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.
Showing posts with label Singletonville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Singletonville. Show all posts
Bittersweet
Well, after Friday’s Taxes And Singles post, I figured I better clarify a few things for any follower-friends (and new follower-friends) who may question my outlook on the single life.
On Friday’s post, I received this comment from Anonymous:
Normally, I don't post anonymously, but I don't want your fan base yelling at me.
I love your blog. I honestly do. But it makes me so sad when I read posts like this. The premise of your blog, most of the time, is being a virgin and being proud of the fact that you're not just giving it up for free.
But the rest of the time? You just come across as one of those bitter, bitter single women. I'm sorry you don't have someone in your life right now. I'm sorry that other people in the world do. But just because you're single, I don't think the people who read your blog who are dating/engaged/married/whatever should have to feel badly about that fact.
Bitterness just isn't an attractive quality. The tax form isn't out to get you, or anyone else who's single. It's a one-size-fits-all form.
I love your blog. I honestly do. But it makes me so sad when I read posts like this. The premise of your blog, most of the time, is being a virgin and being proud of the fact that you're not just giving it up for free.
But the rest of the time? You just come across as one of those bitter, bitter single women. I'm sorry you don't have someone in your life right now. I'm sorry that other people in the world do. But just because you're single, I don't think the people who read your blog who are dating/engaged/married/whatever should have to feel badly about that fact.
Bitterness just isn't an attractive quality. The tax form isn't out to get you, or anyone else who's single. It's a one-size-fits-all form.
Let me say right up front: I am not bitter in any way, shape, or form; if for some reason you feel I am bitter, then I am truly sorry you feel that way—it’s not who I am. I’m just a character like my mama—I joke about being single (like the tax form stuff) and being a virgin (like the cherry juice incident on New Year’s Eve).
I’m not writing these posts with a horrible outlook on the world or foaming at the mouth from some deep-rooted hatred of being single. Heck, I write with a smile, not a scowl. Maybe it's an issue of my sense of humor not translating on occasion or for some people.
Of course I know the tax form isn’t out to get me like some pencil-sketch-monster from the Power Puff Girls (yeah, I was bored one night—cartoon network can be highly informative). I reckon you can only know so much about a person through words on a blog, so it’s hard to tell if they’re serious or not. I get that. In person, I would have said the same, but with an added sprinkle of Texas drawl and a smirk to boot—y’all would get me then…hopefully. ;)
Open Admission to Bitterness: The only thing I’m bitter about is Valentine’s Day, and that’s only because of crappy past V-Day’s (like getting stood-up when the guy found out I was a good girl—that stuff hurts, you know?). Deep down, I know full well that one good V-Day will erase all those ickster feelings. Does that scream of bitterness to anyone? 'Cause it sure doesn’t to me.
To the Married/Engaged/Relationship Couples: I’m really sorry this commenter, who I assume may be in a relationship, felt sad when reading that post or other ones like it. I never want anyone who is in a relationship or married or engaged to feel sad because I’m single. It’s certainly not my intention. Hell, I’m not sad, so don’t you be, ya hear? ;)
I write about being a virgin…a single virgin. It’s all I know. I don’t know the other side of the coin—I don’t know what it’s like to be married or in love…I haven’t been there yet. I reckon it's not so different from what the single characters did on Friends or Sex and the City...well, except that I'm a virgin in the single dating world. Good times. Anyone who is happy with someone else is like sunshine to me because it solidifies my belief in finding the real thing out in this big old world.
The only time I call out a married/relationship/engaged person is if they blast me for my choices or do the whole belittling thing…and I do so because, well, they’re being downright cruel. So, yeah, I’ll post about those instances…but, again, I’m not crying in my milk.
I guess what I’m saying is this: For anyone who may think I spend most of my time cursing couples, while sitting in the corner of my room, crying my eyes out because I’m still single…you’re mistaken. I’m smiling my way through life, just like my mama taught me.
Will I shed a tear or two? Yes, I’m human.
Will I feel sad from time to time? Yes, I’m human.
Do I have days where I wish for someone special in my life? Yes, I’m human.
Will I ever hate on happy couples because they have something I want? Never, I’m human.
My hope runs deep—I wouldn’t be who I am and on this path if it didn’t. I believe in something extraordinary—I believe in love. And if for some reason it never comes my way…I’ll still be smiling.
Taxes and Singles
Taxes are usually a pain for everyone, but there are a few things on those bothersome forms that may feel like a bee sting in the eye for singles.
