You'd think after a year my sphincter would work better

Tomorrow the Tiny Dark Lord turns one.

Can't believe it. A year ago today I was in a labor & delivery room, chillin' on my birth ball, with absolutely no clue of the kind of fun I was about to have. Ah . . . memories.

Am trying to make him something resembling this cake for tomorrow's little cake & ice cream shindig. Annnnnd that's pretty much the end of my efforts. Except possibly there will be some white and blue balloons, although I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with them once I have them. Will have to consult Pinterest (while ignoring the sure-to-be-subsequent-impulse to go crazy overboard).

Tonight GH and I have tickets to go see the Celebration of Christmas concert at BYU. Last year we had to skip the Christmas festivities because of all the fun I was having at home on the couch with my baby, boobs, and bottom, so I'm excited. Am going to treat this like an actual date. The kind where you shower beforehand and put on makeup and do your nails and wipe the infant vomit off your shirt really thoroughly with a baby wipe.

Happy weekend, everybody!

Who even knew?

I won't bore you with what I've been up to for the last month (growing, packing, moving, unpacking, commuting, growing some more, getting kicked lots (by internal baby, not by external people)) but I will share a story from my new ward that you may find interesting.

GH and I recently moved to the northern part of Utah County and are discovering its strange new wonders. Our first Sunday at church was a real eye-opener because the discussion kept turning to politics and What The Gays Are Up To. (And this was before the President Packer talk and subsequent hulabaloo, mind you.)

This week was much more normal and less "grab your torches and pitchforks." So I'm hoping that first Sunday was maybe a fluke. But I do have Carina's list of gentle conversational redirects in my scriptures, just in case I need to use them. Also I found an air conditioning vent on the floor in the Relief Society room, so I parked myself over it and experienced nearly two hours of sheer bliss. Mmmmmmmmmm . . .

Anyway. Point.

A high council member visited the ward and spoke in sacrament meeting. He was talking about missionary work, since it's something President Monson brought up at General Conference as being on his mind. So he was talking about the decreasing numbers of missionaries, and what we can do to help prepare boys to be successful missionaries, etc.

And then this happened:

As sort of an aside, he started talking about what happens when the guys who do serve missions get home and leave the family wards and we lose track of them because they head off to college, where they struggle because all anybody does is spend time on Facebook so there are no social opportunities. In college. (His words.) And then he was like, "And we want these young men to get married and return to the family wards, but where are they going to find companions to marry?"

Which is where I whispered to GH, "Um, at college?"

But the high councilman said that the problem (wait for it . . . ) is that the young women of the church, who used to have the Plan A of getting married in the temple and becoming mothers back when they were 12 years old, have, now that they're older, all become focused on Plan B instead: Their education and careers.

So. It seems that all those coeds at BYU and UVU are just consumed by their careers now. Consumed. Don't you feel so enlightened now that the cause of the problem has been identified?

Have decided that this sweet, well-intentioned man must be getting this line from somewhere. So this is likely what his sons/nephews/closeted gay relatives have been telling him when he asks them why they're not married yet, or why they aren't dating more. "These girls, all they care about are their careers! That's why they won't go out with me." Um, guys? I call B.S. The Elementary Education/Early Childhood Education/Family Sciences programs at BYU are not packed to the gills because of women's cutthroat desire to go out and take names as preschool teachers. I'm just saying. It's true that we may have a Plan B, but it's still Plan B. It's not Plan A. If it were, that's what we would call it. And since Plan B is always a very real possibility for who-knows-how-long, it might as well be a kick-trash one. The kind that comes with good medical benefits. And trips to Europe. And gelato. And flings with English men.

My sister Spitfire reminded me of the time when we were in the same L**** singles ward, and she turned down a very nice guy after a couple of dates because she realized that they did not click and she wasn't interested in pursuing anything. So then his brother (also in our ward) got up in Elder's Quorum and went off about how the women of the church "don't have their priorities straight." Nice one. Just because a girl turns you down it doesn't mean she's not interested in dating/marriage. She's just not interested in doing those things with YOU. Assuming that the young men in question are even asking women out in the first place. (GH asserts that this goes both ways, with women assuming that men aren't dating when really, they're just not dating them. I am not sure I want to believe him, as this would alter my entire worldview.)

The rest of the talk was normal and fine, but he did say that since they aren't under the same obligation to serve missions, he hopes we can encourage the young ladies to renew their commitment to temple marriage and motherhood.

And, I dunno, maybe drop out of college or something. Because that'll fix things.

Now I am a movie critic too, because I can do pretty much whatever I want

And today I wish to discuss the movie 500 Days of Summer.


I do realize it's already been reviewed by both Handsome Gentlemen and cool Jet-setters. But I want to chime in too, dangit. Because it was wonderful.

