Ok, ok. I know what you’re thinking. Where the hell have I been? Where do I get off teasing charming anecdotes and promises of tales from boyfriends past, and then just flaking out for months at a time?
Fear not, legions of fans. I’m back. With clarity. And excuses. Let’s start with the latter.
Here goes... the Top 15 Reasons that I haven’t been blogging. And like any good author would do, I’m leaving the “fact or fiction” determination up to you.
1. I fell for a gorgeous Frenchman and I spend all of my free time in his bed.
2. I've been in hiding. Some nut job woman was so convinced that I was sleeping with her husband that I refused to spend more than 30 minutes at my house at a clip; for fear that she would break in and chop me into little blonde pieces.
3. Fell terribly ill and spent all of my days in doctors’ offices and all of my nights self-diagnosing. WebMD…friend or foe?
4. Volunteering at Santa’s workshop. Louboutins for all…and to all a good night.
5. Slaying deer.
6. Organizing my shoe closet.
7. Charting a new career path.
8. Perfecting my version of “Santa Baby” for the office holiday party.
9. Cataloging the reasons that I am terminally single.
10. Helping create a master race of brilliant, funny, charming Blondes.
11. Watching Sex and the City reruns.
12. Plotting the demise of Crocs.
13. Donning pink “S” leotard and canvassing the streets of Detroit, fighting crime and poverty.
14. Raking the hundreds of thousands of leaves that fall at my house annually.
15. Trying to prove that Blondes do indeed have more fun.
Well, that’s all the excuses. Now time for the clarity.
Yes, I’ve realized a few important things during my blogging hiatus. Not as a result of, but rather the reason for.
At the risk of sounding selfish, I realize now that I write for me. My writing is raw and transparent and insane. I find it virtually impossible to filter the layers of emotions from my text. Call it therapy. It is because of this that I find it nearly impossible to write about quirky, seemingly meaningless drivel when my life is in turmoil. That is to say that I am bound by my own psyche. First point of clarity, understood and appreciated.
Here’s the other thing I’ve realized. I am not a writer. I’m a thinker who happens to document blonde ramblings on paper. Writers can pour and pour and publish. I, on the contrary, think and think and write and rewrite and edit and fret and then (sometimes) publish. It is virtually impossible for me to write and post in fluid succession. I’m just not sure Type A personality and typewriter go together. Second point of clarity, understood and appreciated.
Alas, I once again find myself in a place to share. Enjoy what is to come… Somewhat sporadic. Somewhat edited. Always Blonde.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
The Boyfriend Graveyard
There are not enough words to explain boys and what goes on in that tiny little space between their ears. And there comes a time in every woman’s life when she must come to terms with this. For some of us, this realization happens a bit too late and then seems to be confirmed a bit too often. Enter the subject of this blog, “The Boyfriend Graveyard." (And let’s be honest, this will really be more of a column since there are undoubtedly too many obits to post at one time.)
And for the record, I’ve really taken some liberties with the term “Boyfriend” here. It is actually a catchall term for any and all relationships I’ve had with the opposite sex, regardless of duration or devotion. You have to admit, “The Boyfriend/Fling/Love-of-my-life/F*buddy/Secret Affair Graveyard” is a bit cumbersome.
Also of note, since some of these male subjects may actually resurrect and read these entries, I’ve masked identities as much as possible without diminishing the undoubtedly heinous nature of whatever they did to cause the demise of our relationship. (Smile boys, this is a joke.)
So begins the regurgitation and rehashing of the multitude of disasters that I so pathetically call a love life. Some of these entries might be kinda long, so pour yourself a cocktail and get comfy.
Column #1
Nickname: McDreamy
Timeline: MasterCard was celebrating its decade-long “priceless” campaign, Grey’s Anatomy was at the height of its popularity, and I still believed in tall, dark, and handsome.
McDreamy was a 42 year old executive, never been married, no kids. In theory, this guy was the perfect trifecta: tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention smart, established, and wittily sarcastic. He's the kinda guy a woman meets and can't help but immediately ponder, how the hell is this guy single? Then without even trying, said woman rationalizes something along the lines of... he is clearly focused on kicking ass in his career during the week and then is simply too busy building homes for the underprivileged on the weekends to weed through the masses to find a good woman.
Sigh. I should have known better. Guys like this only exist in a parallel universe; you know, the same one where chocolate has no calories and a woman's IQ is more important than her cup size.
Ok, sorry, I digress. Let's get back on track.
So McDreamy and I met at a party, flirted shamelessly, and after several weeks of emails and phone calls, mutually decided to get together (even though we lived several states apart, the chemistry was too electric to ignore). After calendar checks, we decide that I'd fly to see him. And I happened to have a girlfriend who lives nearby, which I immediately interjected into our conversation as to avoid the whole sleeping arrangements discussion. (Which was doubly good because he had just relocated and was living out of suitcase. At a motel. Gross.)
>> Fast forward to day of departure.
I call him to confirm the plan for that evening. Our very cute, very flirtatious convo goes something like this.
Me: Hi… don’t forget to pick me up tonight.
McDreamy: Oh, gee, that was tonight?
Me: Had no idea you were so funny.
McDreamy: You have no idea. Blah blah…flirt flirt… Did you get the directions (to your girlfriend’s)?
Me: Yes, sir. Just like I was told. Enter my infamous blonde sarcasm.
McDreamy: Something tells me you are better at giving orders… I’ve heard.
Me: Wow. There’s a zinger. Who have you been talking to?
McDreamy: Oh everyone knows you. I have heard really good things. So-and-so says great things about you. Blah blah... See you in a little bit.
Sexy voice, playful remarks…I haven’t boarded the plane yet, but was already flying.
I land a few hours later and to find McDreamy patiently waiting at luggage claim. A warm welcome, a hug, and we are off. He schleps my luggage to the car and insists that I wait so he can open her door. “I am big on (opening) doors” he says.
We navigate through this godforsaken airport; which, for the record must be at least six miles across, and head off to grab a drink. I suggest we head toward my girlfriend’s and find a place along the way. I am surprised (and delighted!) to hear that he actually has scouted a place already, Bahama Breeze. Fun, laid back… a great choice I think.
Over Mojitos I pepper him with questions about life, travels, work. Great banter, although I'm fairly certain that some of my wittiness is drown out by the cheesy electric guitar player. We debate whether he is really playing the guitar and move on with our sparkling conversation.
I prep him that the next night (Saturday night) my girlfriend and her hubby will be joining us out. He jokes that he is really shy and he will try to come out of his shell. I argue that he doesn’t seem very shy to me, but he insists. And I believe him.
He, very responsibly so, has only one drink that night. He is driving after all. I stop after drink #2 and confess that I never like to be more than one drink ahead of my date. It’s just bad manners. He is seemingly amused by this charming commentary, pays the bill, and we leave. And after a brutally long day, we hug good night and agree to meet the next afternoon for beers and Final Four action.
[NOTE: He calls the next morning and leaves the following unprompted, cutesy voicemail: "Hi, just wanted to see how shopping is going with your girlfriend. Blah blah. I’m waiting for the real estate lady. Blah blah… Will see you soon!”]
>> Fast forward to Saturday evening.
