How are you today? I'm superfantastic.

"I don't know yet if he's Mr. Right, but he sure is Mr. Wonderful."

The title is something that my friend Anna said in college when someone asked her whether she thought she'd marry her boyfriend. Anna was tiny and sweet and could pull off saying things like that. I am, as you know, neither sweet nor tiny and would never choose that phrasing on my own. But the sentiment struck me as fitting as I start telling you this story.

Yes, there's a guy. His name is Raj. We met while he was spending a few weeks in San Antonio last summer. Because naturally, he doesn't live here. Oh no, that would be far too easy.

Raj is a med student in the Navy. He was doing a six-week rotation at the military hospitals here. Three weeks into that, he asked if I knew where he could get some good Thai food in town. He was cute, so I met him at Thai Dee in a less than charming area of San Antonio, figuring I could get some free pad see ewe out of him and then he'd leave town. Noodles, no strings attached. But then he was smart and funny too, so we went on to the Lion and the Rose for drinks. Then we spent a whole lot of the next two weeks together. I left for vacation to the Pacific Northwest. He took his exam for the rotation and drove back to DC. We thought we'd see if we were still talking by Labor Day. Otherwise, it had been fun, etc.

We texted mostly. I'd send him a picture from somewhere in Seattle or Portland. He'd tell me about his day at work and school. I wondered how I could miss a person I'd only known for two weeks. We kept talking.

By Labor Day weekend, he was on a rotation in North Carolina. So I flew there and he took me to the Outer Banks. I noticed a styrofoam cooler in the back seat. 

"That's for my severed head after you murder and dismember me?" 

"Yep. For my collection." 

Turned out it was actually a picnic for the beach. Bread, brie, strawberries, and dark chocolate. And champagne and orange juice for mimosas in the mornings. It really was something out of a movie. 

Romantic comedy though. You know, the kind where the leading lady gets a dark red sunburn on the ferry to the island while wearing a high-necked sleeveless shirt so she'll look ridiculous in everything else she packed. And where the sweet little old lady at the desk recommends a nature preserve where the characters are swarmed by biting insects as soon as they've gotten far enough in to make it a long and itchy walk back out. And maybe the leading lady has a tendency toward swelling in bug bites.

The photo below is post-sunburn, pre-puffy red welts everywhere.

Sandra Bullock will play me in the motion picture.

The next visit, when I went to DC in October, was blessedly short on cinematic hi-jinx. I was especially grateful for this when we went to see Falstaff and I didn't burn my hair off with the flat iron or trip down the Kennedy Center stairs or anything. 

Please note, before looking at the picture below of us on the terrace after the show, that it was raining and around 40° out and I was in a dress, bare-legged, and in peep-toe shoes. Also that I do not enjoy the cold. And yet...

So yeah, I went back for Thanksgiving. For the whole entire week, which would be the longest we'd ever spent together. Probably he'd be entirely sick of me by Sunday.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe we'd laugh as much as ever, he'd keep being really very sweet to me, and it would suck all the more to say goodbye at the airport. 

It's hard, the distance. All texts and phone calls, airport hellos and goodbyes, missing each other and wondering what it would be like if we lived in the same place. It's impossible to know how we'd do in day-to-day reality, since all we ever have are a few days together. So we take it a visit at a time and try to make the best of the days and weeks between.

It does help, knowing that I'll see him again in another month. For New Years. In Hawaii. You heard me: Hawaii. In t-minus 28 days. And counting.

I've got your domestic tranquility right here.

Do you know what the Third Amendment says? As much as I'm a bit of a zealot for knowing one's own constitutionally protected freedoms, I'm kind of hoping not. In fact, I'm banking on it.

The more people who have no idea what the Third Amendment says, the easier it will be to repeal. Stay with me.

What the Third Amendment does say is: No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house without consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed in law.

It hasn't been much of an issue since it was written, so it's not widely-known. Meaning that nobody should raise much of a fuss about repealing it.

It's just, Holly and I are thinking that it might be easier, faster, and cheaper to repeal the Third Amendment than to pursue any of the traditional avenues for finding a man. Going out drinking costs money and involves a lot of empty calories. Online dating is expensive and time-consuming. None of the more traditional means seem to be working for us. So quartering soldiers (/sailors/airmen) it is.

We'll quarter you, boys. We'll quarter you up right.

That Craig lets anybody on his list

On Saturday, my college friend Kristine was here to photograph my place and also generally hang out.  We were talking about her recent online dating experiences, which have been with a Christian dating site.  You'd think the guys would be nicer.  You would be wrong. 

Kristine wrote to one guy to ask if he was a musician.  He wrote back an extremely short answer, then took the time to write again, entirely unprompted, to tell her that he was only interested in women who are stunning.  She took the high road and didn't write back.  Whereas I would most likely have written back to say "How perfect.  I'm only interested in men who are shallow assholes.  What time are you picking me up?"

So we thought we'd look at Craig's List to see if the men of the greater Madison area might be more promising.  And...yikes.  Sure, there were a few guys who sounded potentially interesting, but for the most part, we found far more entertainment value than dating potential.

