in social situations for the purpose of judging others. Certainly never assume a girl is pregnant and make any kind of comment about it unless the evidence is overwhelming. Nothing destroys a girls self esteem like asking her due date when she isn’t pregnant.

I know you might be thinking well why don’t they try something like not drinking, or going on a diet? However, I am far from an extremist, which is exactly what that notion sounds like. Personally I think hangovers make great diets, I throw up everything from the night before, and can’t eat anything that day! I firmly believe in a woman’s right to choose…food. And alcohol. 

(Source: rianacaitlinc.com)

By most standards, turning 25 is supposed to be some kind of benchmark. Declaring I have survived a quarter of a Century, boozed my way through my early 20’s, and reached the end. Now I face the transition from young adult to actual adult. I know what this time period really means, the lesser-known mental state but just as real, quarter-life crisis. 

I suppose that would explain my recent feelings of inadequacy, as if years ago I had written a letter to my 25-year-old self and failed to live up to my younger expectations. I never wrote such a letter but I did imagine by a certain age I would have achieved basic goals, or at least have them set in motion. I thought I would have my own place by now, not be forced to move back home after a year of living in the city and working three jobs just to afford it.

I thought I would perhaps have a secure job and steady income, maybe not in the field I want to pursue but at least one that allowed time to continue writing regularly. I thought I’d be farther along in my memoir, with a functional website, scouting out publishers, making my dream of releasing a book come true. I figured maybe by this time in my life I’d have found some form of companionship with a man. I don’t mean a serious boyfriend or any of the other implications that make me gag but just someone with which to make the time go by. Someone to drink with, sleep with, talk with, and whatever else may seem exciting. Someone who responds to more than one text a day, shows up to my birthday, and wants to meet my friends. These are the little things younger me took for granted that I would have figured out by now.

But in reality, serious dilemmas clog what used to by my carefree times; twelve-hour workdays suck my energy and will to write. Alcohol serves as a mechanism to cope with the stress and relax my frazzled brain, yet it drains the funds I should be putting towards bettering my situation. And so the vicious cycle continues to haunt my days, which turn into weeks, weeks that turn into months and before I know it another year has dawned. 

But there is a silver lining in this otherwise dismal plight of a post. I am getting paid to freelance write for a publication, as well as developing my personal blog, which usually receives rave reviews. Also the core group of friends that has accumulated in my life during the past year is beyond compare, and feels more fortifying than anything I can remember since grade school. Every girl should have her own Scooby gang.

In a more practical sense there does seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel. I feel 25 has equipped me with a new mentality, as cliché as that sounds. My general attitude is “I’m too old for that” about many practices of the past, what it comes down to most is expecting more of myself, and others in my life. One thing I always strive to do is refuse to settle. This month I am going on two grown up interviews; each could change the course of my future drastically. One is for a transatlantic airline placing me in Paris up to six days a week. The other is a NYC Teaching Fellows graduate program; I would earn a degree and start a career in education.

I have a feeling my quarter-life-crisis may have given me the kick in the ass I needed to get my professional and personal life in order. I am no optimist, a realist more than anything, but I sincerely hope my hunch turns out to be correct.

There are a few basic reasons a girl should never hook up with a bartender. Sure they seem cool and powerful behind their fancy countertop. They have the ability to give you wonderful things like free alcohol. And generally are good people to talk to, sort of the nature of the business. But do not be fooled, these men are in the service industry and any line or drink they give you has probably used many times before on countless girls just this week.

Bartenders constantly have their attention sought after, even men clamor over each other to obtain a few moments of time for precious drinks. They can choose to be very selective, serve who they please, favor who they like and have first pick of wasted girls at the end of the night. Now I’m not saying every bartender is a vacuous whore, but the opportunity is always there. On any given weekend all bars in NYC get hit with the bridge and tunnel crowd, girls who are most likely looking for any way to avoid going back to whatever piece of shit Jersey town they live in.

I have always had a rule against hooking up with bartenders for this very reason. And I had stuck with it for the first half of my twenties. Then one particularly high charged night of the Yankees post season all that changed. I had been frequenting a bar on the lower east side for some time, kind of a sports bar, an Irish pub that was dead during the week and obnoxiously full on weekends.  I had formed camaraderie with one of the bartenders; though we were from different worlds he and I, we shared a love for the greatest team in baseball. The odds were not in favor of the Yankees that evening, it was do or die against the Orioles and we were having a hard time bringing anything to the plate. I drank to forget the possibility of losing or to get a head start on celebrations for winning: either way I was drinking a lot. After my bro bartender finished his shift he stayed at the bar to watch the game, which we both couldn’t take our eyes off of, a game we ended up winning.