He meets my friends and engages in a seemingly healthy dialog about college football, house hunting, etc. Upon arriving at bar #1, he orders iced tea. (The universal drink of "I don't want to be here.") In true form, I have a few Bud Lights. At this point, my girlfriend's hubby is drinking with me so I quickly discard aforementioned rule referencing that I should only be one adult beverage ahead of my date. (Plus I drink when I get anxious. Or nervous. Or feel uncomfortable. Or feel rejected. Come to think of it, I'm shocked I could even walk out of that place by the end of the night.)
After a short while, I engage McDreamy in action on the game. If figured if the notion of gambling and sports won't loosen this guy up, what the hell will. I give him 4.5 points, he reluctantly accepts. I then spend the balance of the evening defending my “party lifestyle” job. They gang up on me. I laugh it off. Seemed like a good thing.
By beer #3 I am getting worried. My girlfriend and I regroup in the ladies. I am convinced something is awry. She says he is just shy, nervous, blah, blah. I can hear nothing but the faint echoes of “he’s just not that into you.”
For what it's worth, my team won. By a landslide.
We head to bar #2 to watch second game. I am thinking… change of scenery, change of attitude?
We sit in a booth near the bar. Yes! a booth. Where one can easily show some sign of interest without being considered too forward. You know, the touch of a hand, brush of the leg. This may seem like silly commentary, but let me clarify the dreadful nature of the situation: we had been out for nearly three hours and there had not been anything resembling physical contact from him. Whereas I had been trying the entire night to cautiously flirt, including a few friendly “hits” here and there. And for those of you who don’t remember middle school, hitting is a good thing.
Another beer later, I am winning our second game bet by 12 points. Given the blow out, the group starts to decide where the night will go from there. We are collectively discussing, when McDreamy leans over and says that he is just going to take off after this bar. Given that he is driving everyone, the night seems to be over for all of us.
I vow to have a poignant discussion with McDistant once he drops us off at my friend’s house.
>> Fast forward through the awkward drive back.
We arrive and my dear friends, right on cue, exit the vehicle immediately. I turn to McDistant and delicately phrase something to the effect of “Is everything okay…maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have the four of us go out? Too much? Too soon? Maybe I misread this weekend….blah…blah.” I purposefully set myself up as a little unsure, a little vulnerable. If he has half a brain, this is a Nerf toss.
He gives me nothing. No body language. No facial expression. Certainly no verbal cues.
Finally, he asks about the plan for tomorrow (Sunday). I say that my flight is at 6pm. He says he isn’t sure how long house hunting will take. I, in a stroke of sheer bitchiness, tell him not to worry about taking me to the airport. I am fuming at this point. Fuming and really confused. Not a good combo for this Blonde. He insists on taking me to the airport, out of guilt I image. I told him to call me the next day and we'd figure something out. He manages to blurt out one more sentence before I exit the car, “I just have a lot going on and I don’t know you that well.”
What the f* is that? “I don’t know you that well”!?! Hey buddy, I’m not asking to sleep with you! I am just wondering what the hell is going on since I hauled my cookies all the way down here and you have managed to avoid any sign of remote interest in me for the last five hours straight!
I shut the car door and walked inside the house feeling dejected, confused, and just plain pissed. Once inside, my friends confirm that things were indeed a bit bizarre that night.
>> Fast forward to Sunday afternoon.
McDistant calls as I am enjoying some much needed retail therapy. Being that planner that I am, I have a very distinct plan of attack. I act as though I really could care less if he takes me to the airport. Although deep down I really wanted some clarity, and if there was a chance I was going to get that en route to the airport, then so be it. So eventually I acquiesce.
En route to the airport I am doing my best to be my charming self and not drown in the memories of the prior night. I lead the conversation. I ask the questions. I tell witty stories. I foolishly thought that if he felt comfortable with me (again), he might actually open up a bit about what was going on in that tiny space between his ears.
I had already vowed to myself that I wouldn’t play the “what does this all mean?" girl card. No matter what. So I subtly hinted at the nagging question on my brain. Apparently, it was so subtle that he did not get it at all. Shocker.
We were pulling into the airport when he shared with me some cockamamie story about how he was going to take off a week in the summer to do charity work. Seriously? I don’t give a crap if you are planning to rebuild the entire city of New Orleans by yourself, why the hell are we talking about this? Are you still trying to impress me? Is that your game? See how far you can lead them (unsuspecting women) on before they just fall at your feet?
And if that wasn’t bad enough. After I thanked him for driving me to the airport and he says, gulp… “that’s the least I can do since you came all the way down here.” (I believe that’s what you call the proverbial last straw.)
I wanted to scream, “No, jackass, the least you can do it treat me with some friggin’ respect and let me know what the hell is going on here.” You just acknowledged that I flew my cookies all the way down here, but you can’t manage to verbalize one single sentiment that might be trudging through that thick head of yours? McClueless had really gotten to me at this point.
He pulled up along the curb. I wanted to jump out and run for the hills. But alas, I had a suitcase of new clothes in the back (abovementioned retail therapy) and couldn’t abandon them.
He then proceeded to tell me that he had a good time, blah, blah. I didn't believe him. When he was done with that drivel, I said my goodbye. I even left a very purposeful awkward silence in the middle of my goodbye. Hoping so much that he would fill it with something. Anything...
“I’m really sorry things are kinda weird. I don’t date much and wasn’t sure how things are supposed to work…”
“I’ve been thinking… since you live hundreds of miles away, it’s probably best that we don’t pursue this…”
“You are too fat for me”
“You are a great person, but I am queer as a two dollar bill”
But alas, I got nothing. And I walked off into the sunset (well, into the terminal).
>> Fast forward to the asininely painful flight home.
I resisted the urge to drink all the free wine they would serve me in first class. Instead, I spent the entire flight home trying to decipher the weekend. How could Friday night be so nice and Saturday night be so awkward?
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks… He didn’t even think this was a date.
(Urge for wine gets much stronger.)
I wrestle with this thought for the next couple hundred miles. Am I in the wrong? Was I too assertive? Was this trip too much too soon? Maybe he just isn’t interested in me? I drown in these thoughts all night.
>> Fast forward to Monday morning.
I immediately find myself combing through old emails from him (what girl wouldn’t save the good ones?) and start to feel better. Or maybe worse?
These old emails are just as I remembered: forward, flirtatious, and fun. As I read passages from his emails, I became more certain that I in fact did not misread the weekend. This was indeed a date.
Exhibit A:
Me: Was that you? (Who text me last night with new phone number.)
McDreamy: Yes. That was me. Are you having trouble keeping all your admirers straight??? Must be rough. Just wanted you to have the new cell number.... to add to the long list! Hope that you had a great day!
Me:…we should get together…
McDreamy: …I have some execs here Mon, Tues, and Thurs this week. Then I desperately need to look at houses. What are my other options?
Me: Other options are slim, as I am traveling rest of month. Are you playing hard to get?
McDreamy: I am "hard to find,” "hard to follow," often "hard to understand" but never described as playing "hard to get"! :) … How are you at looking for houses???
