The Urban Love Myth

The Urban Love Myth

Tell Bridget Jones, call Carrie Bradshaw, channel Jane Austen, and alert the white jackets. And someone, please, slap me silly because I have done something beyond comprehension. 

The thing with which I must hide my head in shame: While watching the wedding scene of The Twilight Saga, Breaking Dawn, Part I…I cried. We’re talking the salty tears, snotty nose variety, here, folks.  And I was really pathetic when they started playing Flightless Bird, American Mouth…yeah, hello, Kleenex. 

My mind, which was thoroughly repulsed, screamed, “You don’t cry at Twilight!” (totally modified that from Tom Hanks circa A League of Their Own).

It was a totally impulsive, unfiltered reaction, and I couldn’t help but wonder why.  Then, it hit me: the reason my tears flowed wasn’t for the vampire and his flightless bird, it was because I envied the love they shared, and, more importantly, I wondered about its existence in reality.

And, yes, I know it’s a movie, a book, fake, so not the real world, blah, blah, blah.  I get that; I’m not delusional.  But…in all honesty, shouldn’t that supposed unrealistic love be part of our world? I mean, minus the bloodsucking, bruising, and rapidly growing baby, followed by gruesome birth stuff. 

So, the trillion dollar question:  Does that kind of inconvenient, heart-stopping, endless love actually exist in our reality?  If we’re patient, and look with our hearts, yes, I believe it does.   

I could easily say it doesn’t exist.  Why?  Because it’s the easy answer.  It’s an easy way to explain away the frustration, the perpetual Singletonville address, and, in some cases, settling with someone you know isn’t right for you. 

See, I think many people today are so jaded that, on some level, they settle for what’s easy or convenient because they figure they’ll never find the real thing.  I’ve known people who have married because they believed that person was the best they could do at the time.  Then, of course, you have the men who marry based on lust, women who marry for money, etc.  None of these scenarios equal the kind of love I’m talking about—the kind of love we all yearn for…and we all deserve.  

People are so quick to say true love is only for books and movies.  But, I don’t think that’s true.  The only reason we don’t see it in everyday life is because no one steps up and actually makes it happen. 

If everyone settles or rushes into something “just because,” then, naturally, the concept of a soul mate becomes more of an urban love myth than an actuality.  No wonder so many people don’t believe movie-love exists—they’re all too busy crapping on the idea.

Maybe if we trusted our hearts a little more, gave credit to our instincts, and took chances, we’d look at the world and it would remind us of An Affair to Remember or a Jane Austen novel, rather than just leaving us wishing for some elusive dream. 

I’m pretty sure some people think I’m a fool, waiting for something I may never find.  Maybe I am.  But, I’d rather be a believing fool, than alone in a relationship, wishing I had trusted in something that’s seemingly unbelievable. 

There are many different kinds of love, bringing people together, making us happy.  So, why sell one brand of love short?  If love really does make the world go round, then giving up on any part of it is like helping to end the world (in a manner of dramatic speaking).

Maybe never giving up isn’t such a bad thing after all.  

And so ends this episode of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, otherwise known as my single gal brain dump. 

**This was a guest post I wrote for the wonderful Janie Junebug. She mentioned posting it here as well, but in my sleep deprived state, I plum forgot. 

Brosiery: No, Just No.

Look, I’m all for the modern man.  You like opera?  Cool, Niles.  Fancy museums?  Who doesn’t, Frasier?  But this just screams ridiculous. 

Apparently, pantyhose for men is a growing trend. Designer Emilio Cavallini designed a line of unisex tights, and they’re being snatched up by men.

Please, tell me how any woman could seriously go all ooh-ooh, ahh-ahh with a man wearing these.  I’m sorry, but if he revealed these under his pants, I’d burst out laughing, tears, snorts, gags and all. 

I can tell you, if this is in fact a growing trend, then I’m going to be a virgin forever because there’s no way my cherry’s gettin’ popped by a man wearing mantyhose.  Mantyhose?! Good friggin’ grief! 