1. Check the Box: Just what singles need--a yearly reminder that nothing has changed and you're still single. I'm talking about the dreaded "single" box.
2. Spouse's Information: Get past the box, face the "if filing jointly, please enter your spouse's name here." Why don't they just put, if you're married or part of a happy, little sunshine-y couple, brag about it here? Really, it's like one of those plus one invitations when you don't have a stupid plus one. Sidebar: Can your plus one be a handbag? If so, I have lots of plus one options...ones that will carry all my stuff and match my outfit.
3. Phantom Signature Box: Once you work through the math and tax tables, you're ready to sign and send. BUT just as you sign your name, you have to face the Phantom Signature Box, otherwise known as the spouse's signature box. It's such a joy to see your lonely little signature right above a cold, empty box. For once, I wouldn't mind seeing something underneath me. Maybe next year they can add little florescent flashing lights, just for the heck of it.
Oh, and I'm not even going to get into tax breaks, or lack thereof. I move that they create a form solely for singles--no spouse info. boxes, no phantom signature boxes, and no checking of the "single" box.
Taxes. Foe of mankind, sarcastic enemy to singles.
1. Check the Box: Just what singles need--a yearly reminder that nothing has changed and you're still single. I'm talking about the dreaded "single" box.
2. Spouse's Information: Get past the box, face the "if filing jointly, please enter your spouse's name here." Why don't they just put, if you're married or part of a happy, little sunshine-y couple, brag about it here? Really, it's like one of those plus one invitations when you don't have a stupid plus one. Sidebar: Can your plus one be a handbag? If so, I have lots of plus one options...ones that will carry all my stuff and match my outfit.
3. Phantom Signature Box: Once you work through the math and tax tables, you're ready to sign and send. BUT just as you sign your name, you have to face the Phantom Signature Box, otherwise known as the spouse's signature box. It's such a joy to see your lonely little signature right above a cold, empty box. For once, I wouldn't mind seeing something underneath me. Maybe next year they can add little florescent flashing lights, just for the heck of it.
Oh, and I'm not even going to get into tax breaks, or lack thereof. I move that they create a form solely for singles--no spouse info. boxes, no phantom signature boxes, and no checking of the "single" box.
Taxes. Foe of mankind, sarcastic enemy to singles.
Drive-by Snarks
Snarks--Those nasty little backhanded comments shot over the net and into your face when you least expect them. Sometimes they're coated with a dusting of brown sugar; other times they are smacking in your face like bug guts on a windshield.
Being single predisposes us to snarks from a certain kind of married and/or relationship person. You know the kind I'm talking about--they are akin to the now grown-up bullies we knew in high school.
Behold the snarks:
The I'm-Too-Busy-For-Business-Married-Woman: "I completely appreciate that you may not understand what all this means, but I have a toddler, an infant, and a husband to take care of." Um, I simply requested a business document.
The Make-Fun-Of-Older-Singles-Younger-Woman: "You must watch a lot of Bridget Jones." Yes, I love watching the plights of our favorite 30-something singleton but, good grief, I don't sit around and watch it on a loop. My comeback? "No, but I have watched a helluva lot of Buffy." Very effective comeback. Note to single women: When faced with a "you must watch" snark, select a strong, wouldn't-want-to-mess-with, kick-a** heroine.
The Single-Attention-Seeking-Woman: "I can get any man, anytime, anyplace. Take it from me, just use your back. It's about time, don't you think?" She undoubtedly gets the men, although keeping them is an entirely different matter.
The Happily-Ever-After-And-Now-Out-To-Make-All-Single-People-Suffer-Woman: "I'm so glad I'm not single anymore. Being with someone is like finally feeling alive, like I can breathe at last." Uh-huh. Can't you just hear the dang cartoon birds tweeting all around her while tying ribbons in her hair? Ugh. In my world, those birds aren't tying bows...they're dive-bombing.
Being single predisposes us to snarks from a certain kind of married and/or relationship person. You know the kind I'm talking about--they are akin to the now grown-up bullies we knew in high school.
Behold the snarks:
The I'm-Too-Busy-For-Business-Married-Woman: "I completely appreciate that you may not understand what all this means, but I have a toddler, an infant, and a husband to take care of." Um, I simply requested a business document.