Me: I don’t date a lot, but I am not sure I have ever heard of a first date predicated on house hunting ;)
McDreamy: Awe, c’mon…
Me: Who says real estate can’t be fun… I’m in.
McDreamy: Probably need to discuss details… blah, blah…I will make sure that there is a (enter my nickname) wing in the new pad. :)
I’m no expert, but I would say in the court of dating, this would be “case closed."
So given my feminine nature, I really felt like I needed some closure. I hated feeling like he had played me. So after one email from me to him, he sends this response: “Glad you came down. Sorry I am a little crazy right now.”
Now this is the time when every woman needs to make a decision. Do I accept this lame ass, over-used cop out as an excuse for his behavior? Or do I stand up for every woman who has ever been jerked around by a career-obsessed, self-indulgent, middle-aged loner.
I vowed to never contact him again.
Epitaph
He's Just Not That Into You paperback: $12
Roundtrip ticket to find out exactly how “not that into you” he actually is: $700
Self-esteem: priceless
And for the record, I’ve really taken some liberties with the term “Boyfriend” here. It is actually a catchall term for any and all relationships I’ve had with the opposite sex, regardless of duration or devotion. You have to admit, “The Boyfriend/Fling/Love-of-my-life/F*buddy/Secret Affair Graveyard” is a bit cumbersome.
Also of note, since some of these male subjects may actually resurrect and read these entries, I’ve masked identities as much as possible without diminishing the undoubtedly heinous nature of whatever they did to cause the demise of our relationship. (Smile boys, this is a joke.)
So begins the regurgitation and rehashing of the multitude of disasters that I so pathetically call a love life. Some of these entries might be kinda long, so pour yourself a cocktail and get comfy.
Column #1
Nickname: McDreamy
Timeline: MasterCard was celebrating its decade-long “priceless” campaign, Grey’s Anatomy was at the height of its popularity, and I still believed in tall, dark, and handsome.
McDreamy was a 42 year old executive, never been married, no kids. In theory, this guy was the perfect trifecta: tall, dark, and handsome. Not to mention smart, established, and wittily sarcastic. He's the kinda guy a woman meets and can't help but immediately ponder, how the hell is this guy single? Then without even trying, said woman rationalizes something along the lines of... he is clearly focused on kicking ass in his career during the week and then is simply too busy building homes for the underprivileged on the weekends to weed through the masses to find a good woman.
Sigh. I should have known better. Guys like this only exist in a parallel universe; you know, the same one where chocolate has no calories and a woman's IQ is more important than her cup size.
Ok, sorry, I digress. Let's get back on track.
So McDreamy and I met at a party, flirted shamelessly, and after several weeks of emails and phone calls, mutually decided to get together (even though we lived several states apart, the chemistry was too electric to ignore). After calendar checks, we decide that I'd fly to see him. And I happened to have a girlfriend who lives nearby, which I immediately interjected into our conversation as to avoid the whole sleeping arrangements discussion. (Which was doubly good because he had just relocated and was living out of suitcase. At a motel. Gross.)
>> Fast forward to day of departure.
I call him to confirm the plan for that evening. Our very cute, very flirtatious convo goes something like this.
Me: Hi… don’t forget to pick me up tonight.
McDreamy: Oh, gee, that was tonight?
Me: Had no idea you were so funny.
McDreamy: You have no idea. Blah blah…flirt flirt… Did you get the directions (to your girlfriend’s)?
Me: Yes, sir. Just like I was told. Enter my infamous blonde sarcasm.
McDreamy: Something tells me you are better at giving orders… I’ve heard.
Me: Wow. There’s a zinger. Who have you been talking to?
McDreamy: Oh everyone knows you. I have heard really good things. So-and-so says great things about you. Blah blah... See you in a little bit.
Sexy voice, playful remarks…I haven’t boarded the plane yet, but was already flying.
I land a few hours later and to find McDreamy patiently waiting at luggage claim. A warm welcome, a hug, and we are off. He schleps my luggage to the car and insists that I wait so he can open her door. “I am big on (opening) doors” he says.
We navigate through this godforsaken airport; which, for the record must be at least six miles across, and head off to grab a drink. I suggest we head toward my girlfriend’s and find a place along the way. I am surprised (and delighted!) to hear that he actually has scouted a place already, Bahama Breeze. Fun, laid back… a great choice I think.
Over Mojitos I pepper him with questions about life, travels, work. Great banter, although I'm fairly certain that some of my wittiness is drown out by the cheesy electric guitar player. We debate whether he is really playing the guitar and move on with our sparkling conversation.
I prep him that the next night (Saturday night) my girlfriend and her hubby will be joining us out. He jokes that he is really shy and he will try to come out of his shell. I argue that he doesn’t seem very shy to me, but he insists. And I believe him.
He, very responsibly so, has only one drink that night. He is driving after all. I stop after drink #2 and confess that I never like to be more than one drink ahead of my date. It’s just bad manners. He is seemingly amused by this charming commentary, pays the bill, and we leave. And after a brutally long day, we hug good night and agree to meet the next afternoon for beers and Final Four action.
[NOTE: He calls the next morning and leaves the following unprompted, cutesy voicemail: "Hi, just wanted to see how shopping is going with your girlfriend. Blah blah. I’m waiting for the real estate lady. Blah blah… Will see you soon!”]
>> Fast forward to Saturday evening.
He meets my friends and engages in a seemingly healthy dialog about college football, house hunting, etc. Upon arriving at bar #1, he orders iced tea. (The universal drink of "I don't want to be here.") In true form, I have a few Bud Lights. At this point, my girlfriend's hubby is drinking with me so I quickly discard aforementioned rule referencing that I should only be one adult beverage ahead of my date. (Plus I drink when I get anxious. Or nervous. Or feel uncomfortable. Or feel rejected. Come to think of it, I'm shocked I could even walk out of that place by the end of the night.)
After a short while, I engage McDreamy in action on the game. If figured if the notion of gambling and sports won't loosen this guy up, what the hell will. I give him 4.5 points, he reluctantly accepts. I then spend the balance of the evening defending my “party lifestyle” job. They gang up on me. I laugh it off. Seemed like a good thing.
By beer #3 I am getting worried. My girlfriend and I regroup in the ladies. I am convinced something is awry. She says he is just shy, nervous, blah, blah. I can hear nothing but the faint echoes of “he’s just not that into you.”
For what it's worth, my team won. By a landslide.
We head to bar #2 to watch second game. I am thinking… change of scenery, change of attitude?
We sit in a booth near the bar. Yes! a booth. Where one can easily show some sign of interest without being considered too forward. You know, the touch of a hand, brush of the leg. This may seem like silly commentary, but let me clarify the dreadful nature of the situation: we had been out for nearly three hours and there had not been anything resembling physical contact from him. Whereas I had been trying the entire night to cautiously flirt, including a few friendly “hits” here and there. And for those of you who don’t remember middle school, hitting is a good thing.
Another beer later, I am winning our second game bet by 12 points. Given the blow out, the group starts to decide where the night will go from there. We are collectively discussing, when McDreamy leans over and says that he is just going to take off after this bar. Given that he is driving everyone, the night seems to be over for all of us.
I vow to have a poignant discussion with McDistant once he drops us off at my friend’s house.