Credit: Emilio Cavallini

Credit: Emilio Cavallini

So, what do you think? Check box “Sexy,” box “Um, huh?” or box “Hell no.”

A Valentine's Reboot, Part Two

And today's Vomit Day.  Yay.  Can you feel the enthusiasm?  Anyway, here's part two of my Valentine's date from hell. 

 *******

Driveway Roadkill, Part Two: 

Aside from the occasional raspberry when I would forget to lift before moving, dinner went quite smoothly. No food drops, food flings, or gags...that is until Mr. Leaver made me try to eat something, knowing I thought they looked like little bits of mushy cow's brain.

Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."

Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."

Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."

So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.

It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.

To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.

Yeah. 

Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?

You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.

His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.

I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair, and tried to assure him that his meal was delicious.

Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.

Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.

After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?

I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**  

NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.

As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."

Uh-oh.

He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.

I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.

He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand.  He hasn't kissed me.  Yet, he wants to go have sex?? 

Seriously?

I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.

I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.

So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.

Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight.  I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.

It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.

After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.

We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).

Whatever.  It didn't take.

Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss??  Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either. 

He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.

Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.

Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.

I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:

What happened to "taking it slow?"

Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?

Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?  


Am I totally wrong, here?
 
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.

After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.

So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.

To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}

To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}

A Valentine's Reboot, Part One

Since tomorrow is the dreaded day, I figured I'd re-post a couple of my classic V-Day failures (and I do mean failures). 

One day, I hope to have at least ONE good V-Day.  Heck, I'd take one relatively decent 14th O'Feb.  I've always thought that one good V-Day would forever change my thoughts on this drab time of year. 

But, for the time being, I hope these failures will give you some insight into my sheer disdain for Vomit Day.  


Driveway Roadkill, Part One:

Who: We'll call him Mr. Leaver.

Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.

Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.

Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them. 

Restaurant: Quaint, converted house.  Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.

Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.

Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."

The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.

Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).

While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.

*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*

As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:

leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.

Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK. 

Oh. Holy. God. 

The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.

Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.

I had to get off this stupid stool.  I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.

The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.

By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.

I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.

Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"

Me: "I can't get off the stool."

Grab Guy: "Why?"

Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."

Grab Guy: "Um, how?"

Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."

Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."

Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"

Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.

I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...

...which had wooden seats.

It was only the beginning.

Bridget Jones, You Disappoint Me.

Bridget Jones, friend and mascot to all single, thirty-something women around the globe, has just made me want to chuck eggs at my television.

On a particularly drab Sunday, boredom struck at approximately 2:17 a.m. When boredom hits a sometimes insomniac, certain things that one would find exceedingly dull become the most interesting things in the world, like infomercials or, in this case, special features on The Edge of Reason DVD.  

Under the special features, there was a "Who's Your Man" quiz.  All I have to do is answer a series of questions and it will choose a man that is right for me.  At the end of the quiz, it will evaluate my answers and show me who my perfect partner is: Mark Darcy or Daniel Cleaver.

If I get Daniel, I should just hang up underwear and call it a day, I thought to myself.

Here is a sampling of the questions and answers I selected:

What is your idea of a perfect kiss?  So, it's going to be either sweet, tender, with a bit of tongue or passionate, purposeful, all tongue.  Well, ideally you want the sweet to end up at the passionate, so both...but I can't choose both.  Dilemma.  I guess if we're talking for starters, I'd go with the sweet, tender, bit o' tongue.

You've just seen an unfaithful ex after a long time.  How do you react?  Easy, I remember how miserable he made me feel. 

How do men in tuxedos make you feel? Um, hot under the collar, for sure. James Bond, anyone?

After more questions like the above, it was finally time to find out who my perfect man will be! Terribly exciting for a boring night!

Daniel ding-dong, but v. bad:

Credit: Universal Studios Publicity Photos

Or Mark, double ding-dong and v. good:

Credit: Universal Studios Publicity Photos

Mark or Daniel...Mark or Daniel...who will it be?

Ah, here comes my ideal mate!!!

*Screen Flash*

Neither Mark nor Daniel is right for you.

WHAT?! NEITHER?! THAT WASN'T AN OPTION WHEN I STARTED THIS DANG QUIZ!!!!