Like the awesome-voiced narrator tells us in the very beginning, "This is not a love story. This is a story about love." It follows Tom, played by the surprisingly n adorable and charming Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Tom is a 20-something young pup who studied architecture in college but now has a job creating copy for greeting cards. He believes in destiny, fate, soaking it up in a hot tub with his soul mate, all of it. He meets new receptionist Summer (GH's GF Zooey Deschanel) and, on the basis of her attractiveness and their similar taste in music, decides that she's The One. Unfortunately, although she likes Tom, Summer does not actually believe in love, or marriage, or soul mates. Tom is so infatuated with her, however, that he . . . chooses to kind of ignore this. Until she breaks up with him and he falls completely apart and is determined to win her back.

First off, I would like to say kudos to a movie that actually casts two people in their 20s as romantic partners, with the kinds of jobs and friends that people that age would actually have. This instead of pairing 29-year-old Zooey Deschanel with, oh, I dunno, 47-year-old Jim Carrey and then pretending like the 20-year age difference doesn't even exist. Way to suck, Hollywood.

This movie was pretty much perfect, I thought. It was funny and sad and real--oh my, was it ever real. In fact, there was one point in the movie where Tom stands up and makes an impassioned speech in front of his coworkers about three-fourths of the way in. That was the first time I ever thought, "Um, but would a person really DO that?" That's how I know that I was watching something that was 500 times better than your (sub)average recent romantic comedy. Because those movies expect you to suspend your disbelief before you even leave your dang house. In any other romantic comedy the impassioned speech would have come from Matthew McConaughy to an entire ballroom of people, during a wedding, and maybe he would be naked and holding a pillow over his bits, and then at the end of the speech everyone would be crying and clapping and curing cancer and adopting tiny spicy exotic babies left and right. In this movie there was none of that mess.

The filmmakers did some really clever things that I think worked extremely well. The narrative isn't linear but instead flips around, with title cards letting you know which day of the 500 Days you're on. It makes sense, though, and leads you through the story in a way that is really quite moving. And it also made me want to watch it again to see which little moments and call-backs I could catch better the second time around. One great visual involved a split-screen device that shows Tom's expectations of a reconciliation with Summer on the left and what actually happens on the right. Heartbreaking, but also very funny.

This movie also contains the most sublime moment I've seen on film all year, which occurs as Tom walks through LA after spending the night with Summer. I won't describe it to you, but I was giddy with delight. What happens is not based in reality at all, but the feeling it portrays most definitely is. And the soundtrack is great.

There were other scenes, however, that resonated in a different, slightly painful way. Because I have done some of the things Tom does here. I have been in relationships where I saw every insignificant little thing as further evidence that this guy and I were MFEO. I have been unwilling to recognize red flags. I was unwilling to actually listen to the words this person was saying and to realize that perhaps they did not bode well for our future together. I can laugh about it now, but at the time I was just setting myself up to be heartbroken.

A few days after seeing the movie, GH and I listened to a podcast featuring one of the film's two writers. He talked about how in test screenings, the people who loved this movie the most were men. And how men are, unfortunately, the least likely to be the ones running out to tell their guy friends that they have GOT to check out this new romantic comedy. Except GH did because he's secure (and hot) like that.

It's true, though. He laughed even harder than I did and there were moments during Tom's angst and dejection and misery where GH just nodded his head and said, "Yep." And then I'd lean over and stroke his arm and whisper, "I'm really, really sorry. Remember how I married you in the end, though?"

Our First Kiss, or How I Got this Scar on my Lip

Here it is, as promised and with the blessing of the other party. (His only condition was that it had better not result in a phone call from his grandma, who reads this blog. Hi, Grammy!)

So GH and I became friends when we worked together at the library in L**** in the winter of 2007. I was his boss, and after a few months we started hanging out a little bit. Then he found a different job in town and left the library. In June 2007 we started moving tentatively from hanging out to dating. A couple of of weeks into this we went out and had a really great time. We ate at the Indian Oven (Note: the "friend" in the 5th paragraph was GH. Also the restaurant has since moved to new digs on Main Street. Food's still great though.). Then he showed me around Utah State's campus and it was all happy and good and summer eveningy and romantic comedyish.

So during the evening I started thinking that even though I wanted to take things slowly, maybe it would be a nice good thing to have a good-night kiss, as long as it didn't turn into a make-out session or anything.

Since it was only 11:30pm when we got back to my place I knew I wasn't operating solely on the "it's 1:00am and so stupid things seem like good ideas" principle. My idea was that it would maybe be okay to kick things up a notch and see how they go because really he was just so cute and sweet and funny with the wicked sense of humor. Plus, hi, I just needed me some kissin'.

So I went for it.

Five minutes later I was sorry.

Not because I wasn't liking him, or because he tried to pull anything inappropriate, because he didn't. Problem was, we only kissed a few times before I had an incredibly sore lip.

I don't know if it was his teeth or what, but I was dying. So . . . yeah. No chance of that turning into a 3-hour make-out session. I couldn't get him out the door fast enough because I could feel my lower lip swelling up. And I really did not even know how to begin that conversation ("Um, did you maybe not get enough food at dinner?") without causing much ego-bursting and feelings-hurting. So I nicely said good night and sent him on his way.

The next morning, I had three little purple bite marks on my lips.