The Make-Fun-Of-Older-Singles-Younger-Woman: "You must watch a lot of Bridget Jones." Yes, I love watching the plights of our favorite 30-something singleton but, good grief, I don't sit around and watch it on a loop. My comeback? "No, but I have watched a helluva lot of Buffy." Very effective comeback. Note to single women: When faced with a "you must watch" snark, select a strong, wouldn't-want-to-mess-with, kick-a** heroine.
The Single-Attention-Seeking-Woman: "I can get any man, anytime, anyplace. Take it from me, just use your back. It's about time, don't you think?" She undoubtedly gets the men, although keeping them is an entirely different matter.
The Happily-Ever-After-And-Now-Out-To-Make-All-Single-People-Suffer-Woman: "I'm so glad I'm not single anymore. Being with someone is like finally feeling alive, like I can breathe at last." Uh-huh. Can't you just hear the dang cartoon birds tweeting all around her while tying ribbons in her hair? Ugh. In my world, those birds aren't tying bows...they're dive-bombing.
An April Fool, Text Spam, & The Single Gal
April 1st is traditionally a day where tricksters like to pull pranks on the unsuspecting person. However, it is not a welcome idea to try and make a fool out of the single gal...at least, not this single gal.
Late today, I received three text messages back-to-back. Without initially looking at the number, I glanced at the first few words and saw the following: "...U requested daily mymobilelove texts."
Me: "Huh? I didn't request daily love texts!"
At first, I thought it might have been an April Fools' Day prank. However, I didn't recognize the sending number.
Before I could read the whole message, another text came through. This one, I assume, was one of their sample daily love messages, which focused on forgiveness and regret.
Me: "Um, no, they did NOT just send me that!"
As my temperature began rapidly rising, yet another text jingled my phone: "Enjoy your daily love texts, daily alerts billed at $9.99 per month!"
Me: "Ten bucks a month for something I NEVER REQUESTED! Oh, I don't think so!"
I immediately did a little Google surfing and discovered that this is quite a widespread problem. Apparently, this third party can charge your phone without you ever having to participate and/or request the service. Having your number is all they need to charge you. Basically, I could expect a $10 charge on my bill at the end of the month.
With the research in front of me, I called my service provider, who immediately knew what was going on. She put a block against them and a note on my account; should the charge come through, she informed me it will be removed.
However, she did tell me that some people simply ignore text spam as you would, say, e-mail spam. Unlike e-mail spam, charges will likely appear on your phone bill.
Details: If you receive text messages from 34095 or 340-95, My Mobile Love Texts--and you did not register for them--call your service provider immediately.
Now, the irony: No single woman, in her right mind, would EVER subscribe for daily reminders that she is single, much less pay for said reminders. I mean, really? You think you are going to get $10 bucks out of me...that I am just oh-so-desperate to receive love texts? Darlin', I may have my moments, but a fool I am not.
Late today, I received three text messages back-to-back. Without initially looking at the number, I glanced at the first few words and saw the following: "...U requested daily mymobilelove texts."
Me: "Huh? I didn't request daily love texts!"
At first, I thought it might have been an April Fools' Day prank. However, I didn't recognize the sending number.
Before I could read the whole message, another text came through. This one, I assume, was one of their sample daily love messages, which focused on forgiveness and regret.
Me: "Um, no, they did NOT just send me that!"
As my temperature began rapidly rising, yet another text jingled my phone: "Enjoy your daily love texts, daily alerts billed at $9.99 per month!"
Me: "Ten bucks a month for something I NEVER REQUESTED! Oh, I don't think so!"
I immediately did a little Google surfing and discovered that this is quite a widespread problem. Apparently, this third party can charge your phone without you ever having to participate and/or request the service. Having your number is all they need to charge you. Basically, I could expect a $10 charge on my bill at the end of the month.
With the research in front of me, I called my service provider, who immediately knew what was going on. She put a block against them and a note on my account; should the charge come through, she informed me it will be removed.
However, she did tell me that some people simply ignore text spam as you would, say, e-mail spam. Unlike e-mail spam, charges will likely appear on your phone bill.
Details: If you receive text messages from 34095 or 340-95, My Mobile Love Texts--and you did not register for them--call your service provider immediately.