You are too carefree and cool to let any man tie you down.  You are enjoying being single on your terms.  The chase and being in control are what turn you on. You're not ready to fall in love, settle down, and have babies--there are just too many men and not enough time.

HUH?! Apart from being single on my terms, I must wholly disagree with its entire evaluation.

This is where boredom turned into determination: I retook the quiz...several times...until I got an actual man. Pathetic, I know, but I suddenly thought I might jinx myself if I accepted "neither" as my answer.

Finally, I got a man:

Credit: Universal Studios Publicity Photos

Mark Darcy: You are a Mark girl.  You're looking for a man who accepts you for what you are and loves your wobbly bits.  Mark is that sort of man: kind, considerate, coy, stable, and sweet. Men like Mark are gentlemen through and through and beneath that conservative exterior beats a heart of gold, which needs a woman like you to keep it pumping.

Ah, much better. Perfectly on point. I approve. See, it got me absolutely right! *we won't mention its initially incorrect assessment or the subsequent tries it took for the dang thing to finally give me a man*

Anchor

I wanted to share one of my new very favorite songs with you. It’s so beautiful and speaks to those who may feel left out of the reindeer games (had to work some holiday in here somehow) or who may be viewed as just a little different from the rest.

The song was also recently featured on Bones—thought it fit the love between Booth and Bones perfectly.   

Hope you like it as much as I do.

Superhero Me!

So, here we go! Lex has given us a challenge: to create, write, and draw a superhero version of ourselves. Using your super power suggestions, I crafted my superhero self! And, um, after the Cowboys’ unbelievable loss (our coach basically iced our own kicker…and it worked.), I had to work out the tension and got a little carried away with this superhero challenge. *blushes* 

The Frisky Virgin, superhero-style

Code Name: The Frisky Virgin

Description: From the deepest, darkest corners of night to the blindingly bright rays of day, she moves, unnoticed by human eyes, watching, listening, and waiting. Delusional dizziness is doomed! Ignorance be gone! Douche-bags beware! Liar-liar pants on fire she shall declare!

Super Powers:

• The brutal truth she speaks will penetrate your brain and replace the stupid with common sense and accountability. (Might have been useful for the Cowboys coach yesterday…icing your own kicker…just when you think you’ve seen it all).

• Can move about unnoticed, completely invisible to human eyes (yeah, this is so a real power of mine)

• Her palms mysteriously soaked the power of the Patronus and Petrificus Totalus charms from the pages of Harry Potter.  Together, they bind wrongdoers in an impenetrable web of freezing light and wispy blue jays (TFV’s Patronus). (Dang, I wish!)

• By virtue of her own virtue, TFV is able to save women from giving it up to a lying douche-bag (and vice versa—save men from falling for a vicious, ill-intentioned, sight-setting, money-grubbing witch…’cause those do exist and they always seem to win…not anymore!).  (Kinda want a theme song now).

• Irresistible to men when she chooses to be visible. (*snort* wish this were true).

Bonus abilities: Fly, super speed, and super strength. (really, who doesn’t want these?)

Tools:

*Bejeweled “V” on her belt: glows and vibrates [hey, if phones can be set to vibrate, so can my bejeweled“V”] to alert her of someone needing assistance; can also detach and be used as a smart-weapon (really, couldn’t this be some character on True Blood, minus the obvious cheesy bits?) 

Thank you, Lex! This was so much fun!!!

The Good Old Crush

Do you ever miss having a crush? In junior high and high school, crushes seemed like the most complicated things in the world.  The inevitable “do you think he likes me?” question took on a life of its own with tentacles that grabbed at each brain cell and prevented you from ever thinking clearly again—and certainly not about math. 

In class, you’d get lost staring at the lone off-color florescent light.  You analyzed every little thing he said, eager to find one small sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, he liked you.  Helping you open your locker meant he cared.  Walking to you to class meant he liked you.  Giving you his pen because yours ran out of ink meant he kind-of really liked you.  And making sure he saw you before homeroom meant you were heading for young love.  Hey, we were young and had stars in our eyes.