First, we have the many, MANY guys who specify "no drama, no games".  Right.  Here's the thing, boys: if you want to date women, there is going to be drama.  I like to think that I'm pretty much as low-drama as women come, but that still does not ensure any man in my life a completely drama-free relationship.  And secondly, boys of Craig's List, even under the best of circumstances, dating is a game.  It doesn't have to be a bad thing, as long as you find someone who plays fair.

Next we have two polar opposites.  There's the man of few words.  Maybe he tells you his age.  He's looking for a woman.  That's about as much as you're getting out of him.  Then we have the man with the uberspecific list of qualifications.  Must be between 26 and 27 1/2.  Must be "slim", "thin", "fit", "HWP", "BBW" or "takes care of theirself".  Must love baseball/fishing/biking/performance art/snowboarding/cooking/death metal/Kafka.  Must be family-oriented/want kids/not want kids/not have kids/understand that his kids come first in his life.  Must be sweet/generous/open/affectionate/smart/funny/independent/a free spirit/driven/religious/spiritual but not religious/not religious/420 friendly.  One guy specified "must run fast".  Another one wanted someone with no midwestern accent.  You live in Wisconsin, friend.  Yes, it is one of the unsexiest accents going, but you're going to have to either get used to it or move.

Then there's your embittered guy.  This guy can go one of two ways.  Either he's straightforward about it and just writes something about how there aren't any REAL women left and he's a gentleman just looking for a nice girl, but he guesses there aren't any left in Madison.  The other route is the deeply sarcastic "I'm looking for a drama queen to spend my money, never have sex, dump her kids on me, never cook dinner, lie, cheat, and then leave me.  Is that you?"  Oh, bitter guy.  Maybe take some time off from the internet dating.

I've saved a couple of specific postings for last.  Like this one:

seeking a woman age 20-27 who has some acquaintance with the work of pierre bourdieu, carl schmitt, alain badiou, yukio mishima etc. i know this implies a degree of effort in thought, so please, don't strain yourself.

it would also be nice if you are thin, as i am thin.

i haven't had much success meeting people who are actually interested in thinking, most people around here are more concerned with "finding themselves" or getting laid.

i'm pretty fashionable. pic for pic.

Capitalizing apparently requires a degree of effort that this guy isn't willing to strain himself with, even when it's going to good use, such as insulting his entire potential dating pool.  But don't worry, ladies, not only is he interested in thinking, he's also thin and fashionable.

Then there's this guy, who finds himself in Madison after a successful career in college and semi-pro basketball:

If you've got some game on the b-ball court, let's go one on one...loser (which will be you) buys the bottle of cheap or expensive wine and cooks or buys dinner. Deal?

What girl could resist an offer like that?  Forget helping Kristine, I am thinking of emailing him myself.  I just can't pass up the opportunity to play basketball against a guy who has no plans to go easy on me despite the fact that he has played (semi-)professionally and that I am a girl and THEN I can buy the wine and it's entirely up to me whether I want to make dinner myself or pay for it.  A lot of guys won't give you that option.  What a dove.

If you like what you read here, leave me a comment.  Serious replies only.  I'll only respond if you include a pic.  It would also be nice if you are stunning, as I am stunning.  And you're buying the wine.

You can't make your heart feel something it won't

On New Year's Eve, somehow we got to talking about Bonnie Raitt.  I told him that I thought I Can't Make You Love Me was one of the saddest songs ever. 

I did not realize at the time that it would be foreshadowing.

The time has come for us to face it.

He doesn't.

I can't make him.

And as hard as it is and as much as it hurts us both, that has to be the end of us.

There is no villain here.  Part of me thinks that it would be easier if I had cause to be angry, but in reality, being angry would just put off being sad for a while.  Most of me knows that it's better this way.  Better that I can look back without regrets at what was, except for this one thing, a very good relationship with a very good man.

But it also makes it that much harder, not being with him anymore. If I could hate him, then maybe I wouldn't miss him so much.

A second not-bitter post regarding Valentines Day. I don't even know who I am anymore.

It started with a conversation that went something like this:

Me: You know how I'm not a really girly girl and Valentines Day is a stupid Hallmark holiday?

Alan (getting his hopes up): Yeah?

Me: Well, I'm girly enough.

Alan (hopes now dashed): So I have to come up with something?

I assured him later that it didn't have to be anything big thing, just that if he ignored the day completely, it was going to make me sad.  At which point he told me that he had already ordered something for me, this point coming before the point at which I had any idea at all of what to get him.  Who was the Valentine slacker now?

But then he later (after I had ordered a print for him from Etsy) told me that the gift he had gotten me wasn't all that he was hoping it could be, so he sent it back.  And then he ordered me something from Etsy (it was a Very Etsy Valentine around here!) so it would be something not mass-produced.  I liked his thinking on that.

We decided that on the Day itself, I'd go to his house in the evening and we'd order in since I assumed that all of the restaurants would be packed.  And we all know how I feel about other people.  Except before I even got over there, I came home to find six red roses in a vase on my desk with a card that said "See you tonight."  I bring that up because when I saw it I thought "awww..." but also "if this had been any of those boyfriendless Valentines Days, finding something like that in my apartment would have occasioned a call to the police rather than a :) text message."

