by Kari Byron
“I’ve been seeing someone else,” he said. “She’s pregnant and I’m going to move in with her.” Within the week, he packed all his stuff into a U-Haul, and ran off to Texas to be with his new girl.
The day he left, I went over to his apartment to say goodbye. I pretended to be cool with his new life/family, and told him, “It’s okay. No hard feelings at all. Take these as a peace offering.”
I had baked him a batch of cookies laced with saltpeter. My friend told me it would make him flaccid, and I needed revenge. Don’t try this at home, readers. I can’t recommend that anyone poison their ex (although, this guy had it coming).
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What Is Saltpeter, and Does It Really Make a Dude’s Dick Limp?
Saltpeter is the compound potassium nitrate, used for many practical purposes, like oxidizing black powder in fireworks, salting meat, and thickening soups and stews. It’s a legitimate plant fertilizer, tree stump decomposer, desensitizing ingredient in toothpaste, and a treatment for asthma and high blood pressure.
Somehow, it got a reputation as an an aphrodisiac, a turn-off drug, and is believed to have been added to the breakfasts of prisoners and military personnel to decrease their sex drive or make them impotent. Effective? Probably not. If anything, the saltpeter made them so sick to their stomachs that the last thing they wanted to do was have sex.
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FACE OFF
On the show, we did an episode that pitted men and women against each other in their ability to read facial cues. To test which gender could read them more accurately and faster, we took photographs of our faces making seventeen basic emotions—happy, sad, scared, angry, confused, etc.—and then blocked out the photo to show only the eyes. We asked a dozen women and a dozen men to identify the emotion revealed in just the eyes before showing them the entire face.
The results? The women were significantly better at identifying the emotions accurately, and way faster to call them out. The men dithered and made what were plainly confused faces before they gave up answers.
One weird trend: For whatever reason, my angry eyes were mistakenly identified by women as “happy,” and by men as “sexy.” Grant’s angry eyes were called “come hither” and “flirty” by a lot of the women. It would have been useful to know when I was single that glaring at men would turn them on. On second thought, I think I had figured that out . . .
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It was months, maybe even a year, later, and I was hanging out at a party where people were swapping urban legends about ex revenge stories. Like the one about the woman who spread grass seeds over her boyfriend’s living room and flooded it while he was out of town. It always happened to a friend of a friend of a coworker. My face almost cramped up and I had to bite a dent into my tongue trying not to laugh as a dude told the saltpeter story. Funny to think I had a future in busting legends like these since I had clearly contributed to the quilt of crazy-ex-girlfriend mythology. Myth confirmed—it was me.
KISSING FROGS
After Jason, I had one really sweet boyfriend in college, but who wants to hear about that? Sorry, Matt, you are not going to make the book and I know you bought it just to find out what I said about you. I’m afraid you were one of the good ones and wrote too many nice songs about me. Sorry!
After Matt, I found myself attracted to other “fixer-upper” boyfriends, strivers, musicians, and brooding artists who were chronically under- or unemployed and needed a cheerleader/problem solver to help them realize their dreams. The role fit me well, I’m ashamed to admit, although it was far from the independent-yet-romantic fantasies of my youth.
One guy was a vegan chef, an aspiring painter, a dreamer, and a drinker. I didn’t think his art was that good, but he thought he was a genius. He had so much confidence and ambition, I thought maybe he was on the cusp of finding greatness.
While he dithered creatively, I did everything for him. I let him live with my roommates and me, lent him money, and attempted to draw out the brilliant in him, but he never got better at painting, or at living. I never even loved him, but I stuck it out for a long time because I was entranced by the romance of being a muse. My friends hated him, and yet I persisted. One plus in his favor: He was a chef. With him, I was a less starving artist for a hot minute.
Once, we were having sex, and I muttered, “Matthew!”
His name was Michael. Matt was the sweet college boyfriend.
The moment I realized what had just happened, I panicked for a second, but then he said, “I love you, too.” He thought “Matthew” was “I love you.” He was so touched, I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d been on the verge of breaking up with him, too, and now felt stuck. I stayed way longer than I should have.
I was right about his work. He got nowhere with it, but I did as much as possible to help him realize a dream that was doomed to fail. He ended up running off to Indonesia with the money I’d lent him. He left all his shit behind and told his landlord that I would deal with it.
Why was I so committed to the idea that love is hard work? I was a soft touch, just like my father who was always bringing home strays, people which both of my parents were pained to get rid of. The man would lend you his last dollar if you needed it!
I knew what was going on, but I operated with the theory that it was greater to give than to receive love, and acted it out. I took care of a lot of sad cases who didn’t love me back the way they should’ve and learned that there is no end to men who are on the road to figuring themselves out and in need of a funny, artsy woman to listen to them for hours and run errands while they do whatever they need to do instead (read: play video games). Instead of encouraging and helping these guys, I should have been cheerleading for myself.
I call men like this “emotional vampires.” It’s easy for emotional vampires to find people like Dad and me, and say, “Hey, I can suck the life force from them for a while.” When Michael left, I vowed he’d be my last stray dog boyfriend.