>> Fast forward through the awkward drive back.
We arrive and my dear friends, right on cue, exit the vehicle immediately. I turn to McDistant and delicately phrase something to the effect of “Is everything okay…maybe it wasn’t a good idea to have the four of us go out? Too much? Too soon? Maybe I misread this weekend….blah…blah.” I purposefully set myself up as a little unsure, a little vulnerable. If he has half a brain, this is a Nerf toss.
He gives me nothing. No body language. No facial expression. Certainly no verbal cues.
Finally, he asks about the plan for tomorrow (Sunday). I say that my flight is at 6pm. He says he isn’t sure how long house hunting will take. I, in a stroke of sheer bitchiness, tell him not to worry about taking me to the airport. I am fuming at this point. Fuming and really confused. Not a good combo for this Blonde. He insists on taking me to the airport, out of guilt I image. I told him to call me the next day and we'd figure something out. He manages to blurt out one more sentence before I exit the car, “I just have a lot going on and I don’t know you that well.”
What the f* is that? “I don’t know you that well”!?! Hey buddy, I’m not asking to sleep with you! I am just wondering what the hell is going on since I hauled my cookies all the way down here and you have managed to avoid any sign of remote interest in me for the last five hours straight!
I shut the car door and walked inside the house feeling dejected, confused, and just plain pissed. Once inside, my friends confirm that things were indeed a bit bizarre that night.
>> Fast forward to Sunday afternoon.
McDistant calls as I am enjoying some much needed retail therapy. Being that planner that I am, I have a very distinct plan of attack. I act as though I really could care less if he takes me to the airport. Although deep down I really wanted some clarity, and if there was a chance I was going to get that en route to the airport, then so be it. So eventually I acquiesce.
En route to the airport I am doing my best to be my charming self and not drown in the memories of the prior night. I lead the conversation. I ask the questions. I tell witty stories. I foolishly thought that if he felt comfortable with me (again), he might actually open up a bit about what was going on in that tiny space between his ears.
I had already vowed to myself that I wouldn’t play the “what does this all mean?" girl card. No matter what. So I subtly hinted at the nagging question on my brain. Apparently, it was so subtle that he did not get it at all. Shocker.
We were pulling into the airport when he shared with me some cockamamie story about how he was going to take off a week in the summer to do charity work. Seriously? I don’t give a crap if you are planning to rebuild the entire city of New Orleans by yourself, why the hell are we talking about this? Are you still trying to impress me? Is that your game? See how far you can lead them (unsuspecting women) on before they just fall at your feet?
And if that wasn’t bad enough. After I thanked him for driving me to the airport and he says, gulp… “that’s the least I can do since you came all the way down here.” (I believe that’s what you call the proverbial last straw.)
I wanted to scream, “No, jackass, the least you can do it treat me with some friggin’ respect and let me know what the hell is going on here.” You just acknowledged that I flew my cookies all the way down here, but you can’t manage to verbalize one single sentiment that might be trudging through that thick head of yours? McClueless had really gotten to me at this point.
He pulled up along the curb. I wanted to jump out and run for the hills. But alas, I had a suitcase of new clothes in the back (abovementioned retail therapy) and couldn’t abandon them.
He then proceeded to tell me that he had a good time, blah, blah. I didn't believe him. When he was done with that drivel, I said my goodbye. I even left a very purposeful awkward silence in the middle of my goodbye. Hoping so much that he would fill it with something. Anything...
“I’m really sorry things are kinda weird. I don’t date much and wasn’t sure how things are supposed to work…”
“I’ve been thinking… since you live hundreds of miles away, it’s probably best that we don’t pursue this…”
“You are too fat for me”
“You are a great person, but I am queer as a two dollar bill”
But alas, I got nothing. And I walked off into the sunset (well, into the terminal).
>> Fast forward to the asininely painful flight home.
I resisted the urge to drink all the free wine they would serve me in first class. Instead, I spent the entire flight home trying to decipher the weekend. How could Friday night be so nice and Saturday night be so awkward?
And then it hit me like a ton of bricks… He didn’t even think this was a date.
(Urge for wine gets much stronger.)
I wrestle with this thought for the next couple hundred miles. Am I in the wrong? Was I too assertive? Was this trip too much too soon? Maybe he just isn’t interested in me? I drown in these thoughts all night.
>> Fast forward to Monday morning.
I immediately find myself combing through old emails from him (what girl wouldn’t save the good ones?) and start to feel better. Or maybe worse?
These old emails are just as I remembered: forward, flirtatious, and fun. As I read passages from his emails, I became more certain that I in fact did not misread the weekend. This was indeed a date.
Exhibit A:
Me: Was that you? (Who text me last night with new phone number.)
McDreamy: Yes. That was me. Are you having trouble keeping all your admirers straight??? Must be rough. Just wanted you to have the new cell number.... to add to the long list! Hope that you had a great day!
Me:…we should get together…
McDreamy: …I have some execs here Mon, Tues, and Thurs this week. Then I desperately need to look at houses. What are my other options?
Me: Other options are slim, as I am traveling rest of month. Are you playing hard to get?
McDreamy: I am "hard to find,” "hard to follow," often "hard to understand" but never described as playing "hard to get"! :) … How are you at looking for houses???
Me: I don’t date a lot, but I am not sure I have ever heard of a first date predicated on house hunting ;)
McDreamy: Awe, c’mon…
Me: Who says real estate can’t be fun… I’m in.
McDreamy: Probably need to discuss details… blah, blah…I will make sure that there is a (enter my nickname) wing in the new pad. :)
I’m no expert, but I would say in the court of dating, this would be “case closed."
So given my feminine nature, I really felt like I needed some closure. I hated feeling like he had played me. So after one email from me to him, he sends this response: “Glad you came down. Sorry I am a little crazy right now.”
Now this is the time when every woman needs to make a decision. Do I accept this lame ass, over-used cop out as an excuse for his behavior? Or do I stand up for every woman who has ever been jerked around by a career-obsessed, self-indulgent, middle-aged loner.
I vowed to never contact him again.
Epitaph
He's Just Not That Into You paperback: $12
Roundtrip ticket to find out exactly how “not that into you” he actually is: $700
Self-esteem: priceless
Monday, August 24, 2009
Top 100
If there was one good thing that came from the implosion of my relationship with the guy I was certainly going to marry (about 18 months ago), it was the creation of some ostentatious goals – run triathlon, attend Sex and the City movie premier in NYC, redecorate my house – anything to keep my mind off the pain and inevitable anger that was to set in. (And yes, I was so trashed by aforementioned break-up that I actually completed all of these goals inside of about four months.) And knowing full well that you can run but you can’t hide from the inevitable (i.e., your emotions), I decided to expand my mind and add a more academically-focused goal to this list as well: read the Top 100 novels of all time.
I'm not sure if you know this, but there are scads of “Top 100” book lists out there: Top 100 Novels of the Twentieth Century, Top 100 Novels of American Authors, Top 100 Love Stories, Top 100 English Language Romance Novels…the list goes on and on and on. After immediately striking every novel list that had anything whatsoever to do with romance, I landed on Random House’s Top 100 Novels of All Time (Board Voted). This list sounded very official and I thought no one (at a cocktail party or otherwise) would dare question its validity or audaciousness. [Mental note: probably shouldn’t lead with this at cocktail parties.]