Then I got to his house and got the bad news that my present had not yet arrived.  The thing is, as much as I was looking forward to it, I am always more excited about watching other people open the presents I got for them than I am about opening my own.  So I got to do that part and was assured that I would most likely come home sometime this week to find a green gift box waiting for me in my apartment.  Let the breathless anticipation begin.  Good thing I have a short attention span and thus forgot about it for long stretches of time.  Plus, delayed gratification is my second favorite kind of gratification, just after instant.

After Alan opened his print and other gifts (one or more of which may have come from the Dollar Spot) we tried to order food.  I say "tried to" because we were told that between the snow (Of course it was snowing!) and call volume, it would be two hours.  So we did what any reasonable people would do: we drove through Culver's.  Alan was worried that I wouldn't be happy with Culver's for Valentine's Day, but I really, really was, Internet.  Because a) we had just been out the previous Saturday when there were not crowds of couples for a very nice dinner at Johnny Delmonico's (mmmm...steak) and b) I love Culver's like a fat kid love, well, Culver's.

See, I have developed a bit of an addiction to Culver's fries since moving back up here.  I mean, I don't need to go to fry rehab or anything.  If you tried to make me, I would say NO, NO, NO.  And I would stick to that no, unlike some people, because I can quit anytime.  I only eat Culver's fries socially.  It's not, like, a problem or anything.  (I know what that one pair of jeans will tell you, but they are liars and have totally been that tight ever since I got them.)  I don't go around stealing money or anything to support my fry habit.  So what if I get my boyfriend to pay for them half of the time?  That doesn't mean anything.  That doesn't, like, make me some kind of fry whore.  And for the record, it was his idea for us to get a family-size fry to share.

What were we talking about again?

Oh yes, so we picked up our Culver's and went back to his house to watch TV for a while.  And then I waited patiently (as far as you know) for SEVEN WHOLE DAYS to find out what my present was.  I will further have you know that I did not pester Alan for hints on either Friday OR Saturday nights, because I am a mature, grown-up person.  Also, I was pretty sure he wouldn't tell me anything.

Today, I came home from work to find this sitting on my computer:

And inside the green box:

Hydrangea petal earrings in sterling silver.  What can I say?  The man has taste.  And he pays attention.  All of the jewelry that I wear on any kind of regular basis is silver.  Except I don't regularly wear silver earrings because I don't have any that I like.  Or I didn't, anyway. 

(Much more of the artist's jewelry is silver as well.  I see a wish list of additional items in someone's future.) 

(Unfortunately, there aren't any more giving-me-gifts occasions until my birthday, but it can't hurt to have a few things in mind, what with it being only a scant seven months away.)

So that is the story of Valentines Day this year.  Fries, flowers, and jewelry.  Who could ask for anything more?

On Valentines Day and Clowns. You've all stopped reading already, haven't you?

I'm not sure what to write this year.  Seriously.  I always write about Valentines Day.  Something crabby.  Borderline bitter, even.

But this year I have a date.  This year on Valentines Day, instead of receiving a reminder that I am perpetually alone, I am getting a present.  A present, people.

It's a strange new reality and I am understandably, I think, somewhat confused.

Because as much as this cannot be a bitter single girl Valentine post, nor can it be any kind of heartsy flowery Valentine schmaltz-fest.  I'm still me and I don't do cutesy.

So I decided, instead of writing all that much, that I'd just offer you this video.  It's Ingrid Michaelson in her video for The Way I Am.  The scenario maybe slightly different from what you personally have experienced, but it perfectly depicts a feeling that I'm sure we've all felt or maybe continue to feel.  And that part at the end is what we're all looking for, isn't it?

May we all find those people who see us for what we are when everyone else would dismiss us for what we aren't.

That, friends, is as schmaltzy as I get.  Happy Valentines Day or Thank God I'm Not in a Bad Relationship Day or Thursday, as you like it.

And finally, thanks to Sharon for reminding me that no matter how you feel about Valentines Day, V-Day is something we should all be able to get behind.  Why not take this opportunity to go there and see if you can't do something to help?

*There's still time to enter the CONTEST for your chance to WIN the first-ever Superfantastic CONTEST with a PRIZE.  (Provided you're reading this before Saturday.)  Go enter now!

Note to flatter-butted women: two months of email and phone BEFORE you meet in person

Him: I used to be kind of a butt guy.

Me: Oh.  Sorry.

Him: Yeah.

He gets me.

Him: People think you're sweet. 

Me: Yeah. 

Him: If they just talked to you, they'd know.

Me: I'm saying.  I'm a lot more bitter than I look.

Elaborating.

We met in December.  Except we sort of met online last fall.  But there was this one time that we met about eight years ago when we were in college.  Tricky, isn't it?  Don't ask me how long we've been together because that answer is even more difficult to pin down than the first one.

So, Alan and I have a mutual friend.  As you already know, I've known Katie since high school and we are in near constant contact.  He's known her since college and they were good friends and have stayed friends all of these years.  So he and I have pretty much heard about each other through Katie for a decade now. 