Now, the irony: No single woman, in her right mind, would EVER subscribe for daily reminders that she is single, much less pay for said reminders. I mean, really? You think you are going to get $10 bucks out of me...that I am just oh-so-desperate to receive love texts? Darlin', I may have my moments, but a fool I am not.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Takin' The Fish Off The Hook
I've never particularly cared for being a fish. What girl does? But, there are some men who sneakily slip a hook in the mouth without you consciously realizing as much. *um, that is not meant to sound dirty in any way, shape, or form, btw*
Even after you remove the hook, some men just don't get it. You can remove that damn hook over and over again, but he'll continue trying to keep you hanging there, just in case he's ready to yank you into his little boat one day.
This sticky-fisherman wants to keep the fresh little fishy close, while enjoying his fried catfish on the side.
Though you may swim away as fast as your little fins will carry you--trying to avoid that pesky hook--sometimes it is necessary to pull a Jaws and just face the son of a gun.
If you have the fortitude, going Jaws is really very effective in possibly, officially removing and retiring his beloved hook.
So, if you have a sticky-fisherman in your life, consider going Jaws...make him have to get a bigger boat.
Even after you remove the hook, some men just don't get it. You can remove that damn hook over and over again, but he'll continue trying to keep you hanging there, just in case he's ready to yank you into his little boat one day.
This sticky-fisherman wants to keep the fresh little fishy close, while enjoying his fried catfish on the side.
Though you may swim away as fast as your little fins will carry you--trying to avoid that pesky hook--sometimes it is necessary to pull a Jaws and just face the son of a gun.
If you have the fortitude, going Jaws is really very effective in possibly, officially removing and retiring his beloved hook.
So, if you have a sticky-fisherman in your life, consider going Jaws...make him have to get a bigger boat.
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.
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.
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.
Sucky Snow
Well, winter has arrived. We're getting totally pounded by snow...and I'm less than thrilled.
Christmas snow is magical. Period. End of subject.
However, it's no longer that holly jolly time of the year, and snow without Christmas is absolutely pointless. Frosty won't come back to life with this stupid non-Christmas snow. You can't sing the snow song from White Christmas without wanting to replace the word snow with another s-word.
Dumping over two feet of snow a couple of weeks before THE most grotesque, pathetic, Christmas-wannabe day of the year--Vomit, er, Valentine's Day--is cruel, mocking, and, well, sucky.
We should start naming snowstorms like we do hurricanes. I would name this one Sucky Suckdom...just because.
Christmas snow is magical. Period. End of subject.
However, it's no longer that holly jolly time of the year, and snow without Christmas is absolutely pointless. Frosty won't come back to life with this stupid non-Christmas snow. You can't sing the snow song from White Christmas without wanting to replace the word snow with another s-word.
Dumping over two feet of snow a couple of weeks before THE most grotesque, pathetic, Christmas-wannabe day of the year--Vomit, er, Valentine's Day--is cruel, mocking, and, well, sucky.
We should start naming snowstorms like we do hurricanes. I would name this one Sucky Suckdom...just because.
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.
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.
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!
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.
New Year, New Me, Old Wasn't
Before Christmas, I made the rounds sending Holiday wishes via e-mail, e-card, traditional Christmas card, and/or phone.
The big invisible question floating above my head: Would I send Wasn't Christmas wishes? Honestly, I didn't even have to think about it: Of course I'm wishing him a Merry Christmas. Some people wondered why I would bother. The answer was very simple: He's a human being who has been in my life for many years; he has been through a great deal this year, things far worse than his current relationship woes.
A few days before Christmas, I called and left Christmas wishes on his voicemail, truly not expecting anything in return. What I didn't really anticipate was how final my message sounded; it came out sort-of like a Christmas farewell. It took me by surprise.
The next morning, I awoke to a rather nice text message, telling me how great it was to hear my kind voice; he then gave me a very specific time when he would call.
I don't know if he called or not; the time wasn't good for me. Whether he meant to or not, it felt a little like he was trying to squeeze me into his schedule--fitting me in around his girlfriend.
Christmas morning, he called to wish my family and I a Merry Christmas. He also made it very clear he was spending the holiday with family only (i.e. no girlfriend) and wanted me to call him anytime that day.
Again, I got that "squeezed in" feeling. The timing was good for him.
I really just wanted to spend Christmas Day and night with my family; I didn't feel like getting into another directionless, hint-filled conversation with him. My mom said, "Honey, you are a genuinely sweet soul, but don't you dare feel guilty about not calling him. The time is good for him, not for you. You don't have to jump through hoops."
I didn't call him back.