By this point each of us had been drinking far too much, and the friends I had come with had deserted me, disinterested by the game. When the offer came for me to accompany him back to his place as it had many times before, this time I went for it. Watching baseball always gives me a strong desire to be a bro hoe and I was finally seizing the opportunity. He called a cab that looked like something Derek Jeter sent his conquests home in and I wondered out loud if I was going to get a gift basket. His room was decked out in Yankees memorabilia; it was quite clear I was in some uncharted territory, the home of a bro.

On a night I expected to “smush” or whatever they call it on the Jersey Shore, I came up empty handed. It seemed my bro had been plagued by a common affliction of the weak, whiskey dick. There is nothing more cruelly ironic than the bartender pouring you whiskey not being able to get it up after drinking too much of it himself. So I did the only thing I could: passed out and snuck away before he woke up in the morning to stumble home confused, guilt ridden, and hung over.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you should always tip your bartender but never let him put the tip in you.

It’s pretty safe to say every girl in her mid twenties has had at least one trophy fuck. Slept with one guy who completely blows them out of the water in the looks department and is held on a pedestal as a crowning achievement of their sexual life.  The kind of guy who could do a million times better and you were just lucky to be around when he was desperate enough to settle for someone less than perfect.

When I met my trophy fuck I was around 19 and in the throws of my most promiscuous phase of life. I looked at him and wished he would be so kind as to notice my existence, and then one day it just happened. He hung around the Union Square area a lot, all the alternative skater kids did, but he stood out above them. He knew everyone, rode around on his bike like king of the concrete jungle. All the scene queens with awful hair and too much eye make up dazzled in his beauty. I wasn’t a resident Union Square kid, but I did my time there, enough to notice the boy who could not go unnoticed.

He was tall and lanky, with wild long black hair that always looked perfectly disheveled. Euphoric cheekbones shaped his stunning face and he toted impressive abdominal muscles for one so slight of figure. But I suppose that is the model build, a natural form of income for ridiculously good-looking people. When not modeling or riding around Union, he could be seen with a giant wolf of a dog that looked more fitting for an Eskimo climate than the city. He had a slight infatuation with his pet, considered it more a brother than a simple canine companion. This is when I began to realize the captivating boy was completely mental.

 I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d come upon the good fortune of scoring an invite to his sleazy pad in Brooklyn, but without hesitation I accepted and made my way to my least favorite borough.  I had high hopes and the encouragement of envious friends with messages like “fuck him for me!” His dismal apartment was stocked with cheap beer and pot, annoying comrades and that humungous dog. Have I mentioned I rather hate dogs? Not only am I allergic, but also large ones actually scare the hell out of me. Despite the surroundings I was pleased as punch to be there. I refused the refreshments, this wasn’t someone I needed to be drunk to fuck, and I wanted to remember every detail.

It wasn’t long before we made our way to his bedroom, the dingy, poorly lit space that was about to hold my most exciting sexual endeavor up until that point. Beforehand he asked if I was clean, since a condom was nowhere to be found. I had been tested and assured him I was, something tells me he’d had troubles with this in the past. But to be honest I probably would have willingly taken a curable STD from his penis. The sex itself was pretty fantastic, or maybe it was just that while looking up at this beautiful wild thing above me nothing could be bad. During the second time we did it one of his cronies thought it would be funny to bust through the door. It wasn’t. Yet somehow I survived the night, and in the morning he told me he would be moving back to Florida that day. My soul was slightly crushed, I had been given something so wonderful and then it had been taken away, but at least it was my vagina to give him the farewell send off. 

Shortly after our union I came to find his bizarre theory explaining the borderline bestiality relationship with his dog. According to his online profile his father had been Zeus in the form of a wolf who impregnated his mother, a common practice in Greek mythology. Now just let that information sink in…like I said, completely mental. It also explained the paw print tattoo above his groin, which I would sadly never see again.

In addition I learned one of his modeling jobs had been posing for the ever-famous ITunes silhouette, once I’d seen the AD the body frame was unmistakable. Now for bragging rights or any time I walked into a convenience store I could say, “I totally fucked that silhouette.” 

The last book review I wrote was on a popular reading choice that I deemed a drastic failure of a noteworthy memoir. “I Don’t Care About Your Band” was nothing more than a clever title which failed to live up to its expectations. However I have recently come across another catchy cover, which far exceeded any memoir I have come across in a long time. “Life As I Blow It” grabbed my attention from the start, the title, and the cover photo of a woman with legs spread wide apart blowing a giant bubble. Reading further into the description it was apparent why it appealed to me; the author was a protégée of Chelsea Handler, my favorite writer/comedian and major influence on my own work. 