Consulted with the Circle of Truth over email at work the next day (as one does) about how to improve the situation without damaging egos or ruining new, fragile relationships. One idea I had would be to tell him he's a Big Brute who doesn't know his own strength after Helen Andelin's advice in her classic book Fascinating Womanhood (still in print, heaven save us all).

Cicada said all I should really have to do is point the marks out to him to have a very good opener for the "why we don't kiss like that" conversation. So I went to the staff bathroom mirror to see if they'd faded and almost had a heart attack when I saw my reflection.

Nearly my entire lower lip was stained a dark, bruised purple.

I wouldn't need to POINT OUT anything, since I now had people at work (like, my boss) after me to call my doctor and find out what was wrong with my mouth. I looked like this:


I had to pretend I'd been chewing on an ink pen or something. As if I would ever even do that. Daltongirl was cheered by this, though: "Excellent! So now all you have to do is make CERTAIN that he sees you today. Problem solved."

That night GH came over. I told him I needed to show him something and pointed to my purple lips. I knew how this would go. He would be so sorry and feel so bad but I would be very nice and forgiving and gracious about the whole thing and careful of his feelings so he wouldn't wallow in his guilt over damaging my perfect lips for longer than was necessary.

Except first he tried to say he couldn't see anything. Then he tried to say that he couldn't possibly have bitten me. And then he started laughing. A lot. Which was not well-received by me. But eventually he got where I was coming from, on account of I was ready to kill him for not being penitent. He eventually tried to apologize for the laughing:

GH: I'm sorry, it's not funny. Except it's SO, SO funny.

Me: No, it's NOT! I don't know what kind of Amazon women you've been dating but I bruise like a peach!

GH: Are you sure you didn't meet up with some other guy after I left and maybe HE bit you? Because I seriously don't remember doing that.

I even told him that our mutual coworkers noticed and asked me about it. THEN he started laughing so hard he nearly wrecked the car. Punk. Happily though, when we tried again it was loads, loads better. Like, curl-your-toes better.

I took this picture after I got home that night to show the Circle that I was not overreacting about the extent of the lip hickey. The bruising had actually been darker earlier in the day. (Also be sure to check out the road rash on my chin. That was from the toes-curling part. Mmmm boy.)


Thing is, even after it faded there was this one discolored spot that never changed back. I now have this faint purple bit on my lip where GH has pretty well marked me for life. (Now he says he can see it.) So it's a good thing we eventually got our acts together and got married because otherwise I would have always been reminded of this one ex-boyfriend who gave me a permanent lip hickey.

Happy Friday!

That is, if you're not keeled over dead already from the inversion-trapped pollution. Which, sorry, rotten luck.

Have realized that there is a big ol' story I have not actually told on here. I alluded to the drama when GH and I started dating, but I never told the Internet that this was actually Round 2. We dated for a few weeks in the summer of 2007 and things did not end well (my fault), which is another reason why 2007 was a sucky, sucky year. And now there are some stories I would quite like to tell, once I get permission from the other party.

So tune back in on Monday for the first installment, entitled "Our First Kiss, or How I Got this Scar on my Lip."

Pictures will be included.

Wherein I discover my Inner Steel

I visited Gentleman Friend down in the Salt Lake City area over the weekend, for that is where he lives. We found a nearby LDS chapel (didn't have to look very hard--you just pick from the three steeples visible from the front porch) and slipped in just after the opening prayer. So we ended up sitting in the overflow area, where the metal chairs are set up going into the cultural hall (read: gym). This is where people sit when they want the sound of the freaking fistful of Mardi Gras beads their toddler is shaking furiously during the sacrament to be magnified every time the beads are dropped on the hardwood gym floor or slapped against the back of the metal folding chair. Thank you for giving me a reason to dislike parents on Sundays and not just during the work week.

Turns out it's also the place to go when you have absolutely no intention of singing any of the hymns. And since you're so scattered back there, if you do start singing then yours is pretty much the only voice you hear.

So this is what happened at the sacrament hymn, even O Lord of Hosts (#178 in the LDS hymnal). I started singing and Only. Heard. Me. Actually paused and whispered to GF, "Um, am I the only one singing?" He nodded in the affirmative, even though he was singing too. So I soldiered on, even when we got to the point where the men stop singing and it's just the women (read: just me sitting in a crowd of people). And I am not a singer. I mean, I can carry a tune and stuff, but I am not a soloist and have no leanings in that direction at all.

So I felt completely awkward, feeling my face get red as I'm singing solo, sure that people are judging my voice. Only then I kind of got mad. And my thoughts went like this.

"What is everyone's problem? Why are we the only ones singing? And how DARE they judge my voice when they're not even helping to cover up its awfulness? Okay, you know what? Fine. Let's do this thing. I am going to SING because I am here at church and here at church we SING. Shame on all of y'all. So let's sit up, get some breath support, and SING LOUDER. And every single person near me can SUCK IT."

So I did. I cranked up the volume and sang my heart out, even though I completely broke into a sweat, wavered all over the place, and turned beet red. And even though I didn't internalize any of the lovely words or probably get any blessings because I was busy thinking the words of "suck it" at my fellow worshipers. Just to prolong the experience, the chorister made us do the extra two versus. Because she is evil.

