Wedding Weirdness

Mavs lose, and a bad day is sure to follow…the kind you wish would hurry up and end so you can go home, grab some ice cream, curl up in your favorite chair, and watch some guilty pleasure movie, like Dance With Me.

Here are the high points (low points?):

In the course of random conversation with people I barely knew, the topic of weddings came up.  Hardly surprising considering it’s the month of June--the unofficial wedding month--where every girly station like WE, Lifetime, and TLC, airs enough I Do shows to make The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man explode. 

I’m a hopeless romantic, y’all know that, but weddings have never been a fantastic fantasy in my life. This, as I learned, instantly shoves me into the “You are so doomed” category.

Here’s why:

-I haven’t had my ideal wedding planned since I was a little girl.

-I don’t have THE dress already in mind.  An idea, maybe, but certainly nothing set in stone.

-I don’t buy bridal magazines and keep clippings in a box with hand painted flowers and hearts. (I’ve never even held a bridal magazine)

-I don’t have a dream venue; I haven’t chosen my colors (again, an idea, maybe); I don’t have music or flowers picked out.

-I wouldn’t force my bridesmaids to wear something they don’t want to wear—no single style dress/outfit; no single color, etc. If they want strapless, cool! If they want a little jacket, cool!

-I’ve never tried on a wedding gown (Um, is this really something a single woman does?)

Bride Enthusiast: “Didn’t you know it’s bad luck not to pre-plan your wedding?”

Me, amused: “Interesting. And here I thought it was bad luck if the groom sees the bride before the wedding.”

Bride Girl: “Will you take this seriously, please? This isn’t good!  You're jinxing yourself!”

Me, grinning: “Well…I know I don’t want fancy, frou-frou food. I want down-home cooking that everyone will love. Does that count?”

They weren't convinced.

Guess I don’t have the cart-before-the-horse mentality. I don’t begrudge anybody who plans their wedding in advance of an engagement…or a groom…(it’s kinda cute and hopeful, really), but, good grief, don’t say it’s oh-so-bad luck for me because I never did the same.  

Here’s the deal: I don’t define love by a single day event where you wear an unmanageable white dress that is certain to get slopped on by day’s end. For me, it’s about two people who somehow find each other through this unbelievable chaos called dating.

Reckon I just value the love part more; the wedding part, to me, isn’t meant to be stressful—it’s meant to be enjoyed. A bridezilla, I would most definitely NOT be. It’s not my nature. If you’re lucky enough to find a lifetime love, then the wedding is just white icing on the chocolate cake…at least to me (Huh. Looks like I subconsciously have the cake part picked out anyway).

So, after the Bridal Brigade, I didn’t think the things could get much worse.

I was wrong.

My phone is totally PMSing. She refused to make calls, refused to take calls, and denied me my voice mail. She begrudgingly let me text. Little b*&^%.  I had to call (on another phone) to see if I can fix my phone’s funk.

Following the automated voice stuff, I dutifully fulfilled my button pushing role until something went massively wrong.  It asked me to punch in the number of the phone I was calling about (which, of course, wasn’t the one I was calling from). So, I punched in my cranky phone’s number and heard this:

“You chose to pay 1 million blah blah blah…”  Her voice kept reading numbers and my brain went into freeze mode, while my body starting sweating profusely.

I WHAT?! No, I absolutely DID NOT.

I ended the call immediately, not even letting her finish the endless number reading.

“Thanks a lot, you useless piece of PMSing metal!”

What followed was me trying not to channel the horse in Animal House, all while shaking, dialing, glaring at my problem phone, talking, and getting everything resolved—hopefully. The person I talked with said there must be a problem with the automated system.

See, this is why I don’t use GPS. Dang thing would send me straight off a pier, into the ocean, and down the mouth of a whale.

The day ended with a massive headache and an ice bag.   

Mavs, I really, really need you to win. 

Virgin: Code Name For Alien.

So, according to Friend, virgins are no different than aliens. You read right. 

Friend: "You know, virgins, especially older ones, are a lot like aliens."

Me: "How do you figure?"

Friend: "Well, they're rarely seen...

Me: "Actually, they're seen everyday. They're not hiding in spaceships, viewing human life from afar. It's just that most people don't know to scream, 'Hey, look, there's a virgin! Run for your lives!'"

Friend, chuckling: "That blows the whole visual I had involving virgins and little green aliens."

Me, smiling, while shaking head: "You're sick, and I don't want to know."

Friend: "Anyway, okay, let me modify things: virgins could be like the aliens on V--pretty damn hot, but scaly creatures underneath."

Me: "Yeah, that's just fantastic. Exactly what virgins need--the idea that we hide scales and gooey grossness under our flesh. Really, just super. --brief pause-- E.T. phone home." (said in my best E.T. voice).

Friend, laughing: "Hey, maybe the government will want to take virgins in for scientific study!"

Me: "It's called a hymen. Hardly a scientific breakthrough."

And so ended the whole virgins-aliens comparison. Good times. Actually, it was pretty dang funny.

Oh, and just one more thing....

Be Good.

Hmm.  I'm hungry.  Think I'll grab some Reese's Pieces and daydream about how exciting Independence Day will be this year.

Bad Nut

Late Last Night: After watching Ghost Hunters on Syfy, I shuffled into the kitchen for my nightly handful of nuts. (Go ahead, insert the virgin/nuts jokes here).

I poured a small amount of nuts into a napkin, returned to the comfort of my La-Z-Boy, put on a little Angel, and began munching the nuts.

Somewhere between the desire to have Angel save me from, well, anything, and laughing at Spike (yeah, he's sexy, too), I chomped down on a God awful, sour-like nut.

I have no words for the flavor of this thing, but if I had to guess...hardened-sour-horse's pee might cover it. 

God help me. It was the most disgusting little...GAG.  And so began the gagging.