And although I’m no scholar (let’s be honest, this Blonde's reading tendencies fall more toward JFK memoirs than the classics), I was quite certain that I could check off at least ten of these novels right off the bat. After all, requisite reading throughout high school and college would certainly yield a major leg up on this most ostentatious list. But alas, upon further introspection, I prudently decided that if I couldn’t name a protagonist and compelling story line, I probably shouldn’t check the novel off my list. And so my academic leg up dwindled to a pathetic, hell embarrassing, zero books read.
So I take a certain level of satisfaction knowing that the completion of this list will now undoubtedly be much more legitimate, but simultaneously acknowledge that it will certainly take me longer to complete than it took Susan Lucci to win an Emmy.
And, as with most things in my life, I tackled this list in a haphazard manner; sometimes selecting a novel based on my fondness of the title, sometimes based on the number it was assigned by the literarily inclined at Random House, and sometimes just based on availability at my local library. Here's a quick snapshot of what I've been reading...
[For those of you readers who are beginning to pout, now realizing that this in fact isn’t a compilation of my Top 100 Worst Dates, take solace in the fact that my next blog’s working title is “The Boyfriend Graveyard.”]
#1 Ulysses (James Joyce)
I knew I was in trouble when I checked out this book and the librarian smirked and said “good luck,” followed very quickly with “I always regretted not taking that class in college." Honestly, I’m not really sure which comment scared me more.
I mean really, “good luck”? It’s not like I was headed off to scale Everest or try my hand at poker for the first time. Hell, I wasn’t even checking out a Rosetta Stone “Learn Mandarin in Three Days” CD set.
And what’s with the I regret not taking that class commentary? Uh, doesn’t that imply that there’s something like twelve weeks dedicated to reading and deciphering this one single solitary novel? I mean don’t get me wrong, Classic Literature is clearly a prominent area of university study. Hell I’ll even concede Twentieth Century Classic Lit as a dedicated course. But really, an entire semester dedicated to one novel? Can it really be that complex?
Well, let me tell you, it didn’t take too long to answer that question. 40 pages to be exact.
I wasn't sure if it was because this baby was penned in early 1900s or because I’m just too Blonde, but things just weren’t clicking for me. I’m not quite sure why, since all of the action seems to take place on a single stinkin’ day. There doesn’t seem to be any time warps involved. There aren't ghosts from the past to get confused with actual characters. Urg.
Just when I had reached my maximum point of frustration, I mentioned to my dear friend that I was reading this literary masterpiece and he (being the savvy reader that he is) replied with “Oh boy, how’s that going?” I think he could clearly sense my frustration, as he quickly followed with “most people use reference materials when reading that.”
That’s when it dawned on me. This novel isn’t #1 on the Top 100 list because it is the single most glorious piece of literary art ever. It is #1 because it is quite literally the most difficult read in the history of the world. And, if by some miracle you can stumble or study your way through the stream-of-consciousness prose, then you can consider yourself among the literary elite.
And it was with that newly realized understanding that I promptly returned Ulysses to the library where I found it; vowing to tackle it another day.
#2 The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
Although I did read this in high school, I took my established rules to heart and decided that just because I remembered the name Daisy Buchanan (made famous once again because it was the fake name that Emily gives Jake, a.k.a. Ashton Kutcher, in the bar scene in The Guardian), that doesn’t a check mark make.
So with great fervor I devoured this novel. And what a novel it is. New money. Old money. Mistresses. Car crash. War-torn lovers. Suicide. Hidden motives. Fancy parties. Jealousy. Unrequited love. If you liked Dynasty or Melrose Place, read this book.
#6 The Sound and Fury (William Faulkner)
I just can’t read Faulkner. I struggle to articulate even one legitimate plot from this pile of pages. To say that this novel is nonlinear is an understatement. At certain points (quite frequently) I didn’t even know what the hell time frame Faulkner was writing in. Maybe I just wasn’t reading closely enough? Maybe having a few cocktails during slow pages wasn’t the best idea? I’ll save you my haphazard rambling interpretation and leave you with this – if you are looking to read a seemingly impossible-to-follow, painfully slow, overrated tale of the tragic demise of a southern family, this is your book.
#7 Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
The best war novel I’ve read. Mostly because it has nothing to do with war. I simply can’t resist the asinine nature of Heller's circular logic, which I find both familiar and inexplicable. Please indulge me a few real life examples:
ï She is a good-looking, intelligent, funny woman. Men won’t come near her.
ï Samantha will date anyone who breathes; what a whore. Charlotte, on the other hand, hardly dates at all; what a stuck up bitch. Or maybe she's just gay?
ï If a woman gets married too young she's relinquished her dreams for a man. Wait too long and she will forever be haunted by the whispers, “there must be something wrong with her.”
If you enjoy stories dripping with satire, irony, and paradox you must read this book.
#9 Sons and Lovers (D.H. Lawrence)
I was hopeful that I would like this novel, since one of my favorite poems (Wild Things) was written by Lawrence. I wasn’t entirely wrong. But what I was most certainly wrong about was the meaning of the title. Turns out when Lawrence entitled his book, he was being quite literal.
My somewhat crude plot summary goes like this: Mom loves (read: in love with) son #1. Son #1 dies. Mom turns her love to son #2. Mom dies. Son #2 then dies a slow death alone because he is so jacked up from a controlling, soul-sucking erotic mother that he can’t function with (any) women anymore.
If you like Freud and the ol’ Oedipus complex, this is a book for you.
#10 The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
A story of the great American journey west. What’s not to love. If you like John Wayne movies, are American, or have ever been on parole, read this book.
#31 Animal Farm (George Orwell)
Although one of the shortest reads on this behemoth Top 100 list, this book addresses some of the most compelling social issues facing us today (and in 1945 too apparently).
In this novel animals create a list of seven laws to keep order and ensure the solidarity of animal life on Animal Farm:
1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy
2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend.
3. No animal shall wear clothes.
4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
5. No animal shall drink alcohol.
6. No animal shall kill any other animal.
7. All animals are equal.
As the novel progresses, the farm’s pigs begin to get a taste of power. Before long, they thirst for it. And naturally, as they indulge this thirst for power they seem more human-like. Even going so far as to walk on two legs. And before you can say Farmer in the dell, they have reinterpreted, rewritten, or plain abandoned the seven aforementioned rules to suit their own gluttonous evolution.
And don’t let the pedestrian title fool you. This book is about you, me, and power that corrupts absolutely.
Any creature on two legs should read this book.
#42 Deliverance (James Dickey)
Although this title was familiar to me, I honestly knew not the subject matter. The cover was as unassuming as the material was sadistic. I will spare you the gory details.
Read with caution. And all the lights on.
#64 The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
This book gets a bad rap, what with Mark David Chapman and John Hinckley, Jr. both toting copies while they shot at some of the most famous men in the history of the world. Perhaps it was these infamous acts or rampant American censorship that helped this novel secure a prominent place in our culture. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the tenants of Caulfield's rebellion and American independence are (dare I say) inextricably linked.