Over two years ago, I realized we were never going to happen. If I had a dollar for each time he invited me into his life, only to go M.I.A. for a couple of weeks before returning as if nothing ever transpired...as if he never said those words that touch your heart...
I've tried to just be his friend, but no matter what, it always comes back to those familiar hints. Always implied, never realized. As one of my friends said, "He is Willoughby to your Marianne." (From Jane Austen's Sense & Sensibility, for those unfamiliar).
He hasn't called; I assume he's less than pleased I didn't call him when he said he'd be available.
Same story, new year...only I'm not going to be a recurring character in his story. I've written myself out of the script. The End.
Now, for The Beginning...
The big invisible question floating above my head: Would I send Wasn't Christmas wishes? Honestly, I didn't even have to think about it: Of course I'm wishing him a Merry Christmas. Some people wondered why I would bother. The answer was very simple: He's a human being who has been in my life for many years; he has been through a great deal this year, things far worse than his current relationship woes.
A few days before Christmas, I called and left Christmas wishes on his voicemail, truly not expecting anything in return. What I didn't really anticipate was how final my message sounded; it came out sort-of like a Christmas farewell. It took me by surprise.
The next morning, I awoke to a rather nice text message, telling me how great it was to hear my kind voice; he then gave me a very specific time when he would call.
I don't know if he called or not; the time wasn't good for me. Whether he meant to or not, it felt a little like he was trying to squeeze me into his schedule--fitting me in around his girlfriend.
Christmas morning, he called to wish my family and I a Merry Christmas. He also made it very clear he was spending the holiday with family only (i.e. no girlfriend) and wanted me to call him anytime that day.
Again, I got that "squeezed in" feeling. The timing was good for him.
I really just wanted to spend Christmas Day and night with my family; I didn't feel like getting into another directionless, hint-filled conversation with him. My mom said, "Honey, you are a genuinely sweet soul, but don't you dare feel guilty about not calling him. The time is good for him, not for you. You don't have to jump through hoops."
I didn't call him back.
Over two years ago, I realized we were never going to happen. If I had a dollar for each time he invited me into his life, only to go M.I.A. for a couple of weeks before returning as if nothing ever transpired...as if he never said those words that touch your heart...
I've tried to just be his friend, but no matter what, it always comes back to those familiar hints. Always implied, never realized. As one of my friends said, "He is Willoughby to your Marianne." (From Jane Austen's Sense & Sensibility, for those unfamiliar).
He hasn't called; I assume he's less than pleased I didn't call him when he said he'd be available.
Same story, new year...only I'm not going to be a recurring character in his story. I've written myself out of the script. The End.
Now, for The Beginning...
Dear New Year, I Don't Like You.
Here's why:
1. I have to constantly remind myself to write "2011" on checks, notes, letters, etc. Inevitably, I'll forget on something random and embarrass myself.
2. Your presence reminds me that I can no longer live as I have the past two weeks. No cookies at midnight. No laying on my bum, free from cramped muscles and sweaty pits due to excessive toning exercises. And, most importantly, no soda. Harsh, New Year, really harsh.
3. You impose guilt and feign hope. I mean, what are you? The ghosts of New Year's past, present, and future all rolled into one cruel witch?
4. What exactly is "new" about you, other than the last digit? I suppose new things can happen...dreams, wishes, love, blah, blah, blah. Maybe there are "tiny" tweaks that technically qualify as "new." It just seems like one year rolls into the other where nothing ever truly changes, at least not for the better...it's just more of the same crappity-crap packaged in fancy new gift wrap.
And, dear blogging friends, you should totally ignore all of the negativity, for it comes from the mind of a single with serious soda withdrawal.
I. Want. My. Caffeine...that sugary, high fructose, fat-cells-in-a-can goodness.
Water is such an overrated goody-goody.
1. I have to constantly remind myself to write "2011" on checks, notes, letters, etc. Inevitably, I'll forget on something random and embarrass myself.
2. Your presence reminds me that I can no longer live as I have the past two weeks. No cookies at midnight. No laying on my bum, free from cramped muscles and sweaty pits due to excessive toning exercises. And, most importantly, no soda. Harsh, New Year, really harsh.
3. You impose guilt and feign hope. I mean, what are you? The ghosts of New Year's past, present, and future all rolled into one cruel witch?
4. What exactly is "new" about you, other than the last digit? I suppose new things can happen...dreams, wishes, love, blah, blah, blah. Maybe there are "tiny" tweaks that technically qualify as "new." It just seems like one year rolls into the other where nothing ever truly changes, at least not for the better...it's just more of the same crappity-crap packaged in fancy new gift wrap.