GF was very supportive of my stand for truth and righteousness, and whispered words of encouragement. To which I whispered back, "Shut up. Don't look at me! I can't do this if you're looking at me!" Because I'm a delightful, secure person like that. My mother will recognize those words (and the accompanying movement where I shield the side of my face from view) from my entire teenage existence.

Then he informed me that we're SO doing karaoke now.

Aside from the vulgarity, though, I think I'd like to be able to tap into that "rise to the occasion impulse" a bit more often. Where you think, "Fine. You people might be slacking off, but I'm not going to slack off too, just so I can blend in. I am going to do this thing and I'm going to KICK ITS TRASH."

Nothing gets by you people

Both cooldad and coolboy (my Dad and my baby brother) wanted to know if I'd fallen off a cliff on account of the lack of posting.

Sorry, nothing so exciting or deadly. I've been busy being a schmoopy and embarrassing person. Although I promise to try to keep that in check if only because I made my sister Jenny vomit all over her keyboard yesterday with my words.

Went down to Provo for Memorial Day and had a cookout, wherein there were:

Limeade and roasted red pepper & lime hummus by me

Homemade ice creams by Jenny. Think key lime, coconut cheesecake, dulce de leche, and chocolate mousse--and then go cry about whatever inferior dairy products you ingested on Monday. And maybe blame the person who fed them to you when you have to begin therapy.

Coolest berry couscous thing and that amazing Martha Stewart corn by Bethany. You grill the ear and then slathered it with butter & sour cream, sprinkled with paprika, rolled in asiago cheese. While eating it, you hope your reaction doesn't get filmed and end up on the Internet somewhere.

Insanely good cardamom cake by Cicada. Even if she doesn't offer you a piece, she might allow you to smell it. At which point your eyes will roll back into your head.

Lovely grilled meats and hospitality by Lyle, who is much happier now that she's done with the bedrest thing and now has a cute snuggle baby to show for all of that--one which is no longer actively trying to kill her.

But SPEAKING of babies and the people who are in the midst of producing them, I warned Gentleman Friend before we arrived that we were going to be among the child-bearers for the evening, and that the conversation most assuredly would, at some point, turn to things like afterbirth. It is unavoidable.

Except it ended up being way worse than I'd anticipated. I blame Cicada and her thirst for pregnancy knowledge, since she basically parked it on the couch and said, "Okay, tell me everything!" I did my best to be start other conversations with less nipple cracking and vaginal tearing over on the other side of the room. It helped a bit. Except I now have a really, really strong urge to order some of this online and start using it, like, today.

Ed snapped this pic me and Gentleman Friend at my mother's request. How cute is HE!

How to get a nerd to propose

[Scene 1: In the grocery store, after Gentleman Friend laughed at me for staring mesmerized with tilted head at the strange shiny red shorts the girl in front of me was wearing.]

Me: Yeah, I should really work on that. It's kind of like Seth Green said on Buffy. "Just a thought. Poker: not your game."

Fifteen minutes later, in the orange juice section, I asked him a question and he shook himself back to earth.

GF: Sorry. I haven't actually heard anything you said since you quoted Buffy. I've been focusing on not jumping you in the middle of Lee's.


[Scene 2: While driving and listening to the radio.]

Me: This song makes me think about that one episode of Quantum Leap where Al secretly sent Sam to go save his marriage because he's a prisoner of war and his wife's going to get remarried. And then Al gets to dance with his wife that one last time and it's so sad.

Gentleman Friend: Marry me.


[Scene 3: While snuggling in front of the TV.]

GF: So my friend just told me that the girl he's dating passed the Flux Capacitor test.

Me: What's that?

GF: Do you know what the Flux Capacitor is?

Me: Yeah, it's from Back to the Future, right? It's what makes time travel possible.

[pause]

GF: You are hotter right now than you have ever been. If you know what movie that's from and can quote it, then we can go to Vegas right now.

We didn't go, though. Even though I was very flattered.

Bet y'all thought I was fixing to make a Miss Hass-like announcement. Fooled you.

But I am very, very excited for Miss Hass and the lucky Ike. She and I have been friends ever since that fateful first day in the BYU dorms when she burst out of the room next to mine and introduced herself and wondered what the crap was up with my bangs.

We didn't meet on the Internet

But I was his boss. So that's something.

When you've started dating someone, do you really have to make a blog announcement? Or can you just begin slipping things into your posts like, "I'm really sleepy this morning on account of what I was up to last night with my hot lovah." Except I think something like that might very well raise questions rather than answer them. Especially with people like, say, my dad.

So, the news of the day is that I have a gentleman friend. We're still deciding on a blog name, but you actually already know him if you follow this blog. He is smart, funny, kind, cute, and snarky. (And, as everyone knows, snarky = sexy.) There has been a bit of drama in the past--drama which I will not explain today because it makes me look like a freak. I'm doing my absolute best to remain drama free and so far it's working, which pleases me greatly.