I promptly removed said vile crap from my mouth and began chugging milk.

Very. Bad. Combination.

Note to self: Hardened-sour-horse's pee flavored nut + milk = horrific taste befitting an ogre.

Mental Image: Tom Hanks, circa Big, just after eating the caviar. Yeah.

After some increased gagging, I grabbed a bottle of water and drank that thing like I'd just eaten dirt.

Did I purchase a jar of nuts manufactured by the makers of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?

What can make a nut taste THAT bad? Just the thought makes me put a finger to my mouth. Ewy.  Anyone ever had that happen with nuts?

Sometimes you feel like a nut...sometimes you don't...sometimes you never will again--at least not for a little while.

When Static Meets A Good Hair Day

With winter comes snow, ice, frost, leaky windows, drippy roofs, and the most annoying house guest of all...static electricity.

Drag your feet, touch a light switch, get a shock.

Slide your bum from a nice, comfy La-Z-Boy, lift your laptop, get a shock.

Rest your locks against practically any surface (car, coat, chair, pillow), look like Beetlejuice...oh, and get a shock if ya touch anything.

After a week of hearing nothing but negative stuff out of Singletonville, I decided to fancy-up my Friday with a different look. So, with my hair sleek and super straight, I headed to the store. Now, the static hadn't really bugged me all day (translation: hair looked good, didn't want to disturb it, spritzed water on it to keep it from going Beetle-J on me). However, my tolerance level had reached its maximum.

Up it goes! I pulled out an ouch-less hair band and did a twisty knot atop my head. Usually, I don't worry about the twisty knot-do because it's usually fool proof.

Enter static.

Walking around the store, I noticed a few odd looks aimed at the top of my head. Ignoring them, I kept on course until I heard a child's giggle. Now, I'm not sure the child's laugh was directed at me or not, but it totally sent me into Paranoid Paty mode.

When I got to frozen foods, I very nearly gagged at the God awful reflection staring back at me from the frosty door.

Oh. Dear. God. 

What the frick was going on with my hair?

I looked like Edward Scissorhands' little sister.

My twisty knot was not a twisty knot, but some creature from the depths of ugly, split down the middle, flopping to each side of my head, while stray strands stuck up all over the damn place.

I've never seen anything quite like it. Horrendous doesn't begin to describe it.

Mortified, I headed to the always empty card aisle, yanked the band out of my hair, and madly fluffed my mane.

Bad move.

The static was now worse than ever. There was no fixing this. My once sleek, sexy hair was now freakishly alien.

Needless to say, I was quite happy to get home and put my hair up...properly.

Evil static.

Bless The Broken Road

I must thank everyone for their comments on yesterday's post, Almost The Best.  You all made some exceptionally good points that truly resonated with me.

I started thinking more and more about what Fellow Singleton said about 30+ singles never being someone's one. Though she made some great, if not alarming, points, I will have to disagree with her.

Between the thoughts swirling about my mind and those that you all posted, I've decided that you can be the one at any age. If things didn't work out with someone in the past, then they weren't meant to be. Period. If he (or she) compares you to an ex, so be it. Maybe you will be the one to show him (or her) how happy life can be. Maybe you will show him what it means to be with a genuine person.

I haven't really been able to put this whole thing into words...and now I know why--because it has already been done...in song. I can't believe I didn't think about this before--guess the whole concept just took me by surprise.

So, here you go--one answer to Fellow Singleton's proposed dilemma for all the 30+ singletons.

Almost The Best

So, it's March, the month of little dancing leprechauns, four leaf clovers, and luck. Maybe it takes a little time for the luck o' the Irish to kick in--it is only the 2nd, after all--but, by the way this week has started, I would say luck is taking a nap...with the leprechauns...in the clover.

Fellow Singleton: "You do realize that at this stage in the game, we will never be the one."

Me, utterly confused by out-of-blue comment: "Huh?"

FS: "Think about it, any man we meet our age or older, will probably have been in love, married, something along those lines...he'll have found the one already. She will always be the one we are measured against, even if he hates her."

Me: "Again...huh?"

FS: "Single women in their 30s or older will never be the best, but only the best the guy can do."

ICE COLD WATER IN FACE.

Me: "Um, that was harsh. So, you're saying hypothetical him will never see us as the best."

FS: "Right. Only the best he can do."

Me: "In other words, he settling."

FS: "Yep. We need to get used to lonely or being second best."

HARD PUNCH IN GUT.

So, are we destined to just be someone's "good enough?" Will he always long for the someone he never had or the one it never worked with?

Honestly, wouldn't it be kinda sad if a man (or woman, if the roles are reversed) compared every woman to a former flame? I mean, there's a reason it didn't work in the first place. And, wouldn't that mean she wasn't the one in the end?

I don't want or expect to be every man's best; I just want to be one man's best...one man's one.

There is a song by Brandy called, Almost Doesn't Count.  Yeah. That. I am not cool with being someone's almost something special. I think it was kinda like that with Wasn't--if only I was older, if only I lived closer...if only, if only...thing is, when it comes to matters of the heart--to the possibility of happily ever after--there is no if only...there is no almost.

Ugh. My head feels jello-y-blah.

Valentine's Eve...A Weekend Roundup.

'Twas the night before V--...

Yeah, I can't carry that one through.

So, yesterday was the Budweiser Shootout, a.k.a. the official return of NASCAR. Hurray! Dale Earnhardt Jr. drew the pole for Saturday night's race, and was having a great night until...Smith got into Carl Edwards, who then clipped Dale. Night over. Boo!

***On the very bright side--Dale won the pole for the upcoming Daytona 500!!!! Hurray!***

Food Drama: Yesterday, I ordered Chinese food. My favorite part of the meal? Fortune cookie time!!

Well, I had 3 fortune cookies. 2 of them were the exact same: "You and your wife will be happy in your life together."