Then there was this one time when we happened to be at the same place in Madison and I ran into Katie and he was there and our 21 year-old selves met.  (Do not mourn, Internet, for our lost years.  Our 21 year-old selves would surely not have been any kind of good match.)  When we re-met last fall, I recalled this first meeting and remembered about Alan one entire thing: that he had red hair.  He didn't remember it at all until he saw a photo of me from back then (when I looked different due to the curly hair) and recalled meeting me and thinking that I was a wallflower.  I'd be offended by this recollection if it weren't undoubtedly true.

Like Scotch, I am an acquired taste.  It takes a good five to ten years, apparently.

Then this happened in Katie's comments.  One rarely gets such offers, at least in my experience.  (Maybe you get them all of the time - I don't know.)  But suffice it to say, that got the emailing started, with a bit of a nudge from our good friend Katie.  And lo, it was good.  Intelligent conversation.  West Wing references.  A little flirting here and there.  But what could ever come of it?  He lived in Madison and I lived in Austin.  Just good harmless fun.

Then my company holiday party was coming up.  I mentioned in an email that there would be a cocktail dress.  Who knew that the words "cocktail dress" could be so powerful?  Not I.  So there was a visit.  And it was good. 

(This despite the fact that by the time I picked him up at the airport, the combination of nerves and allergy-related ear congestion made me entirely unable to either make conversation or really hear what he was saying.  Then I got us lost on the way to dinner.  Like, so lost that I had to pull the car over and get out a map.  If I made a better second impression than first, it couldn't have been by much.)

So then I came to Madison for a weekend.  In January.  And lo, it was ass-numbingly cold.  But somehow, still good.

Because, people, he cracks me up.  And he is enormously geeky, which I'm into.  (As Sharon told me, we geeks should only date within the geek race.)  Also tall, ginger, and handsome, lucky me.

And then May was approaching.  My job was ending, Amy was moving away, and there was nothing keeping me in Austin.  There was this summer teaching job in Madison and there were tons of cheap and cute sublets on Craig's List and it didn't involve committing to anything for more than a couple of months and so I moved.  And then I stayed.

So the experiment continues.  How long can a relationship between two confirmed commitment-phobes last? 

Once, I was at a Memorial Day picnic and my friend Kathryn, who also cannot catch, and I decided that we should enter the water balloon toss as a team because wouldn't it have been amazing if two non-catchers could win such an event?  (We didn't.  We were, in fact, the first team out.)  That's what we're kind of like - the two people impaired at the task attempting to be a team.  It's the Special Olympics of dating around here.

But so far, so good.

We need to talk.

Are you sitting down, Internet?  What am I saying?  Of course you are.

The thing is, there's something I've been meaning to tell you.  It's not that I've been hiding it, exactly.  I was just trying to wait for the right time to tell you.  But months have come and gone and still it never seems like the right time, so here it is:

I've been seeing someone else.

I know I should have told you sooner.  It's not as if any of this has been planned.  It just sort of...happened.  It was just flirting at first.  Just some emails.  Harmless.  Then flirting turned to dating and, well, here we are.

Don't be like that, Internet. 

He's a great guy and I think you'd really like him if you gave him a chance.  No, he's no one you know.

Well, I wouldn't say it had been right under your nose.  Frankly, I don't see why you're reacting this way.  It's not like we ever said we were exclusive.

You know what, forget I ever brought it up.  It's clear that I can't talk to you about this.  Was it too much to ask that you could be happy for me?

What if I told you that his spelling and grammar are impeccable? 

See, I knew you'd come around.

Things That Do Not Mix Well

PMS

Being damn near 30

Getting mistaken repeatedly for your sister, the bride, and having to tell person after person NO, I AM NOT GETTING MARRIED.

Just so we're clear here, I am not hankering for some big-time scarypants commitment.  My irritation had much more to do with the Look of Pity that followed the realization that I'm the spinster sister.  The "poor dear, maybe someday" look.  Don't think I don't know it by now.

For what it's worth, he also said I was skinnier than his mom.

I was working with a seven year-old student (seven and three quarters, he would want you to know) when the inevitable question of my age came up.  He had already asked me in our previous session and when he guessed (I always make them guess) 200, I said yes, I was 200 years old and was a sea turtle.  He asked where my shell was and I said that I had to leave it at home or people would know I was a sea turtle.  I was in disguise.  We discussed my sea turtleness for quite some time, but he didn't entirely buy it and he asked again on Thursday how old I was.

He guessed 18 this time, God bless him, and finally upped it enough to get to my actual age.  This is always followed by the question about whether I am married and/or have kids.  So I was prepared for that, but was pleasantly surprised.

Student: So that means you have...a driver's license?

Me: YES!  (internally: FINALLY!  One I can say yes to!)

But later that hour, he did get around to asking whether I had kids and I said no.  Then he realized that I couldn't have kids since I'm not married.  (Right...yeah, that's how it works.)  He asked if I wanted to get married and I said "someday". 

And then he asked: What if someday everyone hates you?

Well then.  Probably under those circumstances I wouldn't get married, would I?  Among all of the potential impediments to my hypothetical future marriage, everybody hating me had not entered my mind as a possibility.  On the upside, my student did assure me that he didn't think he would hate me. 

One down.  Everyone else to go.