And, dear blogging friends, you should totally ignore all of the negativity, for it comes from the mind of a single with serious soda withdrawal.
I. Want. My. Caffeine...that sugary, high fructose, fat-cells-in-a-can goodness.
Water is such an overrated goody-goody.
Why Wednesday: Why Be A Joke?
Acquaintance She-Beast: "I don't understand why you're comfortable being a joke."
Me: "I didn't realize I was a joke."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "Oh, come on. You're a virgin in your 30s. Of course people are laughing behind your back. I do. Instead of poor you, I like to say pure you." She laughs.
Honestly, was that funny at all? On the joke scale, I'm thinking it's pretty lame.
Me: "Well, laughing is good for the heart, right? I'm just doing my part for mankind."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "I'm just trying to be a friend."
Gag.
Me: "Ooooh, so that's what you're trying to be. Totally thought you were channeling something else."
Acquaintance She-Beast, missing it completely: "You're welcome." Did I thank her? "Now, you know it's a New Year?"
Me: "Yes, that much I am aware of."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "It's time to stop people laughing at you. Let's make a plan to get you laid. Shouldn't be tough. We just have to get you over this love thing."
Me, after a moment's pause: "Did you make any New Year's resolutions?"
Acquaintance She-Beast: "I never do, why?"
Why doesn't that surprise me?
Me: "Might want to consider making a few dozen"
Not sure she even got it, but I sure felt better.
Here's what: If people are laughing at me, let 'em! I really just don't care. Besides, I laugh at myself all the time. I'm not trying to live my life the way other people think I should live it--nobody should live like that because that's not really living at all.
Laugh on! :)
Me: "I didn't realize I was a joke."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "Oh, come on. You're a virgin in your 30s. Of course people are laughing behind your back. I do. Instead of poor you, I like to say pure you." She laughs.
Honestly, was that funny at all? On the joke scale, I'm thinking it's pretty lame.
Me: "Well, laughing is good for the heart, right? I'm just doing my part for mankind."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "I'm just trying to be a friend."
Gag.
Me: "Ooooh, so that's what you're trying to be. Totally thought you were channeling something else."
Acquaintance She-Beast, missing it completely: "You're welcome." Did I thank her? "Now, you know it's a New Year?"
Me: "Yes, that much I am aware of."
Acquaintance She-Beast: "It's time to stop people laughing at you. Let's make a plan to get you laid. Shouldn't be tough. We just have to get you over this love thing."
Me, after a moment's pause: "Did you make any New Year's resolutions?"
Acquaintance She-Beast: "I never do, why?"
Why doesn't that surprise me?
Me: "Might want to consider making a few dozen"
Not sure she even got it, but I sure felt better.
Here's what: If people are laughing at me, let 'em! I really just don't care. Besides, I laugh at myself all the time. I'm not trying to live my life the way other people think I should live it--nobody should live like that because that's not really living at all.
Laugh on! :)
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.
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 Confessions
First and foremost, I hope everyone had a wonderful, magical, happy, beautiful Christmas!
Okay, I have a few Christmas confessions I must address (does that sound serious and morbid? Oops.):
1. Warm the ears and eyes: I start listening to Christmas music and watching Christmas movies on November 1st and carry on through January 1st, with a sprinkling throughout the year (sometimes we need that Christmas feeling in the middle of July, right?). I actually keep a Christmas CD in the stereo all year long. *blushes*
2. Cry baby: I cry when Christmas is over (in private; definitely do not want any witnesses to my emotional stupidity). Every year, tears. I love it THAT much. This year was no exception, I'm afraid.
3. Time to indulge: Soda, cookies, cake...you name it. It's all good Christmas through New Year's Day. No rules, no guilt.
4. Great buyer, bad wrapper: I get all of my Christmas shopping done way in advance, BUT I always save the wrapping for the last minute. Very bad, I know. I'm just a wretched wrapper and dread it every year.
5. Bows, bows, bows! As much as I loathe wrapping, I love doing bows. Guess you could say I'm more for accessorizing the gifts. With my love of Marc Jacobs' handbags, it only follows that I would be all about the accessories.