From Monday through Wednesday, you hoped he would ask you out (because everyone knew a guy didn’t usually ask you out for Friday or Saturday past Wednesday).  You dreamed of how he would ask you out, pictured your first date, and fantasized about the first kiss.  Walking down the hall hand-in-hand was as big a deal as world peace.  And, of course, visions of the “I love you” moment were soon to follow. 

Then Wednesday comes and goes with no call, no note, and no date.  A little sad, you gathered yourself up and looked forward to next week, then the next week after that, and the week after that.  Little did you know the weeks would pass as quietly and regularly as the seasons.  You were a good girl.  But, the passing weeks didn’t really matter because you had hope—it kept you going.

It was commonplace for girls to talk on the phone for hours and analyze the dreaded "does he like me" question.  My friends found the dwelling part both necessary and an annoying obsession, like watching a movie and having to say the lines before they happen.  I was their sounding board and I never minded--to me, they weren't obsessing...they were hoping. 

For me, it was the wondering that kept me company.  I guess it filled a void in a way. It was like picturing how you would have your life be, if you could—like you’re writing a story and you’re the main character.  

The only baggage you had involved deciding on what to wear, wanting a boyfriend, going on a date, or getting asked to a dance.  And those little flavored roller-ball lip glosses made you feel like the sexiest girl in school.  I had the strawberry flavored one.  

Life was simple, even though it felt impossibly complex.  Back then, the boys hoped for sex.  As you get older, men expect it, and soon.  

Sometimes, I just miss the simplicity of a crush that goes absolutely nowhere.  

Weeding...Wedding...Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

Well, this is an interesting development. 

Lately, every time I type or write the word wedding, I misspell it.  In fact, I spell out another word entirely: Weeding.

Royal Wedding? Nah, it was a Royal Weeding, according to my seriously misguided typing fingers.  

Weeding is apparently the new wedding. Who knew?

And here I thought my make believe marriage to batman was a bad sign...

Of course, there was the time when I pretend married my Barbie and Ken to each other and had them say the vows, "...awfully wedded husband (and wife)." My mom gently corrected me on the awfully part. 

So, let's see where we are:

-Pretend married to superheroes as a child.

-Gave away my "Han Solo husband" to crying friend.

-Awfully instead of lawfully.

-And, now, weeding for wedding.

Maybe my brain sees a wedding as the happy result of the years and years we spend weeding through all the commitment phobic, egotistical, sex-centered, self-centered, inconsiderate, lying, stuck-up, sarcastic, cruel jack wipes.

Just a thought.

Stereotype Slayer #15: Virgins Dislike "Sexy Stuff"

I remember when an R&B CD fell out of my backpack one day in professional school.  By the shocked looks on the guys' faces, you would have thought the world had just been pronounced square.

My male friends were stunned that I, little miss virgin, listened to what they called "porn music."  Said "porn music" included songs like Freak Me, Bump 'N Grind, Stroke You Up, I'll Make Love to You, etc.

Shocked Guys: "You've got porn music!"

Me, blushing a little: "What's the big deal? It's R&B, it's sexy...what of it?"

Guys, eyes popping: "It just doesn't make sense."

Later, one guy told me--and a fellow virgin friend--that virgins "aren't supposed to like sexy stuff."

Cue mega eye rolling.

Virgins most certainly fall under such labels as pure, angelic, sweet, and innocent. I'm not arguing these labels, but there is so much more to a virgin than being sweet and innocent.

Here's a little list of some of the "sexy stuff" virgins are not supposed to like:

Sexy music--We don't cover our ears or turn the station...we turn it up, sing along, and fantasize. We then store our fantasies in a little mind vault and wait for the special him to unlock it.

Colorful undies--Virgins are believed to only wear single-style, white undies.  Personally, I prefer color...and variation.  That's all I'm sayin'.

Sexy movies/television shows, like True Blood--According to a number of men, virgins prefer PG films to R rated movies (no joke). Sigh. We don't cover our eyes during a love scene...we take mental notes. 