How Not to Date Me

Ok, yes I ripped off the idea for this post here.  And yes, it is a bad idea to rip off a post that is so well-written and hilarious because mine can only look shoddy by comparison.  But it seemed like there was some good material to mine here and, let's face it, I don't do enough interesting things to generate material for this blog.  So an idea is an idea and without further ado, How Not to Date Me: A Field Guide.

• If you are younger than I am, do not purchase movie tickets on our first date by pulling out your old college ID and asking for “one student, one adult”.  Maybe it saved you a couple of bucks, but it also made me feel like your babysitter.

• Additionally, when I am already feeling old, it is best not to execute a Luke Duke style hood roll when crossing to your side of the car.

• Do not mock my drink choice by calling it a “girl drink”.  a) I am a girl.  b) Your obvious desire for me to drink heavily on this, our first date, acts as a Giant Red Flag.

• Unless someone other than your mom has told you that you are a talented writer, do not promise me a big surprise which turns out to be you taking me to a park in order to read me the poem that you wrote for me.  Perhaps this approach works on girls who are not offended by the butchering of the English language.  I am not one of those girls.  This was the worst poem ever and also a harbinger of certain relationship doom.

• Do not tell me that you’re going to a hockey game with some friends and have an extra ticket and when I accept said ticket, assume that we are going on a date.  If you want to ask me out, ask me out.

• Holding my hand in public is nice.  Holding my hand at all times, no matter how much this inconveniences us, in order to demonstrate to any area males that I belong to you is caveman behavior.  I am not going to cheat on you.  But I am going to break up with you.

• Do not refer to your parents as your best friends.  Actually, you know what?  Go ahead and do that.  What with you being up front about it, I can end things more quickly.

• If we’re going to meet up at your place around dinner time for our first date, inviting me in to watch videos of your band and offering me nothing but Mountain Dew will not get you a second date.

• I don't expect you to pay for everything.  But waiting until we're at the counter at Blockbuster to say, "uh, do you have any money?" is not ok.  You may have thought that we were going to be "watching" that movie, but let me tell you, we'll be WATCHING that movie.  Eyes on the screen, cheapskate.

• Do not, DO NOT, expect me to get in the back seat because your dogs are already sitting in the front.  This actually happened to someone else, but I think I’m safe in stating that this is a universal rule of how not to date any girl ever.

So there you have it, fellas.  How TO date me?  Yeah, you still have to figure that one out for yourself.  What?  They'll kick me out of Girl Club if I make it too easy!

If you like pina coladas...well that wouldn't so much help you here since I hate them.

Amy and I are on our way to church, walking from the parking lot and are pretty close to the doors.  We're talking and in the middle of a sentence, I use the word "damn" fairly loudly, then clap my hand over my mouth and (I assume) turn quite red.

"Maybe this is why I'm still single," I say.  "I'm too churchy for the regular guys and not churchy enough for the other ones."

And scene.

I therefore present my very own personal ad, posted for free here on Superfantastic:

The Lord Made Me Hard to Handle*

SWF seeks intelligent sarcastic liberal Christian b/w ages of 25-35 for dinner, movies, football-watching, and occasional cussing.  Interest in books, politics, travel a plus.  Good manners, grammar appreciated.  Football player build preferred.  Pompous, judgy, and/or superfastmoving commitment types need not apply.

*This is a song lyric.  I've said since the song came out that if I ever had a personal ad, this would be my headline.  For the record, I did not think I would ever actually have a personal ad.

Anybody know this guy?  If so, you could ask him to use the Email Me link on the right left.  You could also encourage him to use spell check before sending his message.

Do you think I need to disclose here that I do not have a cheerleader build?  Or specify which positions of football player I have in mind, build-wise?  Because I'm not looking for, say, a center.  And I fear that I might outweigh some of the kickers.  I will not, as a rule, date a guy I think I could take in a fight.

So now, where my singles at?  Because I am offering a limited time offer wherein you too can post your free personal ad here!  Unless you are also looking for the above-mentioned man, in which case I reserve the right to refuse service.  Because, you know, dibs.

Wedding Season Kick-Off!

If I tried to write an individual post for each wedding this spring/summer, there would be NO TIME for important revelations such as my favorite cheap fast food establishment.  So in the interest of efficiency, I present this summary of the two most recent events.

First, we had Kristin and Mark's wedding.  Shhhh...don't tell anyone this is the same dress I wore to a wedding last summer.  See, it looks totally different because this wedding was indoors and I could therefore add a sweater.  And instead of straightening my hair, I curled it.  I was lucky that people even recognized me!

The three blondes are quickly running out of novel hair/dress combos for these things!

What's that, Jenny?  All of these brides are younger than me?  That's hilarious!

This was a perfectly nice wedding with a lovely reception.  And there was a dance!  Except that it was all slow songs so nobody much danced and certainly not any of us single girls.  So we left by probably about 9:30.

Not the case at the next wedding.  We were at that wedding past midnight!  12:30, people!  Bethany and Darin got married last Friday in an equally lovely ceremony and hosted a much more single-friendly dance at the reception.  There was YMCA, old Michael Jackson, Vanilla Ice!!!  But of course we first had to endure just a tiny bit of humiliation.  It wouldn't be a wedding without it!