One of my new favorites.
I'm not sure if you know this, but there are scads of “Top 100” book lists out there: Top 100 Novels of the Twentieth Century, Top 100 Novels of American Authors, Top 100 Love Stories, Top 100 English Language Romance Novels…the list goes on and on and on. After immediately striking every novel list that had anything whatsoever to do with romance, I landed on Random House’s Top 100 Novels of All Time (Board Voted). This list sounded very official and I thought no one (at a cocktail party or otherwise) would dare question its validity or audaciousness. [Mental note: probably shouldn’t lead with this at cocktail parties.]
And although I’m no scholar (let’s be honest, this Blonde's reading tendencies fall more toward JFK memoirs than the classics), I was quite certain that I could check off at least ten of these novels right off the bat. After all, requisite reading throughout high school and college would certainly yield a major leg up on this most ostentatious list. But alas, upon further introspection, I prudently decided that if I couldn’t name a protagonist and compelling story line, I probably shouldn’t check the novel off my list. And so my academic leg up dwindled to a pathetic, hell embarrassing, zero books read.
So I take a certain level of satisfaction knowing that the completion of this list will now undoubtedly be much more legitimate, but simultaneously acknowledge that it will certainly take me longer to complete than it took Susan Lucci to win an Emmy.
And, as with most things in my life, I tackled this list in a haphazard manner; sometimes selecting a novel based on my fondness of the title, sometimes based on the number it was assigned by the literarily inclined at Random House, and sometimes just based on availability at my local library. Here's a quick snapshot of what I've been reading...
[For those of you readers who are beginning to pout, now realizing that this in fact isn’t a compilation of my Top 100 Worst Dates, take solace in the fact that my next blog’s working title is “The Boyfriend Graveyard.”]
#1 Ulysses (James Joyce)
I knew I was in trouble when I checked out this book and the librarian smirked and said “good luck,” followed very quickly with “I always regretted not taking that class in college." Honestly, I’m not really sure which comment scared me more.
I mean really, “good luck”? It’s not like I was headed off to scale Everest or try my hand at poker for the first time. Hell, I wasn’t even checking out a Rosetta Stone “Learn Mandarin in Three Days” CD set.
And what’s with the I regret not taking that class commentary? Uh, doesn’t that imply that there’s something like twelve weeks dedicated to reading and deciphering this one single solitary novel? I mean don’t get me wrong, Classic Literature is clearly a prominent area of university study. Hell I’ll even concede Twentieth Century Classic Lit as a dedicated course. But really, an entire semester dedicated to one novel? Can it really be that complex?
Well, let me tell you, it didn’t take too long to answer that question. 40 pages to be exact.
I wasn't sure if it was because this baby was penned in early 1900s or because I’m just too Blonde, but things just weren’t clicking for me. I’m not quite sure why, since all of the action seems to take place on a single stinkin’ day. There doesn’t seem to be any time warps involved. There aren't ghosts from the past to get confused with actual characters. Urg.
Just when I had reached my maximum point of frustration, I mentioned to my dear friend that I was reading this literary masterpiece and he (being the savvy reader that he is) replied with “Oh boy, how’s that going?” I think he could clearly sense my frustration, as he quickly followed with “most people use reference materials when reading that.”
That’s when it dawned on me. This novel isn’t #1 on the Top 100 list because it is the single most glorious piece of literary art ever. It is #1 because it is quite literally the most difficult read in the history of the world. And, if by some miracle you can stumble or study your way through the stream-of-consciousness prose, then you can consider yourself among the literary elite.
And it was with that newly realized understanding that I promptly returned Ulysses to the library where I found it; vowing to tackle it another day.
#2 The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
Although I did read this in high school, I took my established rules to heart and decided that just because I remembered the name Daisy Buchanan (made famous once again because it was the fake name that Emily gives Jake, a.k.a. Ashton Kutcher, in the bar scene in The Guardian), that doesn’t a check mark make.
So with great fervor I devoured this novel. And what a novel it is. New money. Old money. Mistresses. Car crash. War-torn lovers. Suicide. Hidden motives. Fancy parties. Jealousy. Unrequited love. If you liked Dynasty or Melrose Place, read this book.
#6 The Sound and Fury (William Faulkner)
I just can’t read Faulkner. I struggle to articulate even one legitimate plot from this pile of pages. To say that this novel is nonlinear is an understatement. At certain points (quite frequently) I didn’t even know what the hell time frame Faulkner was writing in. Maybe I just wasn’t reading closely enough? Maybe having a few cocktails during slow pages wasn’t the best idea? I’ll save you my haphazard rambling interpretation and leave you with this – if you are looking to read a seemingly impossible-to-follow, painfully slow, overrated tale of the tragic demise of a southern family, this is your book.
#7 Catch-22 (Joseph Heller)
The best war novel I’ve read. Mostly because it has nothing to do with war. I simply can’t resist the asinine nature of Heller's circular logic, which I find both familiar and inexplicable. Please indulge me a few real life examples:
ï She is a good-looking, intelligent, funny woman. Men won’t come near her.
ï Samantha will date anyone who breathes; what a whore. Charlotte, on the other hand, hardly dates at all; what a stuck up bitch. Or maybe she's just gay?
ï If a woman gets married too young she's relinquished her dreams for a man. Wait too long and she will forever be haunted by the whispers, “there must be something wrong with her.”
If you enjoy stories dripping with satire, irony, and paradox you must read this book.
#9 Sons and Lovers (D.H. Lawrence)
I was hopeful that I would like this novel, since one of my favorite poems (Wild Things) was written by Lawrence. I wasn’t entirely wrong. But what I was most certainly wrong about was the meaning of the title. Turns out when Lawrence entitled his book, he was being quite literal.
My somewhat crude plot summary goes like this: Mom loves (read: in love with) son #1. Son #1 dies. Mom turns her love to son #2. Mom dies. Son #2 then dies a slow death alone because he is so jacked up from a controlling, soul-sucking erotic mother that he can’t function with (any) women anymore.
If you like Freud and the ol’ Oedipus complex, this is a book for you.
#10 The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
A story of the great American journey west. What’s not to love. If you like John Wayne movies, are American, or have ever been on parole, read this book.
#31 Animal Farm (George Orwell)
Although one of the shortest reads on this behemoth Top 100 list, this book addresses some of the most compelling social issues facing us today (and in 1945 too apparently).
In this novel animals create a list of seven laws to keep order and ensure the solidarity of animal life on Animal Farm:
1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy
2. Whatever goes upon four legs, or has wings, is a friend.
3. No animal shall wear clothes.
4. No animal shall sleep in a bed.
5. No animal shall drink alcohol.
6. No animal shall kill any other animal.
7. All animals are equal.
As the novel progresses, the farm’s pigs begin to get a taste of power. Before long, they thirst for it. And naturally, as they indulge this thirst for power they seem more human-like. Even going so far as to walk on two legs. And before you can say Farmer in the dell, they have reinterpreted, rewritten, or plain abandoned the seven aforementioned rules to suit their own gluttonous evolution.
And don’t let the pedestrian title fool you. This book is about you, me, and power that corrupts absolutely.