Bottom Line: Sex and sexy are two different concepts. Sexy is a state of mind. You don't have to have sex to like sexy things.  A virgin's mind is like the ocean--15% of which you may know, but the rest...the rest is a mystery waiting to be discovered.

Stereotype #15: SLAYED.

Freedom

It's red, white, and blue.

It's our military veterans.

It's the men and women fighting to protect our country, our liberties.

It's havin' a big old BBQ with your family.

It's being the girl next door.

It's rooting for America's team, the Dallas Cowboys. ;)

It's Dale Earnhardt Jr. and Daytona.

It's taking the hand of a perfect stranger. 

It's helping people you may never meet.

It's standing up for who you are and what you believe in.

It's about being brave, even when you want to hide under the covers.

It's holding back tears in the face of cruelty (and fighting the urge to flip 'em the finger).

It's later letting those tears fall on folded hands.

It's having faith.

It's believing in the unbelievable.

It's never giving up hope.

It's freedom.

Happy July 4th to you all! Freedom, always. 

Make Believe Marriage

Not long ago, some bride enthusiasts basically condemned my future happiness because I was the weirdo who didn't have her wedding all planned out, from gown and location to flowers and cake. Like I said, I'm not one to put the cart before the horse. Does this mean I don't want to get married? Nah, I don't think so. Could I have latent doubts about marriage, i.e. trusting someone won't break my heart? Well, come on, who doesn't?

After thinking back on my childhood behavior...Houston, we may have a problem.

Exhibit One, Kindergarten, The Princess Leia Mentality: While all the girls huddled around an oddly comforting plastic kitchen set during recess, I balked at the idea of faux-baking and instead accepted an invite by the boys to be Princess Leia in our Star Wars remake. The little girls all said, "If you go play with them, you can never play here." At the time, I didn't care. I'd rather sit in the little spaceship outlined in desks and pretend I'm leaving a message on R2D2 while running from Darth Vader. 

The potential problem--Rather than play little homemakers with the girls, I found greater happiness playing a stubborn, strong, independent, laser-gun-wielding princess.

The upside--Princess Leia, for all her strength and stubbornness, fell madly in love with Han Solo...and lived happily ever after. I added the last part. *blushes*

And speaking of Han Solo...

Exhibit Two, Kindergarten, Princess Leia Does The Unthinkable: One day, after narrowly escaping Darth Vader, the little boy who played Han Solo asked me to marry him. I said yes. *pause for the inevitable awwwws*  Young love is so sweet...that is until my friend told me during nap that she was really in love with the little boy I was now engaged to.  Oh, and she was sobbing.  I felt awful. So, what did I do? I gave him to her. I literally told him my friend is sad because she loves you and wants to marry you, so you need hold her hand.  Like a typical guy, he jumped spaceship. 

The potential problem--Princess Leia gave up her Han Solo!!! That can't be good. I mean, my mama always said I have the biggest heart she's ever seen, but still....Could I have unwittingly cursed myself by giving away my first faux-groom? Did I bust my own karma?

The upside--Well, I was well-intentioned...I hated seeing my friend sad. That has to count for something, right?

Exhibit Three, Make Believe Marriage...to Superheroes: This may be the most damning of all.  When I was little, I did, in fact, dress up and pretend to marry...Batman, Superman, and James Bond. Yeah. I blame my dad. The first male figures he introduced me to were quarterbacks for the Dallas Cowboys, superhero figures, and 007. The minute I heard, "Bond, James Bond," I was so the smitten kitten. I never pretend-married someone who couldn't fly, melt stuff with their eyeballs, throw a mean spiral, or perform outrageous escapes in a tuxedo. 

The potential problem--Well, hello? Superhero complex, anyone?

The upside--At least I did, you know, pretend to walk down the aisle (we won't mention the rather unique guest list at said wedding or the fact that my groom was in a bat suit and cape). 

Am I strong and stubborn? You bet your chicken fried steak I am.

Would I give my hubby away to someone else? Not on your life.

Do I secretly hold men to an impossible standard? Nah, so long as there's trust and love, he'll be a superhero in my eyes.