There I was, sitting at the table surrounded by lovely and talented single girls:

When we were accosted by a middle aged married-with-kids guy from church.  Who asked whether this was the wild single girl table (woooo! we replied) and then he very earnestly said, "You know you're all on this path right?  This will happen for you soon."  And then we all stared at him, dumbfounded, and exercised considerable restraint.  For example, none of us said "What?" or "How the hell do you know?" or made obscene hand gestures of any kind.  Because just what any 30-ish single girl needs while sitting dateless at a wedding reception is a really patronizing pep talk.

Then we ate dinner and the dancing began with the traditional first dances followed by not one but two couples dances.  Yes, all of the couples were invited onto the floor for a couples dance!  Followed by another one!  But the sitting at the table during those was not nearly so sad as the long single-file walk of shame back to the table when we had all been dancing and then a slow song came on.

But really, we all did have quite a nice time.  Including Jon, who thankfully (or unfortunately) did not go through with my dare to lick the Cinderella-themed ice sculpture:

And now I have no more weddings until June.  And I swear on my favorite black shoes, if you leave me a comment about how I'll find my future husband when I least expect it or as soon as I stop looking, I will personally come to your house and kick you in the shins.  Fair warning.

Even more outstanding ideas!

I have come up with yet another brilliant idea sure to wow the Internet!  A David’s Bridal punch card!  Buy 9 frou frou dresses, get the 10^th one free!  We’ll call it the Let’s face it, no matter what The Bride says, you will never be able to get any more wear out of this seafoam monstrosity card.  Membership in the club also ought to earn you a 10% discount on matching shoes.  Perhaps we could even work with salons to offer a French Twist of the Month Club.  All of these perks would come in SO handy for the woman such as my sister who, in the months between October 2005 and August 2006 will have been in 5 weddings.  That’s royal blue, ivory/black, celadon (light green), black, and purple dresses, for those of you who may be interested in purchasing such a second-hand gown.  I bet they would be very reasonably priced, come September.  She also has red and lavender from previous events that she may also be willing to part with.  Unfortunately, my navy blue, cranberry, and periwinkle gowns are no longer in my possession. (I am clearly MUCH less popular than my sister.  And yet also at least $1,000 richer, working from a conservative estimate of $250 per wedding to include dress, alterations, shoes, hair, gifts, shower costs, etc.)

And now that I’ve brought it up, SHOWERS.  I firmly believe that if you are single and 30, you get a shower.  You register and people have to throw you a party and buy you nice things.  Because by your 30^th Birthday you have stocked everyone else’s kitchen and linen closet with things that you could never afford to buy for yourself and it is time to exact a little bit of payback.  Additionally, my friend Jennie had the brilliant idea for a menopause shower.  If you’re childless and hot-flashing, you get a shower!  And all of the friends for whom you have bought multiple baby shower gifts have to buy you things.  From Tiffany.  Ok, I added the Tiffany part, but I don’t think Jennie would argue.

And finally I close with this thought-provoking quote from an email I got a few months ago and have been trying to figure out a way to insert into a blog post ever since:

Things with the boy are good. A little embarrassing, if anything. I mean, to about face from bitter/single Sharon into couple Sharon so quickly. I feel I haven't been true to my roots. Like a rap star who finally makes it out of the ghetto without looking back. I look back alright, and I try to remember that I hate people like me, but it's of little use. Perhaps, like the rap star, I will just have to build something for the peeps I left behind to satisfy my guilt. Perhaps a playground for the next generation of couple haters. No see-saws, or any other ride that requires two passengers.

Brilliant!

Big Fat Hypocrite

Yesterday I received an email from a guy friend confused about a female co-worker's attitude toward singleness asking me to explain the entire female mindset on the subject.  Now, I do not consider myself an expert on the female mind despite, you know, having one.  I also have a cell phone, the inner workings of which I would be powerless to explain to anyone.  Nevertheless, after a similar disclaimer, I very rationally explained that there are several different approaches to singleness going on out there, ranging from the girls who simply must not be alone no matter what sort of bottom-feeder they must date in order to avoid pathetic aloneness all the way up to the enlightened female such as myself who, while not hoping to remain single forever, sees singleness as an acceptable state of being, damn society's messages to the contrary, and who can enjoy the benefits of singleness while it lasts, such as the freedom to watch sappy girl movies, eat ice cream for dinner, and impulse move from state to state.  I admitted that those of us in the latter group tend to think very badly of those in the former.  I also explained that on Valentine's Day, all bets are off, even for the most level-headed of the gender.

And then that afternoon at work, my officemate, who is older and not single happened to ask what I had going on that evening and  I, not understanding why I should be assumed to have any plans on a Tuesday night because does she not know that Gilmore Girls is on and if she'd only asked me the day before I could have said that I was having dinner and drinks with girlfriends (which, I might add, turned out to be a riotously good time), was forced to answer something about needing to grocery shop.

To which my co-worker responded, "so do you have a boyfriend or anything?"  Which so irrationally mortified me, despite my earlier declaration of enlightenment, that I was forced to drive home and consume so much Dove dark chocolate as to ensure that I will never have a boyfriend OR ANYTHING.