Fantastic.

Two totally inapplicable fortunes for several reasons: 1. Wrong sex; 2. I'm not someone's wife or anything of the like, so I can't stretch it in any possible way to make it fit; and 3. I don't recall ever seeing a marriage fortune, much less two of the same thing--highly inappropriate fortunes right before the-day-that-must-not-be-named.

Result: My dad's getting them, since he and my mom fit said fortunes perfectly.

The 3rd fortune did offer a tiny bit of hope: "All your hard work will soon pay off." Here's hoping. Think I'll keep this one.

Next up was a boatload of fun: After watching Gone With The Wind, another kind of wind began battering my stomach something awful.  The painfully unwelcome visitor then kept me in post-food hell until 8 a.m. this morning. I'm trying hard NOT to take this as a sign, but rather an unfortunate, ill-timed occurrence...one that just so happened to fall on V-Day eve. Ironic and appropriate in so many ways.

Happy V-Day Eve! *just doesn't have the same ring to it*

Bah! Humbug! *now, that works*

Fact or Fiction REVEAL

Well, I knew y'all were smart little bloggers! I tried to actually pull a reverse psychology kind-of thing--make you want to pick the long ones, but then figure they are too obvious and pick the shorter ones.

So, the FACT ones are: 1 and 5.

1. Up Close & Personal with Troy Aikman: Yep, a portion of my face unwittingly landed against *possibly* Troy Aikman's derriere. There's still a 50/50 chance it wasn't him, so who knows. If it wasn't him, then he has a true doppelganger. The whole ordeal is still embarrassing. Just for the record: I didn't lose my balance totally on my own accord--the rude dude behind me kept nudging against me, trying to squeeze me out of line, and I just couldn't keep my footing.

2. Pilot Seagull: This was actually an ALMOST occurrence. I was just a little kid at the time, on vacation with my family.  My mom thankfully saw the gull and yanked me sideways, allowing the bird dung to just miss me.

3. Peter Piper Picked A Pecan Pie: This is true....but it happened to my mom. I was in the front of the restaraunt when it happened. I heard my mom clear as day, turned, and saw her fly down the step, disappear, *THUD*, then reappear, pulling herself up onto the glass counter. She was mortified. It's one of my dad's favorite stories to tell--he was HYSTERICAL, much to Mom's dismay.

4.  The Flagpole: Again, this is true, but it happened to a friend of mine in either 8th or 9th grade. Looking back on it, I'm just really glad she was okay--all of us were too busy stomach-cramp-laughing to talk.

5.  Eye Don't Like You: Um, yeah, all true. This actually happened when I was visiting my grandfather in Texas, so this wasn't my normal eye doctor, but was a doctor my dad knew back in the day.  My dad was in the room at the time and quite literally couldn't believe what he was seeing. All I remember is hearing him unsuccessfully trying to muffle the continuous chuckling. I felt so bad--poor doctor had no idea what he was in for when he walked into the room that day.

So, there you have it. I told you my mom always says my life is like a sitcom (although hers, believe it or not, is far worse, albeit funny). Now, you see why.

Tagged: Fact or Fiction

J.Day has tagged me with a fun game!

Rules: You must list 5 things about yourself; 4 of them must be fiction, 1 must be true. Fellow bloggers will try and guess which one is true. Then, I pass this on to 4 bloggers.  

I'm going to mix it up, as well.  

2 of the following will be FACT; 3 will be FICTION.





1. Up Close & Personal With Troy Aikman: I once met Troy Aikman (he was retired from the game at this point). Of course, when I say "met," I mean I was in the same vicinity.  He sat only a couple of rows down from where I was sitting with a friend and my dad.  

During the break, I ended up directly behind him in a very long line.  I felt so teeny tiny looking up at the back of his head. I kept thinking, "Wow. This was our quarterback! He helped win us super bowls!" He, um, smelled good, too.  And, no, I didn't take the time to sniff him...not really, anyway.  I mean, he was right there, barely an inch in front of me, I couldn't avoid his scent people! 

Well, like an idiot, I dropped my money. When I bent over to pick up the money, the guy behind me tried to push me out of line. What happened next was nothing short of horrifyingly humiliating. 

There I was, stumbling forward, trying to stand back up and maintain my place in line, when I lost my balance and wound up with part of my face and forehead on Troy Aikman's buttocks. 

He slowly turned and asked if  everything was "okay back there." He had a good laugh over it all. So not the way I wished to meet the Hall of Fame quarterback.


What's worse? My friend later swore it wasn't really Troy Aikman; my dad, on the other hand, was certain it was him. All I know is my face decided to cuddle with a man's butt cheeks...a man that could have been the beloved Cowboys' quarterback.


2.  Pilot Seagull: While walking on Fisherman's Wharf with my mom and dad on a trip to California, a seagull decided to dive bomb a massive dump directly on my head. I walked around the rest of the day with sticky-shi**y hair.

3.  Peter Piper Picked A Pecan Pie: Picture an extremely small restaurant --maybe 20 tables; at the back of the place, near the cash register, there was a large glass enclosed area where they sold pies and cakes. The room was so quiet. As I started to leave, I noticed a rather tasty pecan pie calling to me from inside the glass display.  I turned, and said, "Oh, look at that pecan piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee." Missing an embarrassingly obvious step, I flew down, and crashed into the glass counter. It didn't break, nor did I, but the whole place was trying to keep from laughing, some more than others. I bought the pie out of sheer humiliation. 

4.The Flagpole: Late for class one day after gym, I was too busy talking with a friend and slammed headfirst into a metal flagpole. The impact made that classic "BONG" sound. I fell backwards on my butt, pressing my palm against my head, laughing and crying all at the same time.


5.  Eye Don't Like You: I don't care for people near my eyes, doctor or not. So, when dear Doc tried to put drops in my eyes for the first time, we had a little problem. 