Still, it might be kinda fun to, you know, dress up like superheroes and...well...

Meow, Batman.
Han, I'm a slave for you. 
Fly me to the moon, Superman.
I'm your Bond girl.  Shaken, not stirred, 007?

Share Mail: The Waiting Game

Hi! Do you ever get tired of waiting? And what advice would you give to young girls who want to wait for love, like you, but are having a tough time waiting?

                        

Oh, I get tired of waiting all right! Like I’ve said before, this is not an easy choice, much like I’m not an easy lay. But, life isn’t about sitting around, moping about not having anyone in your life (though sometimes you may want to).  You have to keep moving. Life will catch up when the time is right. Strength is built from within.  Remember, you’re stronger than you realize. The most important thing is to do what’s right for you and never let anyone change that.

As far as coping with the waiting, I think you have to start with your mindset. Stereotypes would have you think virginity is some weird, abnormal thing you should be ashamed of.  Personally, I like to turn stereotypes on their head and suggest that virginity is not only pure, but sexy. You don’t have to have sex for someone to find you sexy.

I like to think of myself as undiscovered, uncharted territory.  We virgins just have to wait for our Christopher Columbus to uncover us.

You can’t compare where you are now to where you want to be in the future—you’ll go nowhere and likely drive yourself crazy in the process. It’s like treading water in the deep end, waiting for the bottom of the pool to touch your feet.  The best and only thing you can do is just go with the flow—ride the waves and see where life takes you.  Most of all, trust in yourself and believe in the seemingly unbelievable. 

Stereotype Slayer #14: Virgins Will Purposely Hold Back

Since I'm still in post-Mavs championship euphoria, I feel the need for some simple stereotype slayer action. However, I must say, I've made some rather startling discoveries during the course of this championship run regarding sports and hormones...another post for another day.

Stereotype: "Virgins will purposely hold back because they've been used to not letting go sexually."

This one will be very short and sweet.

If anything, when a virgin is unleashed for the first time...holding back will be the LAST thing on her mind, I assure you.

Shyness and nervousness aside...

...Darlin', when I decide to save a horse and ride a cowboy...it's on.

Stereotype #14: SLAYED (with ease).

Amazing, Thy Name Is Dallas...The Mavericks Win Game 4.

Oh. I. Love. My. Mavs.

There is no question OKC had control of this game from the start.  They literally pounded us all over the damn court. All Mavs' fans could hope was for the young Thunder to wear themselves out early and for the veteran Dallas team to close it out and show them how it's done.  

OKC didn't tire.  Neither did the Mavs.  In fact, they found another cylinder.

Can we say:  Dirk.  Dirk.  Dirk. The man is humble magic (the very best kind). 40 points. The shots he made...unreal.  If you saw the game, I don't need to say a thing. If you didn't...you missed something special--something that words simply could not do justice.  I'll just say this: MVP.

The Thunder led by 15 points with just over 4 minutes to play.  What happened next is something of basketball urban legend.  Mavericks came back.  Mavericks forced OT.  Mavericks won 112-105 and lead the series 3-1 as they head back to Dallas. 

How did I handle this game? Ha, well, pretty much as I do every other game--I pace while my heart rate reaches the danger zone.

However, there was one slight difference tonight. When Dirk was at the line to tie this thing up, I began saying the following: "Ooooh! Oh my! Ooooh, come on! There it is! Yes!"

So, I unwittingly made pleasure sounds while watching the Mavs.  That's new.  Perhaps sports (well, wins by my teams) act as my aphrodisiac and I turn into Aphrodite! Ooh, I like that.

ONE MORE WIN...and the Mavs are in the Finals!!! GO MAVS!!!!!!!

The Royal Dresses

Class, grace, elegance. These are the words I would use to describe Catherine Middleton's royal wedding gown, which was designed by Sarah Burton.  The Alexandar McQueen designer created a classically regal look with a modern neckline. 

Credit: AP Photo/Martin Meissner

Personally, I absolutely loved her gown. When jeans aren't an option, I tend towards elegance and grace over anything else, and Catherine's wedding gown absolutely screamed Grace Kelly.