So now when I start inflicting the Internet with the same case of Mentionitis that I currently unleash on my family and friends, you'll know who I'm talking about. And won't that be fun!

How to deal with the suckfest

The question which I've been mulling over lately is simply this. When it comes to whole dating/events-which-we-hope-will-lead-to-dating scene, at what point can you just give yourself permission to opt out?


I don't mean quitting, really. Or even giving up hope. It's just that it doesn't seem to matter whether or not I'm out there Making An Effort--I'm still single either way, so why can't I just say "You know, I have a job (two, actually, because I'm extra cool that way), I have great friends, and I go to Hawaii. For now, that will have to just be enough." Because the alternative, as I'm seeing it, is becoming one of Those Girls.

You know who I'm talking about. I'm talking about the girls who are increasingly bothered by their single state and who socialize at a frantic, driven pace because they worry that if they miss even one event then they might also be missing their chance to get married. These girls are not happy. They're not having fun. They run themselves ragged going to absolutely every single get-together at which they might meet people. They have tense smiles and wide eyes and they laugh too hard and absolutely everyone knows exactly what the story is there. I don't want to be one of those.

Part of the problem for me comes down to the extrovert/introvert thing. Introverts can have a good time with people, but they need Alone Time to recharge and get their strength back up to go out and socialize more. For the extroverts, the party time is recharging time--it's the alone time that drains them.

My sister Jenny? Extrovert. If she doesn't get at least 52 interactions with other humans during a given day she breaks out in hives. Me? Introvert. I invite a bunch of people over to my house but 15 minutes before they arrive want nothing more than to call up and cancel so I can sneak into the bathroom with a book.

So, the socializing stuff? If it's just being social for social's sake, well, to me that's work, not fun. Half the time the stuff I drag myself out to isn't even interesting to me. (Note to activities committees: Start planning events around a Food & Napping concept. I will so be there.) But I go because I'm Making An Effort. The big advice you hear is to do things that will widen your circle of acquaintances. Fine. Have done that. But those circles only seem to widen temporarily. And usually I don't meet many guys who seem interesting (or interested). Or I don't get to interact with them long enough to even know if there could be something there. And even when I do meet someone who seems cool, that's almost worse because I could have this great conversation full of witty banter and flirting but then I never see the guy again. He's certainly not going to ask for my number, because apparently that's pretty much the same thing as bringing up baby names and is therefore Not Done.

Some of you might read this and think, "Sure, opt out. Be your fun great self and you'll find someone when you're not looking. That's how it happened for me." But I'm thinking that can only really be true for one member of the couple. Sure, you weren't looking but I'm guessing the other person must have been. Someone had to take the initiative. It's just nice that it didn't have to be you.

Part of it, for me, is a pride thing. I shouldn't HAVE to go out and club a man over the head while he's distracted with his video games, dangit. They should be able to tell that I'm worth getting to know and then proceed accordingly, right? But then on the other hand, I can't expect that some guy is going to be psychically led to my house where I am holed up watching SLAs on a Friday night. It's the whole "If you don't run, you won't win" thing. So I'm guessing there has to be some sort of balance between becoming a member of the scary Trousseau Troop and opting out entirely for sanity's sake.

So. Here is what I'm looking at. I will not opt out. However, I am not going to waste evenings of my life participating in stupid, boring, infantile activities that stopped being fun when I was 20 years old out of "you should really support the ward" guilt and "Hey, maybe your Eternal Companion will be there" desperation. I am going to sit down and make a list of the social things I like to do (like dancing) but which I've been lazy about, and I will commit to actually going out and doing those things on a regular basis. If I meet people and make new friends while I'm out there, great. If not, that's okay, because I will be enjoying myself anyway.

And did you notice that I didn't even make any cracks about how the guys today are a bunch of lazy child-men? I'm just self-actualized like that.

(photo from inthecitymad)

Heartbreaker

For the past few days I've been interviewing hopefuls for a part-time position here at the library. The thing that makes this hard is that pretty much everyone is wonderful. I want them all to work here. Some of them I actually want to take home and feed and then we could stay up late braiding each other's hair and talking about Regency Men. That's how much I like them.

So when I have to start calling people and telling them they weren't picked it's going to feel a tiny bit like breaking up. Will have to stop myself from pleading, "But we can still be friends, right?" Because I do understand that you can't always be friends after a breakup. Not everyone I've dated has understood that. One guy I dated prided himself on always remaining friends with women he'd broken up with. This was new to me. And of course, because I am an obstinate cuss, I considered not being friends afterward on purpose just to prove a point. And to break his record. Because I'm mature like that.

But seriously. Sometimes it's just not a good idea to remain in contact, especially if there's a risk that one person is hoping you'll get back together. Or if one of you is a possessive freak who climbs trees outside your ex's window to watch them while they sleep. Or if you were engaged and one of you backed out the morning of the wedding. Because trust me--you're probably never going to be able to joke about that one later. "Hey, remember when you had to take back your wedding dress and go on all those anti-depressants and all your cousins called you Miss Havisham behind your back?"

Yeah. Not so much.