Judge away, Internet.  But could you withhold any nastiness until after I've bought more chocolate?  Only not of the Dove variety since one of the wrappers said Be Your Own Valentine which, frankly, did not help matters.

Last Straw

So my mom was telling me about this new book I should read about how to meet and attract men.  Written by...wait for it...Dr. Phil.  DR. PHIL!  I think she was hinting toward buying it for me for Christmas--the gift of you're not getting any younger.  That is just the living end.

The Ghost of Christmas Alone

I have had a revelation.  Christmas is not all about me.  Whoa.  Ok, I suppose this might be apparent to the rest of you, but I was more shocked by this idea than I'd care to admit.

This came to me while I was in the midst of a full-on holiday-induced pity party because I'm single and will have to go to holiday parties with no date when everyone else will have a husband/fiance/boyfriend and I'll be the only single one there and even the high school boy is bringing his girlfriend and everyone will be giving me single person pity or asking when I'm going to get married or maybe talking to each other about how sad it is that I can't find anyone and how it's a shame since I have a good personality and don't even get me started on New Years because the entire holiday is built around parties which require dates to avoid patheticness and being the only one standing there with no one to kiss at midnight.

For whatever reason, this year has been exponentially more difficult on that front.  I had no boyfriend last year at holiday time and yet, the joy and merriment of the season was in no way reduced due to that fact.  This year my state of aloneness is threatening to suck the joy out of the most wonderful time of the year.  I feel myself turning into that girl (who, at holiday parties can honestly go one of two ways: sitting in the corner crying in her eggnog OR sitting in the corner having an ill-advised drunken make-out with a male co-worker of questionable attractiveness.)  If I continue down this path, I fear that the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come will show me scary bitter old woman Lori who chain smokes, has nineteen cats, and who the neighborhood children believe is a witch.  Yikes.

So there I was, staring at the Christmas tree and feeling sorry for myself.  When it occurred to me that Christmas is not, in fact, about me.

The joy associated with the holiday is meant to come from one event, the birth of Christ, which does not vary from year to year based on my level of personal happiness.  Every year it is just as amazing and awe-inspiring as the last.  God Almighty chose to give up heaven for 33 years to live as a human, hurt, cry, suffer, and ultimately die an excruciating death.  And He didn't come down riding on clouds.  He came as a helpless baby, dependent on a very young first-time mother and her not-quite husband.  And He did it for us.

And all of these parties are supposed to be in celebration of that.  An event to which no shepherd or wiseman is reported to have brought a date.  Because it wasn't about that and it still shouldn't be.  They were drawn there out of a need to worship the newborn King.  Whereas I've been spending my holiday season bowing down at the throne of what everybody else thinks.  No more.

So I found my Christmas joy again.  This year I just had to look a little bit harder.

No progress, however, in locating my New Year and (GAH!) Valentine joy.  Anybody know where I can get a good deal on some cats?

Very Cosmopolitan

Just another swinging Saturday night in the life of a San Antonio single.

Five girls, two pizzas, one bottle of red wine, three pints of ice cream, and David Bowie.  Zero pillowfights.

We did however adopt a new catchphrase as a result of a Bowie-penned lyric: chilly down!  That song, of course, from the 80s classic Labyrinth.  It's an adaptable phrase, useful in many situations:

"Chilly down!  That lizard is not staring at you."

"It's 90 degrees in November!  When is it going to chilly down?"

"I guess they're not together anymore.  She really laid the chilly down back there."

We also learned from a teenaged Jennifer Connally that a puffy shirt/oversized vest combo make you irresistible to men and goblin kings alike.  Even those destined to marry exotic supermodels.  David Bowie demonstrated what I can only assume to be a personal mantra: there is no such thing as too much eyeliner.  And you have to wonder whether he was routinely asking the costume person, "are these tights tight enough?"  Yes, David, yes they are.

While I certainly don't think one can have too many muppets and 80s rock icons in one's weekend, I suppose this wasn't exactly a productive night on the boy-catching front.  Nor is it the kind of freewheeling fun the married people are apparently imagining  we singles have when they tell us how jealous they are of our freedom to do what we want.  But you know, on Friday night a few of us went out and spent far too much money in a swanky bar with the same result as we had on Saturday.  No men.  Empty calories.  Bitching about being single.  At least for the Labyrinth extravaganza I got to wear comfortable shoes.

funny/sad

Me: When you and Aunt Holly play football, who wins?

Abby: I'm little, I win.  She's big, she loses.

Holly: Story of my life.

The Wedding in Pictures (And Also Snide Commentary)

So I went to The Wedding this weekend.  It was lovely.  Beautiful bride, glowing groom, royal blue dresses, pretty flowers, blah, blah, blah.  Not a dry eye in the place.  They really are pretty much the cutest couple ever.  Witness:

The Three Blondes got all dolled up...

...to sit at the single girls' table where the excitement would not end!

Amy and I had a superfun time watching the happy couples dance!

The real star of the evening!

Did the fact that I consumed 9,000 chocolate-covered marshmallows interfere with my decision to eat both the wedding and groom's cake that were served to me?  No, sir or ma'am, it did not.  The skirt had elastic, people.