Another one of my favorite gowns from the wedding was Pippa Middleton's ivory cowl front gown, also designed by Sarah Burton. This is one exquisite gown. I adore the cowl neck front, the delicate button back, and little cap sleeves. Honestly, I would own this dress in every color imaginable. 

Credit: Getty Images

Finally, Catherine's wedding reception gown: Can we say stunning? I love the cut, the way the skirt falls, the little shrug sweater, and the beading at the waist. Yet again, this gown oozes elegance.

Credit: John Stillwell/Getty Images

Women don't have to show it all to look and feel sexy. The gowns Catherine and her sister wore clearly showed their svelte figures, but they did so in a beautiful, graceful, elegant fashion.  It's what I like to call graceful sexiness. What's that old saying? Less is more? Or how about my mom and dad's favorite: "Leave a little to the imagination."

Elegance is timeless. 

Perspective: Helping, Not Hurting.

While one side of the pond celebrates a royal wedding between a prince and his Cinderella, the other side faces catastrophic loss after what many are calling the worst tornado outbreak in nearly forty years. 

While so many of us watched t.v., talked with friends, cheered for our teams, or just thought about life....people in the deep south were losing their homes, their loved ones, their livelihoods, and even their lives. Nearly 300 innocent people have lost their lives, and that number is expected to rise.

This morning, all I could think about was helping those who have lost everything. In times of tragedy, you always hope to see the very best in people.

While every headline, whether on the television or online, focused on the devastation across the south, someone decided--after so much human tragedy--that this morning was a critical time to send me a rather pointed message about how I (and others like me) am wasting my time waiting for the right man...that I should, in essence, chalk my life up to this point as a massive mistake and give up.

My response? Delete. I don't need to defend who I am or what I stand for, not anymore.  Comments like these, I assume, are meant to tear people down, yet, for me, they only make me that much stronger. It's a sad day when an individual makes it a priority to down someone they don't even know for their beliefs, rather than taking that time and energy and using it to aid fellow human beings who are suffering.  Shame. 

For every individual such as the above message-sender, there are far more who are ready and willing to provide hope.

Please, let's all send prayers, hope, and love to the victims of these horrific acts of nature. 

If you would like to help further, please visit the following sites to learn how:

1. American Red Cross

2.  Salvation Army

3.  You can also visit the Alabama Governor's Emergency Relief Fund.


God Bless all those impacted by these devastating tornadoes.

When you have some free time, please take a few minutes to listen to the lyrics of this song--this is the South, and they need all the love and hope we can give them.

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.

Innocent Isn't For Over 30

Recently, while watching one of those quasi-corny, yet strangely addicting Syfy super-storm-destroys-the-world movies, I thought I recognized one of the actresses from an old show I used to watch when I was younger. Over to IMDb I surfed, only to find that she wasn't the same actress. However, I discovered something much more interesting.

The actress is set to star in an upcoming film called, Scents and Sensibility. There is very little information on the film, but it seems to be a twist on the Jane Austen classic, Sense and Sensibility.  While glancing over the page, I spotted the following on a message board: "Actresses are too old."

Upon clicking the message, I was astonished to read a slight rant on casting actresses born in '78 and '80 to portray Jane Austen's young, virginal heroines. Simply put, if you are a woman over 30, you cannot possibly pass as a virgin, much less a young one. I believe the individual used the word "ridiculous" to describe such casting. 

As far as playing a youthful character, well, many women (and men) 30+ can pass for much younger.

Certainly, he/she is entitled to feel the way they do. There is no denying that an over 30 virgin in today's society is a scarce finding. Still, I tend to believe that innocence isn't defined by virgins, nor is it reserved for the under 30 crowd.  While virgins, like lambs or angels, are symbols of innocence, it's an individual's heart and soul that define it.

Maybe he/she has never met one of those "ridiculous," scarce oddities...

...um, yeah, hiya!  How ya doin'? Ridiculous scarce oddity here, dang glad to meet ya!

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.

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.