Writer Sarah Colonna starts out as a sassy small town girl with the good sense to ditch her surroundings in order to accomplish something more than marrying young and popping out 2.5 kids. She moves to Los Angeles and has laugh out loud adventures involving alcohol and many, many men, my kind of girl. Her escapades are entertaining enough to make me consider LA as an inhabitable place, which is more than I have ever thought of the city. The reader travels through the awkward teenage romances, the lusty twenties one night stands, to the possibly more stable thirties relationships, laughing and learning through the downfalls of the writer. Realizations set in that all women can relate to, for example, the term closure is façade. To quote Colonna as she bluntly states, “closure is the excuse that most of us use to do something dramatic. Saying you are doing something for closure is just covering up your one last futile attempt to tell someone how you feel in hopes they will come around…Fuck closure”.

We follow along through the trails and tribulations of just another girl trying to break into showbiz in LA, ending up bartending and working shitty jobs most of her life, wondering if it’s all really worth it. The story goes of course that it is all worth sticking through in the end, especially when you land a friend like Chelsea Handler who happens to get massively successful and hire her as a writer and commentator on her television show

In love debacles, things do not end as smoothly. However, after many failed relationships and hook ups, the one serious live in boyfriend crumbles just as the book is coming to a close. The memoir notes that such circumstances are not tragic, not every story must end with a happily ever after conclusion, though a fulfilling career sounds like just that for Colonna.

The book peeks at invigorating moments such as falling for her best friend, seducing Hollywood actors, comedians, writers, all these industry folk seem so accessible through her words. Similar circumstances arise to ones I have experienced, for example sleeping with a model whose face then appears where you least expect it in an advertisement. Playing the devastatingly too close for comfort role in the life of a friend, who sadly drove to their death less than an hour after you’d last seen them. The comedy club I currently work at is even mentioned in the memoirs pages, comforting me that perhaps my current career path will help elevate me to where I want to be in life. Even my favorite sports team, the New York Yankees whose stadium houses a hysterical attempt to spread the ashes of a friend’s dead dog.

I always take pleasure in seeing how others deal with the dilemmas I and others have faced in our lifetime. Colonna creates an endearing story of a young woman growing up and trying to get her shit together, which is at the very least what we all are trying to accomplish. If you’re shopping for a new book to read, especially if you need a good laugh I highly recommend “Life As I Blow It”.

In life I have found there are two groups of people you can’t trust: those who don’t drink, and virgins. Let’s be honest, you don’t know what the fuck you are doing in life until you fuck or have been fucked. Virgins run around like hormones on legs unable to explain who they are or why they do the things that they do. We are not real people until we’ve been initiated through the painfully awkward and unpleasant procedure of losing our V-card. This act bonds all humans together, or at least the civilized ones.

As I have discussed before, I lost my virginity at 14; it was awful and I ran around afraid of penis for about four years after that. By the time I was having good sex it was with someone I hated, but life is funny like that. When I was 18 I felt confident enough in my own abilities to induct someone else into the club. The virgin sacrifice was the younger brother of someone I had been friends with growing up. I hadn’t seen him in forever but puberty does a really great job sometimes and I wanted to reward him.

 I kind of liked the idea of being someone’s first, they had nothing to compare it to. Like carving your name in wet cement, the effects would be a permanent reference, an anecdote to lovers in the future. Plus a timid and nervous virgin is sort of adorable, like a lost puppy they have no idea what to do with themselves. I decided to lend a gracious hand, or in this case a vagina and give those 90 seconds of pleasure that every inexperienced boy dreams about. It certainly took less time than my initiation, but that old awkwardness was still present. I didn’t expect a call, a thank you card or flowers, just appreciation for sending another sexual pupil into the world. At that age it was totally normal.

 I believe certain things have an age of expiration, no one above the age of 12 should have a pet hamster, and no one of legal drinking age should be a virgin. Imagine my surprise and horror when six years later a 24-year-old is begging me to make him a proper man. To make matters worse I was in a foreign country at a party where I knew almost no one. I have never been a big fan of house parties, the red solo cups, the bad music, and the bedroom seductions seen in every bad romantic comedy. Now I was living one.