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HOW TO DUMP A GUY
I was the dumpee as often as the dumper, and my behavior was no better than the jerks who left me. It might sound horrible, but I’d rather get dumped and wallow in misery than do the dumping and be tormented by guilt. I found it nearly impossible to walk away from people even when I knew they were wrong for me. I was always so worried about hurting them, I’d pretend everything was fine and hide my true feelings while slowly distancing myself until—poof!—I was gone. I ghosted before that was a thing.
The Wrong Way to Dump a Guy?
What I did, the stealth withdrawal and sudden disappearance, looking back, I see how cowardly it was. I regret not having the guts to share my true feelings with men I’d been close to, even if it was to say, “I don’t love you anymore and cringe when you touch me.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not crying in my coffee about it now. I didn’t scar anyone for life (that I know of). I just wish I’d been brave and given the sweet boys whose hearts I broke the respect of being honest with them.
The Right Way to Dump a Guy?
Sit down with him, look him in the eye, and say, “I don’t love you. This isn’t going anywhere. I’m sorry but we have to move on.” It’ll hurt you to say it and for him to hear it, but truth is always less painful than a lie in the long run.
Besides, staying with the wrong guys is such a waste of time. Science tells us that a larger sample size will yield better results. I say, kiss as many frogs as you can.
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LOVE IN THE BEER AISLE
San Francisco, in case you didn’t know, has several miles of magnificent beach. One night in 1999, I wanted to go down to Ocean Beach to check out a big protest—the offense du jour, the Enron-spurred energy crisis and resulting blackouts. In SF, most protests turn into rave-like parties, especially on the beach, with bonfires, drum circles, singing, and drugs, lots of drugs.
I called my best friend Lisa’s house to ask her to go with me, and some guy named P
aul answered the phone. I’d seen him around once before. He had crystal-blue eyes and the long, blond dreadlocks of a surfer Rastafarian, which he was. I passed him once standing next to his Harley, smoking a cigarette. I was rocking a happy Goth look in my white leather trench coat and ornate black eye makeup at the time. Our styles did not mesh and, admittedly, we were not each other’s type. Opposites really.
Anyway, he said Lisa wasn’t around, so we hung up. Then my phone mysteriously rang. Back in the day, you could dial *69 to call the last number that had called you. It was Paul, calling back to say he thought checking out the craziness at the beach sounded cool. I casually suggested he meet me at Safeway in the beer aisle (as one does). Half an hour later, there he was, next to a stack of Budweiser cases, this tanned surfer in a quilted jacket. Funny how details of important moments stay with you—the fluorescent lights from above glowing on his face, the uncomfortable eye lock when we couldn’t stop staring, and then nervously looking away.
I was struck by the sight of him, and surprised by my reaction.
I had another guy with me, a friend from work. The two guys looked at each other, confused, while I grabbed a six-pack and brought it to the register. “Are you coming?” I asked Paul.
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Why Is Eye Contact So Powerful?
When you look directly into someone’s eyes, it can mean many things. A warning. Proof of trustworthiness, as in, “Look me in the eye and say that.” It’s how you show empathy, concern, attention, or send a secret message. Prolonged unbroken eye contact for two minutes is almost all you need to fall in love.
According to a study by researchers at Clark University, random strangers of the opposite sex (hey, the study was done in 1989, pre-gender-fluid acceptability) were tasked with gazing into each other’s eyes for two minutes. Afterward, they reported feelings of love and arousal, despite having only just met their experiment partners. Apparently, eye contact releases phenylethylamine and oxytocin, chemicals that make you feel attraction and bonding. If you’re looking for love, definitely keep your eyes open.
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Hesitantly, he said, “Okay,” and the three of us took our beer down to the beach together. I didn’t realize our threesome was super awkward. I assumed both guys just wanted to be my friend, but I was wrong, times two. Paul had sussed out the situation and didn’t want anything to do with it. We were at the protest/party for only a few minutes when Paul said, “I’m going to the Kilowatt,” a bar in the Mission.
I said, “I want to come! Let’s all go together!”
So I made this poor guy from work, who thought we were on a date, drive all three of us down to the Kilowatt. I was focused on Paul completely, and at some point, the other guy disappeared. I guess he realized he wasn’t getting anywhere.
So there I was, in a bar across town with a surfer skater guy that I didn’t know except that he was a friend of Lisa’s boyfriend. None of that mattered. I was chasing a moment, feeding the butterflies in my stomach (mostly Jägermeister) while I tried to seem super cool so Paul would like me.
We ended up talking until the bar closed, and, with no car, decided to walk the miles back to our neighborhood. We arrived at my door at 5:00 a.m., walked and talked out. Both exhausted, I let him sleep over at my house. Nothing naughty happened because I really liked him. I was thunderstruck and playing for keeps.
In the morning, I woke up face-to-face with him, breathing in his breath like I was consuming his presence. The symbolism of the moment was so beautiful that it even overrode morning breath. At some point during our intense twenty hours together, I’d fallen in love. To find love, look in the beer aisle, or in any unexpected place.