You could send me this if you want

My sister Jenny sent me this today after seeing it at Design Mom and of course I love it.


I'd kind of forgotten about the whole Valentine's Day thing. Am pretty sure I won't be getting wined and dined that night, which is fine, since I don't even drink. If I do anything special it will likely involve other women, romantic comedies, and ice cream. Maybe I'll do the VS Pajama Party for real. That would be special, I bet. I would be sure to film it and put it up here for anthropological purposes.

I've moved past the whole bitter Singles Awareness Day phase, and I think it's better to either ignore VD entirely or, as I've discussed before, go back to the way it was when we were kids and it was fun for everyone.

One of my best Valentine's Days ever was a few years ago where my singles ward in Provo sponsored a "Secret Valentine" activity. Everyone who wanted to play signed up, and then the week before VD you were given someone's name (could be a boy, could be a girl). On Valentine's Day everyone received a little something from the person who got their name. It was so much fun because all day you had the thrill of knowing that something good was coming. A boy down the road got my roommate's name but then went above and beyond by delivering small potted flowers to all of us in the apartment. At the end of the day our kitchen table was full of flowers, candy, nice notes, black lace teddies, and every good thing. That's the way to do it, I think.

(card by Kit Allen)

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make meeee a match

This morning on the way to work I started listening to a podcast of NPR's This American Life. Which, remember that one time when y'all gave me all your best podcast ideas? So much fun. I've added like 35 to try out. My life is now better and more complete.

Anyway. This American Life. It's about matchmaking today, and it began with an interview where a girl recapped a disastrous blind date that one of her very good guy friends arranged for her. The guy turned up hours late and completely stoned. It was not a good date, and she was left wondering exactly what must be wrong with her that her best friend thought that a late, cheap, stoned guy was the best she deserved.

Come to find out, her friend chose this guy because he seemed clean-cut, and her friend thought he might be a good change from the "rough guys" she seems to generally go for. She had no idea that he felt that way about her dating history. Which is where the host talked about how tricky a matchmaking thing is, because you can end up betraying a lot about what you really think about your friends by the people you try to set them up with. The matchmaker is actually risking more than the matchmakee.

This makes me want to look back on my own set ups to see what my friends must really think about me, as shown by their set-up picks:

I am witty and sarcastic (quite true)

I am smart (also true)

I am nice (sometimes, I hope)

I'm okay with being a rebound girl (not true, and I still have not completely let my friends off the hook for that one)

I do not believe good conversation is important (untrue)

I deserve to be lied to and set up with a guy who will take me to Souper Salad and then ignore me (never true)

I'm sure there are more, but I can't think of them at the moment. On the whole I've been lucky. Sure, I've gone on dates where we haven't clicked, but I could see where my friends were coming from and why they thought there could be a possibility. There have only been a couple of times where I've thought, "Seriously? This guy??"

So. What do your friends really think about you and your choices? I'm sure you've got some amazing things to share.

Overheard at my desk

From one 4-year old girl to another:

"Hey, can I just follow you around in here? Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to like you."

I think the dating world would be a lot easier if that kind of line worked for us. It doesn't, though.

Other things that would make the dating world an easier and less bloody and crippling place:

The suppression of the, "Feel free to treat me badly, mess with my head, and never, ever allow me to get over you" vibe which is emitted by many otherwise lovely and confident women.

The suppression of the radar which somehow enables loser men to, without error, pinpoint the aforementioned women as objects for their campaign of f-wittage.

The deletion of the social norm which says it's not right for me to stomp on the saco de toros of men I observe engaging in such behaviors.

If everyone knew instinctively which league they were in, and which members of the opposite sex were in the same league. This would save a lot of time, embarrassment, and pining.

If many LDS males did not insist on shooting several leagues above their own. It is unfortunate that many succeed at this simply due to the economics of scarcity. All this really does is encourage more fruitless dating while the girls who are in your league and would quite like to date you glower from the sidelines.

If women could stop the genetically hardwired compulsion to start planning the wedding, children, and retirement condo after one date.

If women could refrain from sinking into a depression if there is no second date.

If we could all stop assuming that people are on the same page that we are and that they surely understand every subtle hint we give out. Sometimes our pages exist only in the Book of Freaky.

If women and men could stop dating losers/commitmentphobes/addicts/cheaters under the mistaken assumption that even a loser is better than nothing. (Note: It isn't. Ever.)

I know I've missed some, so please feel free to add to the list.

I am resolved

These are my actual Real New Year's resolutions

Step up scripture study and temple attendance. Which will help me become a wiser, kinder, more spiritual person who is perhaps less tempted to scream really foul words during traffic. Or when I accidentally stub my toe. Or, you know, when the last bite of ice cream falls on the ground. Trying, taxing stuff.

Start exercising again. Need to make a more concrete goal, there. Right now it's so I can be in nekkid shape for Hawaii--which gives me 2 months. Not that I plan to be nekkid in Hawaii. Much.

Start learning Spanish. Because as beautiful and sexy as The French most definitely is, it's not incredibly useful around here (naughty librarian seductions aside). We'll see if I can actually fit in a class this year or if I'll have to start out with tapes and such until my schedule gets more normal.