Every single time he got near my eye, some automatic reflex just took over my body: I jerked my head sideways, took my fist, and punched his arm away from me. This happened two more times, with drops going down the side of my face, my ear, and in my hair, before Doc decided he would count to 3. Huh! I'm too smart for that! I knew full well he was going to drop those poisonous drops on 1 or 2.  Sure enough, on 2, he aimed, I fired...my fist punched and my leg kicked into his little table-tray thingy, making a God-awful noise, and sending a few of his tools crashing to the floor. 

Staying calm, Doc said, "Well, you're a feisty one, aren't you? We're going to have to try this a different way then." 

He moved all things away from my legs, then wisely moved behind me, so I couldn't see him. He still had a tough time getting those drops in, but he finally succeeded. After all was said and done, he said he never saw someone with quicker reflexes and superior peripheral vision...he also said he needed some aspirin and a vacation. 

Tag, you're it:  I tried to pick people who haven't been tagged with this one, but I may have missed someone.  I just really think they will come up with some awesome stories, both fact and fiction!


chocolate angel; Gorilla Bananas; Oilfield Trash; Rawknrobyn;

Bloggers: Okay, now it's up to y'all! Which TWO are FACT??? I'll post the answers late tonight. :) 

P.S. If there are any typos, please forgive me--very tired eyes today. 

Vomit Day #2: Not A Top 10

If my first Vomit Day story was humiliating, then this one should rank fairly high on the pathetic scale.

The week leading up to Vomit Day during my sophomore year in high school was an exciting one. A friend of mine decided to set me up with this truly gorgeous senior.  After pointing me out to him in the hall, he relayed his interest, and the road to my first decent Vomit Day was well underway.

He got my number from her, saying he would call me on Valentine's Day, and if things went well, he would ask me to a movie that night.

Wow! A date on Vomit Day with Adonis-senior-guy! Finally, a high school dream date coming true! And on my least favorite day of the year!!!!

February 14th: I turned my ringer on high, spent hours picking out my outfit (just in case said Vomit Day conversation turned into a date), and waited...and waited...and waited...

RING! RING!

Me: "Hello?"

Friend: "Aw, you answered the phone so sweetly! Has he called yet?"

Me: "No, not yet."

Friend: "Well, he will, just hang tight."

Not long after Friend called, my mom and dad knocked on my bedroom door with my Valentine's Day gift in hand. They gave me a CD...a soundtrack, to be more specific. I immediately placed it in my stereo and listened. Read on to find out which one...trust me when say this CD was the metaphorical dagger.

By 10:00 p.m., I knew he wasn't going to call. To this day, I can see myself sitting in my bed, staring at my carefully planned outfit all laid out, listening to my Valentine's CD from mom and dad, with my little pink phone by my side. Sad.

By 11:30 p.m., I was crying...while listening to...drum roll please...

The Bodyguard Soundtrack.  You know, the one with I Will Always Love You---a favorite of manic depressives back in the day.

Yep. I was stood up/shafted/ditched on Valentine's Day, while listening to Whitney Houston belt one of the most depressing songs of all time, second only to All By Myself. 

Oh, but there's more to this story! If I thought I couldn't feel any worse about myself, I was about to learn otherwise.

Turns out Adonis-senior-guy asked around about me prior to calling.  He found out my name wasn't on the list of top ten sophomore sluts. 


I believe his exact words to Friend were, "She just doesn't have the right name."

In fact, after a little digging, Friend found out that this guy "needed some kind of sex" on the first date, so he would never take a chance on a "good girl."

Bottom Line: He ditched me because my name wasn't on a list of sluts. It didn't matter that he thought I was cute; it didn't matter about my personality.  He didn't care.  He needed sex, and I didn't have the right name.

It's so pathetic, it's actually amusing. I mean, who gets stood up on Vomit Day for not having the right name?

Ugh, I hate you, Vomit Day.

Vomit Day #1: Mistaken Valentine.

So, I thought I'd tell you how a girl who loves love, adores pink, and is a sucker for romance, literally loathes Valentine's Day.  I've never, ever had a good one. Seriously, I have rigid rules for that God forsaken day (another post for another day).

Mistaken Valentine:

Do you remember the flower tables in school? I dreaded them. Every Vomit Day those damn tables would pop up covered with big white buckets full of friggin' flowers.

The worst part? This whole flower-giving shindig went down in the cafeteria IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So, every single self-professed "it" kid knew who got a flower, who didn't, who wanted one, who cried (yes, some cried...I didn't...not in public, anyway), etc.

The stress was unreal: Am I going to get a flower? Who might give me a flower? Oh Dear God, will pick-a-nose boy give me a flower?

Well, on this particular day of blithering bile, I had it on good authority that someone was going to give me a flower. Sadly, I was quite excited in spite of myself. Lunchtime arrives, and I'm a little anxious. Could this be my first actually GOOD Valentine's Day?

Of course not.

Boy after boy approached the wicked flower table, purchased a flower, then delivered it to their chosen girl, while an entire lunchroom took note. Finally, a boy I didn't recognize purchased a pink carnation and began walking in my direction. My friends were all nudging me, yanking on my sweater, etc.

Just as he was about to hand me the flower (and, yes, I was in mid-stretch for the stupid thing) I heard a voice in the distance shout, "No! Not her! The girl behind her!"

Fan-friggin-tastic. 

The boy meekly apologized, then handed the flower to the girl behind me--he literally reached over my head to give it to her.  As he did, a drop of water fell on my forehead. Humiliation personified.

Apparently, he was just the delivery boy...and I was the wrong address.

Needless to say, I didn't get a flower.

I loathe this day with a Medusa-like passion.

Crush, Crushed, Crushing

I've always wondered what it would be like to run into a former crush. Apparently, fate doesn't realize that "wonder" doesn't equal "want."