AND I had extra room due to the uneaten roast beef.  When I heard "but I'm not dead!" coming from the direction of the slab of meat, this should have been a red flag.  But I took a piece, which avenged itself by bleeding all over my plate and mooing whenever my fork came anywhere near it.  The salmon, however, was quite good.

Then it was time for every single woman's favorite part of the wedding festivities: the hokey pokey!  No, I kid!  The bouquet toss of course!  As you will see, the four metric tons of sugar I had just consumed helped make me extra enthusiastic about this!

Notice where the Three Blondes are standing, arms down, off to the side.

Wendy and Melissa, though, went for it.

A good time, as you can see, was clearly had by all.  Waylon and Carolyn rode off in a horse-drawn carriage.  Wendy took home the bouquet.  And the Three Blondes went home with sugar hangovers and sore feet.  And a little thing we like to call dignity.

Until next time!

Sweet and Sour

"I'm so sweet like a nice bon bon." ~ The Beastie Boys

Good for you, Mike D.  I, on the other hand, am not sweet.  Sure, I have my moments of sweetness like anybody else, but as an overriding characteristic, not so much.  Sarcastic, smart, occasionally possessing good hair, yes.  Sweet, no.

This becomes a problem.  While trolling some online Christian dating sites (FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES ONLY) I've noticed that most men list this as the number one characteristic in a desired mate.  I'm looking for a sweet girl who loves the Lord...

Many of them list "pretty" second, which isn't really for me to say.

But pretty is not the issue here.  My roommate Holly and I, neither of us sweet but both abounding in sass, have noticed that this phenomenon of guys going for sweet girls exists in the non-virtual world as well.  And here I am referring to our singles group, where we sass-intensive girls breathe a collective sigh of relief every time another sweet girl is off the market.

The sweet girls also tend to be the tiny girls.  "No bigger than a minute," as Holly's Little Mammie would say.  Apparently their miniature bodies lend themselves to sweetness in a way that our average-sized frames do not.  Average-sizedness apparently leads to sarcasm.  Which apparently leads to singleness, at least in the Christian world, due to the pervasive funny girls make good buddies for us guys disease.

I sense a scientific study here on the ratio of tinyness:sweetness and sweetness:marriageability.  Anybody know where I can get a grant?  Because the people have a right to know!

In other news, the Packers did not lose for the second straight week.  Any comments suggesting that this was only due to the fact that the Packers didn't play this week will be deleted on sight.

Bum Steer

Ever since college friends started marrying en masse, turning me into a biddy by age 21, I've been getting the same self-righteous and very bad advice from what Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones so aptly named "Smug Marrieds."

"Once you become content with God alone, then God will send you a husband."

Loosely translated: We married folk clearly have it together and are vastly more righteous and godly than you singletons.  We're not saying that it's your fault, just that there must be something intrinsically wrong with your relationship with God if He has not yet blessed you with a mate.  Stop having any desires beyond salvation and one day when you are perfectly serene and content, you will have earned a spouse from God.  Like us!

These are Job's friends with bridal registries.  I have always known this sentiment for the total crap that it is.  But now, NOW I  have been proved right by no less than Moses himself!

Thanks to Donald Miller's book, Searching for God Knows What, I started reading the first few chapters of Genesis.  Of course I've read these before, but this time I saw something I hadn't seen before.

Adam was lonely.

And what did God say?  Did He say, "Adam, you ungrateful so and so!  I gave you paradise, dominion, even let you name the animals for goodness sake!  AND I walk around and personally hang out with you and love you perfectly!  And you want more!  Where is your contentedness?  I hereby smite you!"

No, He did not.  God said, "It is not good for man to be alone."  And He made him a wife.

Ha!  The perfect man with the perfect, direct relationship with God still needed someone else.  And God agreed.  Vindication is mine!  Take that Smug Marrieds!

Yes, I'm still single and I don't know why.  But at least I have some heavyweights on my side against the argument that it's due to my low level of contentedness.

Many thanks to Donald Miller, Moses, and God Almighty, without whom I am just an opinionated 28 year-old biddy whose greed for more would surely never win her a husband.

And Guest

I recently received a wedding invitation addressed to Me and Guest.  I appreciate being given the option.  But sadly, when I finally give up and do the RSVP card, I will be writing 1 once again.  Because there is just no one to even bring.

There was a day when I was easily able to score a non-date for these sorts of things.  That was back in the real world (i.e. not Evangelical singles group) where men weren't afraid of women and didn't flee in terror at such an innocuous invitation.  This is not a thinly veiled (pun intended!) suggestion that I want to marry you.  This is me not wanting to sit at the table full of single women during every single dance of a slow, partner-requiring nature.  Except the dollar dance, which, don't get me started.  At a wedding with a date, this is not so bad.  I cannot, however, bring myself to pay for the only dance of the evening.  Too pathetic.

Beside which, I have already brought you people a wedding gift.  And I've probably already bought you at least one shower gift.  A world in which you simultaneously get a husband and calphalon pans is a world without justice.

At least this reception will feature a chocolate fountain.  I've never personally seen one, but it does strike me as one of the best ideas of all time.  So dance all you want, happy couples.  Pay to dance, even.  I'll be at the fountain, covering everything but my shoes in melted chocolate.  Suckers!