Any creature on two legs should read this book.
#42 Deliverance (James Dickey)
Although this title was familiar to me, I honestly knew not the subject matter. The cover was as unassuming as the material was sadistic. I will spare you the gory details.
Read with caution. And all the lights on.
#64 The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
This book gets a bad rap, what with Mark David Chapman and John Hinckley, Jr. both toting copies while they shot at some of the most famous men in the history of the world. Perhaps it was these infamous acts or rampant American censorship that helped this novel secure a prominent place in our culture. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the tenants of Caulfield's rebellion and American independence are (dare I say) inextricably linked.
One of my new favorites.
#65 A Clockwork Orange (Anthony Burgess)
Violent. Alarming. Provocative. Nauseating. And that’s only Part 1. A must read.
#74 A Farewell to Arms (Ernest Hemmingway)
Part biography. Part love story. All dreadfully boring. Sorry, Ernie. This isn't making my Top 1,000 list. And if it weren't for the read-a-chapter, refill-a-cocktail game that I invented while reading this novel, there's little chance I would have finished it at all.
So there it is. The first ten books of the rest of my life. Let's recap what we've learned so far:
ï You can’t judge a book by its cover (or its title).
ï Everything is more tolerable over cocktails.
ï Although something may be touted as being the best, if reference materials are required you might be out of your league.
Author’s note: The parallel between these lessons learned and those that would have most certainly resulted from a rundown of my Top 100 Worst Dates seems alarmingly ironic.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Pearls
I recently attended a wedding where a majorly impressive Tae Kwon Do master gave a toast to the blissfully happy bride and groom (who happens to be his prize student). And I don’t know about you, but when a guy who can break six bricks with a single blow talks, I listen.
The master spoke of the groom’s character and fortitude, of lessons taught and practiced, but it wasn’t until he spoke his final words of wisdom that things really hit home. He turned to the new groom, a third degree black belt, and in a slow, deliberate I-know-everything-about-everything zen master voice said “you need only remember one simple thing in order to ensure a long, prosperous married life together: always, no matter what, treat your wife as if she were a fourth degree black belt.” This got a chuckle. And got me thinking.
So often we trudge through life and never take the time to share our own pearls of wisdom. And what good are pearls if you don’t show them off? (Yes, ladies, we are still talking about advice here.) So here goes, one Blonde’s free advice for all those who will listen. Er, read.
The master spoke of the groom’s character and fortitude, of lessons taught and practiced, but it wasn’t until he spoke his final words of wisdom that things really hit home. He turned to the new groom, a third degree black belt, and in a slow, deliberate I-know-everything-about-everything zen master voice said “you need only remember one simple thing in order to ensure a long, prosperous married life together: always, no matter what, treat your wife as if she were a fourth degree black belt.” This got a chuckle. And got me thinking.
So often we trudge through life and never take the time to share our own pearls of wisdom. And what good are pearls if you don’t show them off? (Yes, ladies, we are still talking about advice here.) So here goes, one Blonde’s free advice for all those who will listen. Er, read.
ï If it scares you, do it. This is the only way to grow.
ï Write your goals down. Revisit the list often and with enthusiasm.
ï There are only two ways to get over a guy. Exercise or Eat.
ï If you don’t love you, no one else will.
ï Love isn’t supposed to make sense. The sooner you realize that the better.
ï Checklists are good for goals, bad for guys.
ï Being underestimated is a gift. Unwrap cheerfully.
ï Regret is a waste of time. Learn and move on.
ï If you don’t like something about your life – change it. You are the only one who can.
ï You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough. (Okay, that one wasn’t me, but another fabulous blonde, Mae West.)
And in a maddeningly predictable twist of fate, it was at this very same wedding that I met (sigh) another Mike. And why wouldn’t his name be Mike? My love life is, always has been, and apparently always will be, plagued with Mike’s. And even though this name appears quite clearly at the top of my “will not date ever again under any circumstances, including middle age or duress” list, I figured what the hell. He was a single groomsman. I was a single gal from out of town. Cocktails were flowing. Cliché or not, this was a fairy tale in the making.
So I spent my evening dancing and carousing with aforementioned “will not date ever again under any circumstances, including middle age or duress” guy-turned-potential prince charming. Then in my own quasi-Cinderella moment, I dashed just before midnight without saying goodbye. In all fairness, this was more a function of my ride leaving than me playing fairy tale princess (or even more unlikely – playing hard to get). It wasn’t until the next day when I heard that “will not date ever again under any circumstances, including middle age or duress” guy-turned-potential prince charming sobbed on my girlfriend’s shoulder about my untimely departure that I felt truly bad about my actions.
So I did what any self-respecting, overly-flirtatious Cinderella wannabe would do; I sent the obligatory “sorry I bailed but it wasn’t really my fault” email. Naturally, the email was laced with rich verbs and witty commentary – but in a really laid-back, “I’m not trying to hard” kinda way. I was feeling really good about said email until I got this reply:
“No worries….Blah…Blah… I’m happy for the bride and groom…Blah…Blah…Glad to meet you…Blah…Blah… You seem like a quality individual.”
Yeah, that’s right. He called me, gulp, a “quality individual.” Man, that was like taking a bullet.
Naturally, and without delay, I asked a close friend for the male-to-male translation of aforementioned email, in an effort to corroborate (or with a bit of luck refute) my initial ghastly interpretation. Without hesitation, he provided a translation that went something like this: “I spent all night working her and that bitch left without so much as a goodnight kiss."
Ouch.
And with that readers, I leave you with one final pearl of wisdom: "Love is indeed like a fairy tale – Grimm."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Anything but a Late Bloomer
As I am sure you loyal readers, (aahem, reader) can recall, my “Preamble” (Post 8/10/09) revealed, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t consider myself an early adopter of...well, pretty much anything. Upon further reflection, I realized that the term “early adopter” might not mean a whole lot to those outside of the marketing stratosphere. Lord knows we marketers sometimes get so caught up in our whiz bang terminology that we forget that real people don’t know or care how we classify them. Crap, now you’re all probably wondering what the hell “whiz bang” is. Okay, let’s tackle one marketing lesson at a time – for the record, an “early adopter” is loosely defined as an early customer of any given company, product or technology…a Trendsetter if you will.
So after this general observation, in a sheer effort to prove my initial declaration wrong, I forced myself into a mental inventory of appropriate categories to determine my true propensity for trendsetting. After all, who doesn’t want to be a trendsetter? The connotation alone is just too fabulous.