Background Rundown: My crush asked me out; I stupidly said yes like a foolish crush-blind girl with foggy-brain syndrome. During the course of the date--pretty early on, actually--he started asking me when we were going to have sex, whether I would do things to him right there and then, etc.

A little shocked by his bluntness, I soon realized I was on a date with Sex-Only Guy. SOG didn't give a hoot about the person; he just wanted to "bang." He didn't know about my V-card, but he quickly figured out that I'm not a wham-bam kind-of girl, much to his dismay.

According to him, he thought I was "a naughty girl in good girl clothes."

At the time, he said he would take me out again IF I'd "eff" him. I told him that's not going to happen; he said it was a shame and he's going to have to "regrettably" let me go.

And that's how a crush crushes. (Not that I want a guy like that...it's just a little disappointing when your crush turns out to be nothing like you expected or hoped).

Fast forward: The random run-in turned into, well, more of the same. After showcasing his ability to masterfully craft urban dictionary lingo into a compliment on my appearance, he asked if I was still "...the good girl or would I be willing to go around the corner."

Nothing changes.

I thereafter confirmed my good-girl status, to which he shook his head and groaned, "Shame."

Me: "You said that before, as I recall."

SOG: "Why not go wild? If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure I'd want you more than once."

Me: "Well that doesn't in any way make me feel like a can of beer or anything."

SOG, laughing: "Some women are like beer--you can't stop at one. It's a compliment."

Me: "And when you hit the end of the six pack, it's onto the next." He laughingly agreed and liked my sauciness. "Yeah, I'm not into to being a beer can."

SOG: "All right, all right, I'm not getting anywhere. It is too bad, though. You should probably give some thought to how things work...there's a reason you are still single."

Me, working to control my temper: "Really? Enlighten me."

SOG: "Men want Pamela, not Audrey."

I knew instantly what he meant--he talked quite a bit using movie/celebrity references. Men want the blonde-bombshell-sex-symbol-type like Pamela Anderson, not Audrey Hepburn.

SOG: "You're the Audrey."

Me: "That much I got, oddly enough." After a brief pause, I had a thought.  "But, here's the thing some men don't understand--the Audrey's can be every bit the Pamela...they just save their Pammy moves for the Harrison Ford's or the Sean Connery's, rather than waste them on the Charlie Sheen's."

I was quite proud of that little comeback, especially considering Charlie Sheen is one of his idols. [Note: Recent Charlie Sheen news had him partying for two days, where one of his special guests was a blonde porn star--undoubtedly the ideal scenario for SOG].

So, men want Pamela's, not Audrey's, according to Charlie, er, SOG. What do you think? Should this be a crushing revelation to the Audrey's of the world, or just a crappy concept formed in the mind of an egotistical prick? Personally, I prefer the latter.

Maybe we Audrey's should modify our image by re-naming ourselves Undercover Pamela's or Saucy Audrey's. Hmm. Maybe not.

Please, May I Have A Soda?! Soda Poll....

Can't sleep, thanks to my nose. Apparently it's not done singing kumbaya with the Kleenex and Vick's VapoRub. It's just revolting, really.

Been thinking (nuthin' else to do): Since I'm feeling a little cruddy...and my shower door enjoyed making me nervously squirm in the nude...and an ice dam decided to spring a drip right near the toilet...and my Mavs lost...do you think maybe I could have a soda?

I've been BFF's with the goody-goody water for a while now; I'm craving the imperfectly perfect soda.

What do y'all think? Soda or no soda? *sniff, cough, gag, whine*

Icy Thrones, Stubborn Showers, and One Mavs Loss

It all started with the Mavs loss last night. Something about that loss unleashed a series of rather unfortunate events.

First, a sinus attack decided to kidnap my nose's sanity and will not let go. Seriously, where does it all come from? How can one little nose produce that much havoc? I look like Rudolph. I swear, the dang thing is glowing. Hurts like heck, too--raw little s.o.b.

Somewhere between "I want to rip off my nose" and wanting to shove Kleenex in both nostrils, I got up to use the restroom--my water intake has been significant. Upon entering the bathroom, I heard an unsettling sound.

Drip, drip, drip.

Crap. A leak.

Where?

Drip, drip, drip.

Where are you, you little brat?

I couldn't find it, so I decided to go about usual bathroom business.

Drip, drip....ARGH!

I discovered the ice-cold devil-drip while in a rather compromising position, which I had to endure until I could get in a more appropriate stance to investigate.

Found the leak. Outside my bathroom window was a grouping of massive icicles, which means...ice dam. Wonderful. **Note: All fixed now...the guys came by and knocked down the icicles--it hasn't dripped since. So, here's hoping.**

Shower time: Ever been stuck in the shower...literally? I can now add this to my list of unwanted experiences. After showering, I pushed on the door, only to find it stuck. IT WOULD NOT OPEN. I didn't know what to do. I was quite literally stuck, in my birthday suit, in the shower. After unsuccessfully attempting to shoulder-slam the shower door (I don't recommend it), I stood, poised to karate kick the stupid thing down.

Just as I was about land the kick, the door popped open; it shocked the crud outta me...so much so, in fact, that I stupidly stumbled over the step, flew out of the shower, lost my footing, and rammed into the counter. Dang door. I'm thinking I won't close it all the way from now on.

Mavs, I really need you to win.

Happy Friday!

A Virgin's Tale About Her Dallas Mavericks

Last night, I nervously watched my Dallas Mavericks break a depressing losing streak against none other than the Los Angeles Lakers. HUGE win...a win of massive proportions...we're talking enormous. Think you get it. Three words: Welcome Back, Dirk.

Anyway, after watching the game, I couldn't help but think about the ONE time I could have actually seen them play.

I was in professional school. The bigwigs my friend interned for had a private box at the American Airlines Center where the Mavs play. One evening, she called and asked if I would like to go to the game later that night.