 Being a drunk American girl, of course I wanted to make out with a cute Irish guy, but taking his virginity? Now that was more than I intended. For some reason I was decreed King Arthur and his cock was Excalibur. Only I could unleash his sword from the stone. It’s not that I wasn’t up to the challenge, but the whole idea kind of put me off. Even though the first time it seemed like doing a great act of charity. Maybe it was because it was one of the rare moments of my life when I was sleeping with someone I actually liked back at home, but whatever the reason I couldn’t get into it. As enthusiastic as the alcohol should have made me, I was as dry as the Sahara Desert. He attempted to shove his hard, uncircumcised penis into the Promised Land and my body would just not allow it. I tried to picture the guy I really was into and get the whole ordeal over with, but my body had other ideas, my labia acted as Gandalf the flesh colored with the clear message “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”

Instead I gave a sub-par blowjob and he came on my chest…twice. Just when I envisioned matters could not get any worse he asked how he should keep his pubic hair. This is a question one should ask a girlfriend or regular fling, not the practical stranger you just half lost your virginity to. We ended our evening by him asking one last question, “So was that it?” I left him with an answer I believe to be a lie, but one some people would regard as fact, “The tip always counts.” Then I left, without so much as a goodbye.

And that my friends, is why you should never trust a virgin.

In New York there are many dynamics that can divide our already diverse population, democrat or republican, East side or West, casual or business. But perhaps the most vicious debate any New Yorker can encounter on a daily basis comes down to the simple American game of baseball, are you for the Yankees or the Mets? The two retract from each other like opposite sides of magnets, and if you make the unfortunate decision to start seeing a fan of the opposing team know now: it will never end well. Once again I have been there and done that.

 Now I have lived in New York all my life, and for a long time I was completely oblivious to the staunch battle between the boroughs. Baseball hardly existed to me, of course I was aware of it, the practically iconic fashion of a Yankees baseball cap was seen everywhere I went, but their loyalty meant little to me. I had been dragged to a few Yankees games on class trips at an early age, but I was disinterested in the seemingly endless game of the men in pinstripes.

 As I got older I still lived in a world without sports. My father had moved out and left us a house of women, not that he would have provided much encouragement, as the only sport he ever cared for was fencing. If asked then I would have answered myself to be a Yankees fan, I knew New York had the best team in baseball, but I saw it more as a reaffirmation of our cities greatness than any love of the team.

 As with many other things in my life I was forced to discover baseball all on my own. My indulgence began when the Yankees reached the World Series in 2009 and strangely it never left as it does for most who simply gain interest at peak moments of success and then falter. I began to know the names and faces of other players on the team, whereas before then I imagined it only consisted of Derek Jeter.

 I became engulfed in all of the excitement, suddenly and out of nowhere I had a seething hatred for any team in the way of our victory, which at the time was the Phillies. When the Yankees won the World Series as they had many times before, I rejoiced, and for the first time I felt warmth at our victory, a part of my cities proudest team.

 Equipped with my new love of baseball there was no turning back, I attended games, wore supportive shirts and tweeted to my hearts content about my their superiority. Now plenty of people believe it or not, hate the Yankees, envious of their money and success, no doubt as I would be too if I were a fan of some lesser team.

 And perhaps those who hate the Yankees and their supporters the most are the unfortunate fans that root for the has-been team of Queens, The New York Metropolitans. I learned the hard way that romantic relations with a Mets fan will never work. A Mets fan will constantly walk around with a weight on their shoulder, as if the world owes them something, the “throw me a bone” way of life. As if I am supposed to feel bad their team hasn’t won a World Series in my entire lifetime.

 Nothing will ever appease a Mets fan, they always feel they are always more owed than owing, though in reality their debts are insurmountable. However if you ever bring up the financial situation or faults of players, prepare to have your head bitten off. Through loss of star players, and hopes dashed time and time again their masochistic fans stay begrudgingly loyal, which I suppose is commendable. But bring up the Bronx Bombers just once in conversation and a fury is unleashed. Every debate turns into an argument with no common ground in sight.

 My first Mets game was a date, a mistake from the start. He actually bought me a Mets shirt and made me don another team’s apparel, embarrassing and insufferable. I did gladly accept all the drinks he provided however, for if I was forced to be at Citi Field in a Mets shirt I might as well be drunk. Our seats were top notch, on the first baseline, directly next to the ball boy and I was still bored to tears. It just wasn’t my team, I don’t enjoy mascots, and the color orange looks good on no one. The Mets lost that game, and I secretly relished in it. The reasons that drove us apart definitely had much to do with baseball and a bit to do with his receding hairline.

 For some reason the sport that encourages everyone to get drunk and shout obscenities doesn’t do much for bringing people together. Like the tragic lovers Romeo and Juliet, it seems these two households (not alike in dignity) can never peacefully coexist.