And then these are just Things I Want to Do This Year

Attend Utah Shakespearean Festival.

Buy only local produce this summer--and considering that I live in Aggie Town, this really should not be an impossible thing.

Can peaches with Desmama.

Freeze eggs before they start getting all cracked and linty.

Be more social--have yet to clarify this, but can already tell you it will not mean "Attend Ward Prayer and Ward FHE every single week," because I am not a machine, people, nor will it mean "Sign up for LDSPlanet." Because we've already seen where that can lead.

Build on the success of my knitted booties and move on to hats or socks.

Go on fun vacation with Mom and sisters in September/October.

Have a hot fling with Brit or nonsmoking European.

That's a pretty good start, right? What are some of yours?

Because you don't want people to look at you and think, "yeah, there's a cat lady in the making"

Today is going to be one of those days where I favor the Internet with a few Pearls of Wisdom. I have been hearing from a lot of young women lately who, I fear, need a gentle talking-to. A reality check, if you will. If you, Gracious Reader, do not need such a check then you can read this with smug satisfaction, basking in the glow of your own emotional health and maybe treating yourself to some dark chocolate while you're at it.

If, however, my words strike a chord deep within you and make you want to come over to my house and light pieces of it (or me) on fire because I just don't understand, then trust me: you need to hear this.

I am hearing a lot of single young women talk about how it's really uncomfortable for them when their siblings (especially younger siblings) get married before they do. As one who has been in this position--twice, thank you very much--I can say that they're right. It is uncomfortable. It's uncomfortable because it reminds you that you want to be getting married, and it makes it seem as though everyone but you is doing it, and you really don't want to go to a wedding where everyone asks you stupid questions and pats your arm and stuff.

Only here's the thing. Some of these women are talking about this situation as though it's The End of the World, and it's the Hardest Thing They Will Ever Face in Life, and it's something that their siblings are doing On Purpose Just to Be Jerks. Friends, when you go there, you are losing your perspective in a big way.

Yes, it can be uncomfortable. And you may end up with some legitimate gripes which will make for fabulous blogging fodder. But it doesn't affect your life in any way. It doesn't make you more single than you were before. It has nothing to do with you, actually. And if you insist on making it all about you, then you're going to be in for a world of hurt. Not only will you drive yourself crazy, but at the wedding everyone will be eying you in fear that you're going to rip the tiara off your sister's head, plunk it on your own, and start hysterically screaming about how this should be "MY DAY--MY DAYEEEEE."

In case you're still not with me, let's try an analogy.

Ahem.

The hardest thing that has ever happened to me or will ever happen to me in life was when my sister/brother got an ice cream cone and I didn't. I mean, it's not like I wanted their ice cream, because I'm looking for a completely different flavor. But still. The fact that they have one and I don't? Totally wrong.

The only way for me to tolerate my icecreamless situation is if everyone else abstains from ice-cream ordering until after I've picked mine. Once I'm happy and content with my ice cream then you're welcome to have a go. And if you missed out on perfect opportunities during that time, too bad. It's called Solidarity, and you'd better go read up on it.

Or, if my siblings miss the Solidarity lecture and decide to get the ice cream anyway, then they should have the good grace to tiptoe around me and never mentioned the ice cream and maybe just eat it in a closet or something so as not to remind me that my hands are coneless.

In fact, now I get mad when any of my siblings even think about ice cream cones, or drive around looking in the window of ice cream shops. Because NO ONE DESERVES IT BUT ME.

Kind of ridiculous, right?

That's what I though.

So here's what you do. You have your cry in your room alone and then you get to work. You are as enthusiastic and helpful and happy for your brother/sister as you can be. Before the wedding, you take an extra long time getting ready so that you look hot enough to melt glass. Because guess what? You will get married at some point. And 30 years from now when you're all reminiscing about your engagements/weddings, do you really want everyone remembering how insane you were and how they weren't even allowed to be happy around you?

I didn't think so.

This will likely be anticlimactic

My most recent date was not my worst blind date, (I've already told that story) but it was still special. And it's one more story I'll be trotting out the next time someone accuses me of Not Making an Effort. I'll also be trotting out a taser, because who even walks up to a middle-aged spinster librarian and tells them they're just being too picky? That's when I think a good idea would be to look at the speaker's spouse, raise The Eyebrow, and say, "Clearly that wasn't your problem."

A little while back I decided to drive down to Provo to spend time with the Preciouses. And their parents, I suppose. When Jen's friend heard I was coming she said that she needed to set me up with a guy who works in the same lab as her husband. All she could tell me about him is that he's cute, smart, and nice. Which . . . okay, that's a good start. Of course, there's also the works in a lab part, which I kind of smoothed over in my mind as we spinster women occasionally do when it's either that or start downloading application forms for adopting unwanted Korean infants. So I said okay, gave her my number, and said that if he wanted to get together for a couple of hours that would be cool.

I got a call as I was heading home from work to pack for the weekend. The important part of the conversation went a-like so:

Blind Date: "So, do you like karaoke?"