ACTUALLY SEE MY MAVERICKS PLAY!!!  Could this be real?! Could one of my dreams ACTUALLY come true?

Hyperventilating ensued...before the second shoe dropped. There's always a second shoe when it comes to dreams, isn't there?

The conversation went a little something like this:

Friend: "Um, there's something you should know about tonight. My bosses are entertaining some really important business associates from Chicago."

Me: "Okay..."

Friend: "Well, they asked me to invite one of my friends...a 'pretty one.'"

Me, more than a little uncomfortable: "Uh-huh..."

Friend: "They kind-of want us to entertain the men coming in."

Me: "Exactly what do they mean by 'entertain?'"

Friend: "Oh, nothing like that. Just talk to them, maybe flirt a little."

A conditional dream come true--how could I not predict something like this? I felt completely deflated. When I watch my teams play, I'm there to support and cheer for MY TEAM, not be some guy's little barbie doll who will bat her eyes and giggle like a moron at everything he says.

I had a choice: Go and be someone I'm not or go and be who I am, potentially risking any opportunity my friend may have at a job offer.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't go watch my Mavericks just to not watch my Mavericks. And I knew what would happen--I'd go, WATCH the game, which means barely making an effort to "entertain" the men, and end up hurting her chances for a job offer.

Me, with a heavy heart: "You know, I wish I could go, but I really need to work on this paper."

Friend: "Are you sure? We'd still have fun!"

Me: "Yeah, I'm sure. Besides, I'm afraid I wouldn't show very well for you--I would probably come off rude because I would want to watch the game and wouldn't be as sociable as they would like.  You know me and sports."

She went to the game; I stayed home and watched on television...and worked on my paper. Thrilling. As I recall, I saw more of the game on television than she did actually being there.

The one time I could have seen them play and my dang principles had go and get in the way.  I just couldn't see myself flirting it up, being someone I'm not. I've never done things just to get things I may want. So, I reckon, I can be proud of that...still...it hurts to know I was THAT close to seeing my Mavs and Mark Cuban--love how much he loves the Mavs. I mean, how many opportunities like that actually fall in your lap?

I'm watching them battle Chicago right now...from my recliner...while researching.  The lack of change in my life is glaring.

Maybe one day I'll have another chance...for now, it's all about cheering Dallas to a win. GO MAVERICKS!

 

UPDATE: Mavs lost, but they played a great game. 

A Most Illuminating New Year's Eve

Is there anything worse than being single on New Year's Eve? Yes. Being single and having a birthday on New Year's Eve. Anything worse than that? Yes. Being single on Valentine's Day. Can we top that one? Yep. Being single and celebrating a birthday on February 14th.  My deepest sympathies to any single forced to celebrate a b-day on Valentine's Day.

Now, what could possibly top the hideousness of a Singletonville-New Year's-or-Vomit Day-birthday? Being a single virgin on New Year's and having fate flip you the finger in the most illuminating fashion.

My New Year's Eve festivities are pretty predictable: hang around with family, watch some kind of innocuous movie/show marathon, eat cookies or ice cream, and wonder about the hidden symbolic meaning behind tons of people celebrating a giant ball sliding down a pole. Then, at about 3 a.m., I am forced to hear the 90-year-old neighbor come home from her date. Yes, her date. Every year she has a date. The sound of her heels clip-clopping along her porch is unnerving.

This year was no exception, but for one event occurring early in the evening.

About an hour after painting my nails, I heard my mom have some sort of meltdown in the kitchen.

Me: "Mom? Are you okay?"

Mom: "I've destroyed the refridgerator."

Me: "Um, is that possible? How?"

Mom: "I don't know."

Me: "Is it not working?"

Mom: "It's drizzling."

Me: "Mom, you are making zero sense right now. What do you mean it's drizzling?"

Mom, opening the fridge door: "Come here...listen."

It sounded like something was dripping within the fridge.

Me: "Maybe something fell over in the back."

Mom, moving things around: "Oh my God."

Me: "What? What do you see?"

Mom: "Red. All down the back of my beautiful fridge. OH! It's running down three shelves AND down behind the SALAD DRAWER! I have to get my special quiche finished for tomorrow! I can't clean this mess now! This is a nightmare."

Me, trying not to laugh: "It's New Year's Eve, honestly, what do you expect? I'll clean it up, don't worry."

Mom: "Oh, sweetheart, thank you."

I began unloading the fridge to find the nasty culprit.

Me: "You have got to be kidding me."

Mom: "What is it?"

Me, holding a jar: "Cherries."

Mom, reddening in the face, trying to suppress the laughter: "Oh, honey. Cherry juice? My, that's..."

Me: "Typical. The virgin cleaning cherry juice on New Year's Eve. Doesn't that just beat all."

After a few minutes of silence, my mom and I broke into hysterics. Hey, what can you do? Ya gotta laugh. The irony is just ridiculous. And to put the icing on the cake, I chipped my freshly painted nail while cleaning cherry juice...my freshly painted bird finger. I don't know what it is with me and screwing up my bird finger, but I'm convinced it's fate's way of flipping me off.

In fact, I'm quite certain the whole event was fate saying, "Up yours virgin! I've got a whole lot planned for you this New Year." Cruel witch.

Fast-forward to the ball dropping hoopla--my mom insists on watching it every year. I usually try to escape the festivities, but it never works. I loathe all the kissing shots. And, HELLO, what's with the constant kissing TEN MINUTES after midnight! Classy. Get a room!!!

Though I do not drink, rare nights like these call for reinforcements, so I turned to Al K. Hall to help me out: ONE glass of wine, no more. I have ZERO tolerance. Heck, a glass and a half and I'm probably going to be taking my clothes off in some ridiculous version of a striptease. Can only assume that two full glasses would render me unconscious with face in toilet.