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Morning Breath, WTF?
Morning breath is, basically, the stinky byproduct of normal mouth bacteria breaking down errant food particles in your teeth. But when you’re in love, according to my personal research, morning breath doesn’t smell so bad. Love is blind. It’s also anosmic.
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Over the next month, we spent every single moment together. For once, I didn’t bend over backwards to please a guy, and he didn’t ask me to do anything except to stop trying so hard, and to just be myself. Paul didn’t bring out my fixer-upper impulse, or the pressure to prove myself to him. He was happy with me in jeans and a T-shirt, and I relaxed into the style, knowing I was sexy no matter what to him. We were both broke artists and didn’t have money to go out, so we’d have romantic nights at home, picking a portrait from a photo book or magazine and drawing it side by side on the couch, and then showing each other our interpretations. It was so exciting to be with a man who loved my art and my mind, and pushed me creatively and intellectually.
WHEN IT COMES TO LOVE, NOT WORKING AT IT WORKS BEST
Our relationship had to be kept a secret from our friends, though, because Lisa had previously warned me against him. “Don’t date that guy,” she said. “He’s cranky.”
Lisa’s boyfriend Brett warned Paul against me, too: “Don’t date that girl. She’s crazy.”
So Cranky and Crazy kept it under wraps until we were sure it was something real. It was obvious. We never left each other’s side. Paul waited five years to propose. He even had the ring in his pocket one night when I had too many beers and went on a rant about how marriage was just a piece of paper, blah, blah. Poor guy. (I can be such a pain in the ass.) He walked around with that ring for another year before he got the nerve to ask the “I never want to get married” girl for her hand. Funny how quickly I abandoned my stance when he got down on one knee. I cried and said yes immediately.
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HOW TO CRASH TEST A WEDDING
For us, the only important elements of a wedding were having a good time with good people. The planning was thrown together with barely any effort or much thought. The wedding industry sets you up for crazy expectations, which, logically, drives people insane. I wasn’t going to get sucked into that mind-set. I also couldn’t afford to.
My plan was “go random.” To choose a location, I Googled “paradise and pillars.” I love pillars for some reason, and figured it was as good a criteria as any, the internet’s answer to spinning a globe and putting your finger on a random destination. The first picture that came up was Costa Rica. I had never been there, but booked it blindly anyway. Only the people who really cared would come, and a destination wedding would keep our invite list small. I come from Catholic folks. We have a lot of cousins. (No offense to the family but Grandma Byron was one of seventeen kids! Seriously.)
I walked down the aisle in a white dress and Vans with “Thug Wife” written in crystals on the top. Paul was shocked that I wasn’t wearing something red or vampire-like. My dad escorted me in the pimp hat I bought at a zoot suit store in the Mission District. Paul and I wrote our own vows. Our sisters stood beside us as Maid of Honor and Best Woman. My best friend Brittany officiated, and we were married “by the power of Grey Skull.” At the reception, both Brett and Lisa took credit for introducing us.
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Here we are now, sixteen years later, married, with a kid, a mortgage, everything I thought I didn’t want.
In the digital age, most of my friends rely on the mathematical algorithms of dating sites to find love. If Paul and I had plugged in our preferences, we would have been a zero percent match. We like different music, and don’t watch the same TV shows. He’s a Southern red meat lover, and I’m a California salad eater. But we have a powerful, base-level animal attraction. It sounds weird, but I was drawn to his smell. It was nature, and I didn’t have a choice.
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What Are Pheromones?
Pheromones are airborne chemicals that animals emit involuntarily to attract members of the opposite sex. It’s basically like waving an invisible flag that says, “I’m here and ready to do it.” In the animal kingdom, animals mark their territory with pheromones. If you’ve ever seen a cat rub all over a table leg, that’s what’s going on. Scientific research has prove
n that pheromones are the reason women’s periods in the same household sync up. (Every woman at MythBusters was on the same cycle.) As for whether human pheromones cause people to be sexually attracted to one another, conclusive research is pending. According to the empirical research of one couple—Paul and me—pheromones are real and powerful. As soon as I was in his smelling range, I was drawn to him like an animal in the wild.
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ARTISTS IN LOVE
When Paul and I started dating, San Francisco was undergoing an artist renaissance in what was known as the Mission Style of painting and sculpture in the ’90s and early aughts. One of my favorites was Margaret Kilgallen, a folk artist who was, fortunately for collectors, prolific during her short career.
She married Barry McGee, another artist in the Mission School, and became pregnant. They were both successful artists, in love, and about to bring their dearest collaboration into the world. And then, Kilgallen was diagnosed with breast cancer. She made the heartbreaking decision not to have chemotherapy to protect her baby. She gave birth to Asha, a daughter, and died three weeks later in 2001, at thirty-three, leaving Barry to raise their child on his own.
Paul and I were also two SF artists, falling for each other while this tragic love story unfolded. It was a highly charged emotional time, and it infused our relationship with gratitude. We would not take each other for granted, not for a day.