6. Santa: Sometimes I miss sitting on Santa's lap. Y'all get your minds outta the gutter--I'm not that hard up, contrary to popular opinion.You remember the days--he ho, ho, ho's, you totally think he's the real deal or at least one of Santa's helpers, you tell him what you want, and get a picture with a candy cane. Good times.
7. Sending Christmas Wishes: Totally believe in wishing EVERYONE a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and everything in between.
8. The White Christmas Gown: Yeah, I want to wear Rosemary Clooney's gown from the end scene of White Christmas. It's so elegant and...flow-y. I want to twirl in it. I'm such a dork.
9. The Bing Factor: Um, I have a crush on Bing Crosby. There, I said it. When he sings, I melt. Yep, a little "Snow" or "White Christmas" and I kinda wanna boink Bing. **Sorry, it's just boink sounded so funny with Bing. In reality, I think he's dreamy. Did I just say dreamy?
Some of my very favorite music comes from the movie White Christmas: Snow, Love-You Didn't Do Right By Me, and, of course, White Christmas. :)
Okay, I have a few Christmas confessions I must address (does that sound serious and morbid? Oops.):
1. Warm the ears and eyes: I start listening to Christmas music and watching Christmas movies on November 1st and carry on through January 1st, with a sprinkling throughout the year (sometimes we need that Christmas feeling in the middle of July, right?). I actually keep a Christmas CD in the stereo all year long. *blushes*
2. Cry baby: I cry when Christmas is over (in private; definitely do not want any witnesses to my emotional stupidity). Every year, tears. I love it THAT much. This year was no exception, I'm afraid.
3. Time to indulge: Soda, cookies, cake...you name it. It's all good Christmas through New Year's Day. No rules, no guilt.
4. Great buyer, bad wrapper: I get all of my Christmas shopping done way in advance, BUT I always save the wrapping for the last minute. Very bad, I know. I'm just a wretched wrapper and dread it every year.
5. Bows, bows, bows! As much as I loathe wrapping, I love doing bows. Guess you could say I'm more for accessorizing the gifts. With my love of Marc Jacobs' handbags, it only follows that I would be all about the accessories.
6. Santa: Sometimes I miss sitting on Santa's lap. Y'all get your minds outta the gutter--I'm not that hard up, contrary to popular opinion.You remember the days--he ho, ho, ho's, you totally think he's the real deal or at least one of Santa's helpers, you tell him what you want, and get a picture with a candy cane. Good times.
7. Sending Christmas Wishes: Totally believe in wishing EVERYONE a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and everything in between.
8. The White Christmas Gown: Yeah, I want to wear Rosemary Clooney's gown from the end scene of White Christmas. It's so elegant and...flow-y. I want to twirl in it. I'm such a dork.
9. The Bing Factor: Um, I have a crush on Bing Crosby. There, I said it. When he sings, I melt. Yep, a little "Snow" or "White Christmas" and I kinda wanna boink Bing. **Sorry, it's just boink sounded so funny with Bing. In reality, I think he's dreamy. Did I just say dreamy?
Some of my very favorite music comes from the movie White Christmas: Snow, Love-You Didn't Do Right By Me, and, of course, White Christmas. :)
My Christmas Present To You
Considering my mom has always called me an Elizabeth Bennet, you have to know my gift to you is simple, yet complex, and oh-so-dreamy.
As Lizzie says, " I am determined that nothing but the deepest love could ever induce me into matrimony."
Yes, I do live by this statement, even if it means I'll end up an old maid.
To all of us silly single girls who still believe that true love does, in fact, exist in this rather cynical world, and who have to deal with people constantly telling us how foolish and idealistic we are for daring to hope, I give you Mr. Darcy...all versions. (To the married ladies--you can't go wrong with a little Mr. Darcy, right? ;)).
May we all find our own very special version of Mr. Darcy in this New Year.
I love you all--thank you for your unwavering support...I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me.
Much love to you all, single, married, and everything in between!
As Lizzie says, " I am determined that nothing but the deepest love could ever induce me into matrimony."
Yes, I do live by this statement, even if it means I'll end up an old maid.
To all of us silly single girls who still believe that true love does, in fact, exist in this rather cynical world, and who have to deal with people constantly telling us how foolish and idealistic we are for daring to hope, I give you Mr. Darcy...all versions. (To the married ladies--you can't go wrong with a little Mr. Darcy, right? ;)).
May we all find our own very special version of Mr. Darcy in this New Year.
I love you all--thank you for your unwavering support...I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me.
Much love to you all, single, married, and everything in between!
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