After said glass, I realized something: every year Dick Clark looks sexier and sexier to me.

Yes, one glass is quite enough.

Christmas Shopping With Mom

Christmas shopping is always an adventure, but when it's with my mama, the adventure morphs into some odd slapstick sitcom.

First Stop: Target for more wrapping paper, ribbon, and tape.

Me: "Mom, are you sure you need more wrapping paper?" I had to double check. Mom has a tendency to overdo.

Mom: "Oh, yes. I had a few very minor mishaps with some packages."

Me, perplexed: "Mishaps?"

Mom: "Oh, you know, the paper would start to rip, I'd get ticked, call it an a-hole, rip the paper off, and have to start over. And, of course, I was annoyed at having to start over, so when I'd pull a new piece off the roll, it would get all funky and I'd need another new piece, so...definitely yes to paper. Ah, here we go! I'll get the paper, you grab some tape and ribbon."

Me, laughing at the mental image of her wildly ripping unruly paper from the packages while calling each piece an a-hole: "So I'm thinking a triple pack of tape, then?"

Mom: "You are thinking right. Be back."

After grabbing the tape and some pretty ribbon, I turned to see my mom shuffling towards me under the weight of what could very possibly be the largest two rolls of wrapping paper I have ever seen.

Mom: "Look! Jumbo rolls! Plenty for me to royally mess up!"

Me, running for her: "Mom, you really shouldn't be carrying those! Here, give them to me."

Mom: "Nonsense, honey, I'm perfectly capable. Just need to get them in the basket. Where is that basket? Oh, there it is!"

While I was still mid-run to help her (she really shouldn't be carrying heavy things), she swiftly turned to put them in the basket and...

WHACK! The two rolls smacked me in the side of the head. Insert hysterical laughter by a mom and her daughter while everyone around us thought we were crazy.

Second Stop: Craft Store for yarn and other miscellaneous items for Mom.

Mom: "Ooh! I forgot a basket. Quick! Go back through the doors before they close!"

Me: "My luck they'll close ON me. I'll just go around the proper way."

Mom, very cheerleader-like: "You can make it! Go! Go!"

Me, already walking around to the other side: "Not gonna try it. Do we need reminding of what happened the last time I tried this very same thing?" We won't go there.

Mom: "Good point."

Me: "Oh! Here's one right here!"

Mom: "Great! Grab that one! I'll be in wreaths."

Of course, the basket had to be caught on a bunch of tray-like things that I didn't see when I attempted to move the thing. CRASH. All the trays went sliding down in front of the basket and across the walkway. I just rolled me eyes, made a face, grumbled a bit, laughed a little, and started stacking the trays back in place. Thank goodness they weren't glass or something. One girl was sympathetically grinning with her mom over by the cash register.

Me, heading for wreaths: "Um...Mom...whatchya got there?"

Mom, holding a GIANT wreath: "Isn't it gorgeous! I've always wanted one that looks just like this! Will it fit in the basket?"

Me, smiling: "Not easily, but we'll find a way." Dad has always said that Mama has a tendency to find and buy the things bigger than Texas hair.

Mom: "I don't want it to smoosh!" Suddenly, a large silver ornament fell off. "OH! MY BALL!"

Oh Lord. People peered around the corner, started snickering from nearby aisles, etc.After fixing the ball, my mom decided she needed yarn and I needed some art pens, so we split up. BAD IDEA.

I lost her. One missing mom in aisle five!

She wasn't in yarn or in any of her usual craft store haunts. Just before a slight case of panic set in, I heard, "HONEY! LOOK! I FOUND A PAN TO COOK BUTT CAKES!"

Yes. Butt cakes. She meant bundt cakes. She had a mouth fart and totally misspoke. More hysterics ensued as I tried, through belly-laughs, to maneuver the crowded aisles to reach her. 

Me, laughing: "Exactly where is your mind today? Balls and butts?!"

Mom: "Obviously that's one I don't need to answer.  I didn't even know my mind was there! And the whole store knows now. Let's get outta here before my face turns any redder."

Third Stop: God Help Me. Baby Clothing Store.

Mom: "I just have to pick up a little sweater or something along those lines. We'll get in and out in less than a minute, okay?"

Me: "I'm fine, take your time." I lied. Things I'll do for my mom. She loves baby clothes. Sigh.

Store lady approaching. Oh Lord. 

Store lady: "Can I help you with anything?"

Mom: "I'm just looking for a little green or red sweater to match an outfit from the ______ line."

Yeah, sorry, I don't remember the specific line or theme of clothing Mom mentioned.

Store lady: "Of course. Darling line, isn't it? Right over here. So, is this for your granddaughter?"

Here we go!

Mom: "No, no. I'm not a gran yet."

Me, in an effort to preempt the questions: "I do hope to make my mama a rockin' granny one day." 

Store lady: "Oh, well, not too soon I hope! You're far too young!"

OH HOLY MOTHER OF RUDOLPH.

Mom: "I think her age might surprise you." No, Mom, no, no, no, no, no!  "She's 32." Oh, bloody hell, Mom!

Store lady: "Really?! Wouldn't have thought that! Wow, well, you know, women are having babies later and later in life these days. It's nothing to worry about. And who knows, it's Christmas...maybe your boyfriend will pop the question."

Why does everyone assume I have a boyfriend?  Is it the age? If you're 30+ you MUST AT LEAST have a boyfriend? Ugh.

Me: "I don't have a boyfriend, actually."

Store lady: "Oh, well, I'm sure you'll meet him soon."

Her words said hope, but her tone screamed, oh you poor thing.

Mom to the rescue, in her southern drawl: "To tell you the truth, I might want to be a hip granny, but I want my daughter to be happy even more. I don't want her to settle for something because she thinks she should, or it's what everyone else is doing, or she thinks it would make me happy. It's a changed world out there. She's always marched to the beat of her own drum, and I wouldn't have it any other way. He'll come along when he's meant to...and he better deserve this one because he'll be getting a treasure."