My mental inventory went something like this:
Technology. My Blackberry is company-owned and almost two years old (which is like a decade in tech time). My tube TV (gasp) is barely digital and certainly not Hi-Def, plasma, flat screen, or anything else remotely cool sounding. I can operate a Garmin but that would be the last thing on earth that I would spend money on. And seeing ads for “digital reading pens” and “laser guided scissors” just send me right over the edge. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Art. Andy Warhol is most contemporary American artist I can name. I haven’t gone to a movie on opening weekend since my nephews dragged me to see Lord of The Rings: The Return of the King, circa 2003. I download new songs to my iPod about every six months. And it took me five years before I saw Wicked on Broadway. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Fashion. I generally despise trendy clothing and will let new fashions marinate in the pages of Lucky for at least a few months before even attempting to inject into my wardrobe. Hell, I just bought skinny jeans six months ago. And Friends, I didn’t have “The Rachel” haircut until ’01. My only redeeming quality in this category seems to be my shoe collection, which is really more a function of sheer volume than anything else. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Travel. Although travel is one of my most passionate pursuits, I’m not exactly trekking to third world countries or exotic ports of call (you know the ones that require a malaria vaccination). Although my last few international excursions were amazing, Germany and St. Thomas aren't exactly Belize or Bali. And sure, I went Costa Rica last year – but that’s when everyone (who went to Costa Rica five years ago) was journeying to Croatia. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
So, by definition, I would be…ummm…not sure how to phrase this…hmmmm…what’s the opposite of a Trendsetter exactly?
Loser?
Cultural Lollygagger?
Late Bloomer?
Okay, let’s go with Late Bloomer. At least that label doesn’t entirely make me want to bury my Blonde head in shame. Sigh. Frankly, for a woman who has always fancied herself independent and a little daring, I want to be known as anything but a Late Bloomer.
This realization really has my head spinning. I find myself wondering if this apparent unwillingness to embrace the “new” goes far beyond haircuts and TVs? Gasp. Could it be that my 30-something-year-old self is unconsciously easing into marriage, much like I eased into the skinny jeans trend?
Pause for reflection.
I mean, if I am not out there blazing a trail with an asymmetrical bob, why would I ever try to blaze a trail with my heart!?
Now let’s not confuse my epiphany with self-wallowing. I’m not objecting to my newly acknowledged Late Bloomer approach in the romance department; rather, I’m just now realizing (after three decades on the planet) that things tend to materialize a bit slower for me. The evidence is staggering:
ï I was painfully shy until middle school. My teacher once told my mom that I should probably be tested for hearing problems because I never spoke. Clearly I have overcome that.
ï I didn’t date until I was in college. (Although technically that was really my dad’s decision, not mine.)
ï I started running only five short years ago. Hell, I just learned to swim.
ï My love affair with shoes is, quite candidly, still in its infancy.
ï I just started enjoying classic literature for the first time in my life.
ï I recently discovered sweet potato fries.
Honestly, some of the most enjoyable, robust parts of my life are just now taking shape. So why would I expect anything different when it comes to my love life?
So this girl is going to hold her Blonde head up high and relish not being a Trendsetter. In fact, realizing all of the joy that has just recently found its way into my life, I can’t imagine why on earth I would ever want to be anything but a Late Bloomer.
So after this general observation, in a sheer effort to prove my initial declaration wrong, I forced myself into a mental inventory of appropriate categories to determine my true propensity for trendsetting. After all, who doesn’t want to be a trendsetter? The connotation alone is just too fabulous.
My mental inventory went something like this:
Technology. My Blackberry is company-owned and almost two years old (which is like a decade in tech time). My tube TV (gasp) is barely digital and certainly not Hi-Def, plasma, flat screen, or anything else remotely cool sounding. I can operate a Garmin but that would be the last thing on earth that I would spend money on. And seeing ads for “digital reading pens” and “laser guided scissors” just send me right over the edge. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Art. Andy Warhol is most contemporary American artist I can name. I haven’t gone to a movie on opening weekend since my nephews dragged me to see Lord of The Rings: The Return of the King, circa 2003. I download new songs to my iPod about every six months. And it took me five years before I saw Wicked on Broadway. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Fashion. I generally despise trendy clothing and will let new fashions marinate in the pages of Lucky for at least a few months before even attempting to inject into my wardrobe. Hell, I just bought skinny jeans six months ago. And Friends, I didn’t have “The Rachel” haircut until ’01. My only redeeming quality in this category seems to be my shoe collection, which is really more a function of sheer volume than anything else. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
Travel. Although travel is one of my most passionate pursuits, I’m not exactly trekking to third world countries or exotic ports of call (you know the ones that require a malaria vaccination). Although my last few international excursions were amazing, Germany and St. Thomas aren't exactly Belize or Bali. And sure, I went Costa Rica last year – but that’s when everyone (who went to Costa Rica five years ago) was journeying to Croatia. Trendsetting scale: ,,,,,
So, by definition, I would be…ummm…not sure how to phrase this…hmmmm…what’s the opposite of a Trendsetter exactly?
Loser?
Cultural Lollygagger?
Late Bloomer?
Okay, let’s go with Late Bloomer. At least that label doesn’t entirely make me want to bury my Blonde head in shame. Sigh. Frankly, for a woman who has always fancied herself independent and a little daring, I want to be known as anything but a Late Bloomer.
This realization really has my head spinning. I find myself wondering if this apparent unwillingness to embrace the “new” goes far beyond haircuts and TVs? Gasp. Could it be that my 30-something-year-old self is unconsciously easing into marriage, much like I eased into the skinny jeans trend?
Pause for reflection.
I mean, if I am not out there blazing a trail with an asymmetrical bob, why would I ever try to blaze a trail with my heart!?
Now let’s not confuse my epiphany with self-wallowing. I’m not objecting to my newly acknowledged Late Bloomer approach in the romance department; rather, I’m just now realizing (after three decades on the planet) that things tend to materialize a bit slower for me. The evidence is staggering:
ï I was painfully shy until middle school. My teacher once told my mom that I should probably be tested for hearing problems because I never spoke. Clearly I have overcome that.
ï I didn’t date until I was in college. (Although technically that was really my dad’s decision, not mine.)
ï I started running only five short years ago. Hell, I just learned to swim.
ï My love affair with shoes is, quite candidly, still in its infancy.
ï I just started enjoying classic literature for the first time in my life.
ï I recently discovered sweet potato fries.
Honestly, some of the most enjoyable, robust parts of my life are just now taking shape. So why would I expect anything different when it comes to my love life?
So this girl is going to hold her Blonde head up high and relish not being a Trendsetter. In fact, realizing all of the joy that has just recently found its way into my life, I can’t imagine why on earth I would ever want to be anything but a Late Bloomer.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Preamble
A solid decade after blogger.com was created and another five years after “blogging” entered this Blonde’s vernacular; I’m entering the blogosphere. Proof, yet again, that I am not an early-adopter of technology….well, of anything really. (Hmm, let’s tackle that particular observation another day.)
So join me as I set aside angst and discretion to share my wandering thoughts with you and (maybe someday) legions of complete strangers.
And in true Virgo fashion, I’ve penned a few ground rules for myself and a few general disclaimers for my dear readers:
ï I will share witty repartee, albeit one-sided.
ï I will, where appropriate, protect the innocent by using only first names.
ï I will (inevitably) bitch, moan, and complain about men. This will stem from frustration, confusion, and general lack of sex. This can’t be helped. Please bear with me.
ï I will try not to get sued for slander. Or maybe it’s libel? Fun fact: slander (lying about someone out loud) turns into libel when/if you share the aforementioned untruthful sentiments via a medium with a wide audience, like TV for instance. (Insert clever “Legally Blonde” quip here.)
ï I will, above all else, provide insight into the life and times of one of America’s most endangered species... True Blondes.
Monday, August 3, 2009
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