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I LOVE my mama.

Store lady, smiling warmly: "Your mom is right. Wait for the right guy. I didn't the first go around and it didn't work out."

I survived the baby clothing store: The store lady was left with a smile, Mama left with a sweater, and I left with my pride (and uterus) still intact.

My Ovaries Are Deadly Weapons...Apparently.

Wake-up: Huh? Is it already morning? Given the sun in my eyes, I'm assuming it is. Ick. Bad night. Little sleep. Crap dreams: Death Eaters (yes, of the Harry Potter variety) were after me; I didn't have a wand, so I threatened to smite them with my ovaries. Indeed. I told them my ovaries "...bite and are pissed at still being there, alone, unfertilized." I was saying this while flying backwards on a broom.

Truly, deeply troubling.

What's more troubling is how I intended to "smite" them with said ovaries.  Cringe. Mustn't think on it.

Should have known this would be a rough one from the second my toes touched the floor. Been moving furniture about my room--not an easy task when single, but I was determined. Moved my desk out and over about 1/2 inch. My newly painted big toe naturally found it. Hurt like hell. Chipped nail, very red, and, ah, of course it would start swelling a bit. Terrific. Now have Quasimodo toe.

Shower: While shaving, my razor apparently needed to shave my left middle fingernail. Fantastic. Now have strangely misshapen fingernail in manner of Phantom of the Opera's mask.

Quasimodo toe and Phantom bird finger. There are no words.

Lunch: No soda. Excellent. Replaced with water...boring, but healthy. Grilled chicken Caesar salad...and chocolate covered Christmas cookies.

Afternoon: Hmm, interesting news. According to Mutual Acquaintance, Mr. Bo Tangles is a little annoyed I didn't give in. In fact, according to Mutual Acquaintance, he said, "I couldn't get in."  Ewwy. Am now an inanimate object...like a car with the keys locked inside. Yes, just the kind of man I'm looking for! Right.

Evening: Must wrap presents. Seriously. I love doing the bows, but the actual wrapping-paper-part is so not my thing.

My Dallas Mavericks are making me nervous...PLEASE WIN!!!!! OH GOD HELP ME...MARION MISSED A FREE THROW!!!!!

19.4 seconds remaining...12.9 seconds...Dirk makes his free throws...6.9 seconds...5.9...Dirk made his shots...OVER! MAVS WIN!!!! Great game!!! 'Nother tough road game coming up.

Phew.

Overall, the most intriguing part of my day was recalling my dream--me, on a broom, locked and loaded with my smite-able ovaries. Maybe I could be a new superhero...Ovary Girl! Maybe not.

A Word On Dreams And Other Lovely Intangibles

What the realist says: Dreams are for fools who can't face reality. Dreams will never come to fruition. Dreams are unrealistic.

I could counter this rather gloomy way of thinking, but I won't. I'll simply say one thing, then let my favorite Christmas movie say the rest. It's Christmas, the season of perpetual hope...a time to believe in the unbelievable...a time to remind ourselves that dreams do come true.

From the original Miracle on 34th Street: 

Mr. Gailey: ...."Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to.  It's not just Kris that's on trial.  It's everything he stands for. It's kindness, joy, love and all other intangibles."

Doris: "Fred, you're talking like a child...

"...those lovely intangibles aren't worth much..."

"...we've talked about wonderful plans, then you go on an idealistic binge."

Mr. Gailey: ..."Someday you're going to find out that your way of facing this realistic world just doesn't work.  And when you do, don't overlook those lovely intangibles.  You'll discover they're the only things that are worthwhile."

In the end, even the common sense-minded Doris realizes the importance of believing.

From the 1994 Miracle on 34th street:

Kris Kringle: "I'm not just a whimsical figure who wears a charming suit and affects a jolly demeanor...I'm a symbol of the human ability to be able to suppress the selfish and hateful tendencies that rule the major part of our lives. If you can't believe, if you can't accept anything on faith, then you're doomed for a life dominated by doubt."

As for me, I think I'll keep believing. I hope you will too.

Miracles happen...if you believe.

Reason For The Previous Post...

Okay, so, I wrote the last post at an unholy hour. Couldn't sleep.

Let me make a couple clarifications:

1. The idea of perfection wasn't even on my mind when I wrote the post. I'm a little sensitive to the whole "seeking perfection" thing and here's why: when I've told friends that I simply want to find a man who tells the truth, a man I can trust without reservation, a man who will love unconditionally, they tell me I'm "seeking perfection" and I need to lower my standards. So, I should either compromise on trust, give up on honesty, or wave bye-bye to true love? Friends say you can't have them all.

Since when did the expectation or hope for trust, honesty, and love equal seeking some nonexistent creature of this fictitious notion called perfection? I mean, those things are the cornerstones of basic human decency. That's what the song is about--trust, honesty, love--principles we are taught at a very young age. If our world has become so jaded that even the purest of concepts have transformed into some imaginary being, then I want no part of what's out there.

2. Mr. Bo Tangles contributed in part to the last post. There is no real way to lean into this rather harsh statement, other than just tossing it out there...

"I didn't mean to scare you away. I understand how you must be very delicate. But, you should know...if you are waiting for a man who is going to wait for you because he loves you, it's not going to happen. All the man wants to do is be the one to get you into bed. He may say he loves you, but you won't really know until after you've had sex. If he sticks around, then he might be contemplating love. If not, then he doesn't. The world revolves around sex. You want to find your soul mate? Sleep around."

This, for the most part, is what got me thinking late into the night. Then, of course, I popped in one of my Keith Urban CDs and heard this song; it had been such a long time since I heard it and the words got to me.

So, there it is--nothing to do with perfection...everything to do with being a decent person.