Me: "Um, I don't actually know. I can't say that I've really . . . done much karaoke."

On account of I'm normal and not drunk in a pub somewhere.

BD: "Really? You've never tried it?"

Me: "Nope." (see above) "Why, was that . . . one of your ideas for tonight?"

BD: "Yeah, there's this place I go to pretty much every week, it's great."

Getting worse and worse, while I tried to decide if I could really let myself in for an evening of sitting in a crowded (or worse, uncrowded) place watching my Science Boy date croon Lady in Red while I convulsed with embarrassment. Which could then only get worse if I were convinced to get up there and take the microphone myself. On account of I like to think I have this low, well-modulated voice, only I actually don't. It's high and brittle and when I sing it sounds like an old lady with pneumonia is trying to claw her way out of my sinuses.

Me: "Okay, see . . . here's the thing. I am not a very confident singer. And I think in order for me to get up in front of a group of people and sing like that I would probably need to be with people I know really well, and not someone that I haven't actually met before. Or I would need to be really drunk."

BD: "Oh . . . oh. Okay, no, I know what you mean. I guess that makes sense that it wouldn't be the best idea for a blind date."

Me: "Yeah, maybe not this time."

BD: "Well, my other grand passion is bowling."

Which, would have actually been kind of witty if he'd been kidding, which he wasn't. Turns out he was on a league and everything. So I said that bowling sounded fine, and inwardly resigned myself to One Of Those Nights. I just don't see the point of bowling. I mean, who decided that it was the great go-to date idea? But I just couldn't shoot down both his ideas without feeling like a jerk.

I called my sister and told her she was dead to me, while she hyperventilated with laughter on the phone. And then she called her friend, who felt responsible for unknowingly setting me up with a Karaoke Singer. So she decided to invite herself and her husband along on the date just in case it needed salvaging. Only then she needed to find a babysitter for her two little kids. And my sister volunteered.

So . . . the original plan was for me and Spitfire to head down and spend a relaxing weekend with our family. Instead, we now had my two sisters spending their night at someone else's house babysitting, a tired, pregnant married couple joining a late-night bowling date out of a sense of responsibility and guilt, and me and this guy going on a date that neither of us were looking forward to.

Smart, huh?

We didn't get to the bowling alley until about 10pm, and the conversation in the car was practically nonexistent even though I did try. The guy was perfectly nice and good-looking but we had absolutely nothing to talk about. All I got out of him were one-word responses. And I was too tired to sparkle in my usual sparkly way. I kind of hoped that the bowling alley could have burned down on our way there so that we could have just forgotten about the whole thing.

At the bowling alley they asked us how many games we wanted to play. The married couple and I were undoubtedly all having the same thought: "One." Or, you know, maybe they could tell us that they were closing. Or that they were having an anthrax scare, or that the child molester on lane 3 keeps flashing people so they're evacuating the building while they wait for the cops.

Our companion looked at us and said, "Well, my best game is always game 3."

We compromised at 2. I got a rubbish score. My date did a strange stiff-jointed dance every time he got up to bowl. Me and the pregnant girl yawned a lot. My date and I stopped pretending to be interested in conversing with each other. We drove back to the married people's house and he kept repeating over and over again how tired he was, so I told him that I would just go home with my sisters.

Aren't we all glad we did that? It could have been worse, though. I could have agreed to the karaoke.

A post is coming

And it's going to be about my most recent blind date. But first I have to go to a mother-long meeting, so please excuse me. If people would like to get the party started by offering details of some of their best (and by best, I mean worst) blind dates, that would be fabulous.

Crazy Thursday

It's a crazy day at work, due in part to Developments About Which I May Not Yet Speak. Sadly, these developments do not involve hot British men. They so seldom do, which I find really quite frustrating and against what is right.

To deal with the Developments, I went out with Spitfire and spent money and ingested masses of ice cream.

Clinique is running its Clinique Bonus promotion, where if you spend $21.50 you get the bag of goodies. I bought the All About Eyes Cream as part of my ongoing mission to stave off crone-eyes, infertility, and ultimately Cheat Death Itself.

Anyway, the bonus package includes a cute makeup bag (which I did actually need), a mascara, a lipstick, an eyelash curler, eye makeup remover, eyeshadow, and a smaller pot of the All About Eyes cream. So . . . there you have it.

Then I went to Cold Stone and redeemed my birthday coupon for my free ice cream creation. I chose chocolate ice cream with peanut butter, brownie, toasted almonds, and chocolate sauce added. I shared it with Spitfire, so it's not like I was being a total pig.


The last stop probably made me the happiest. We went to Sam's Club and I bought a box containing 120 crocus bulbs--mixed variety. You may remember this, but crocuses are now my absolute favorite part of spring, and I missed them something fierce this year. And now for the bargain price of $13.99 I have my babies. I want to hug the box and love it and kiss it and keep it on a special pillow next to me always.


Also, I think it's helping to ward of the absolute panic I'm feeling now as the leaves are starting to turn. Because my thoughts are going like this:

leaves turning leads to fall
fall leads to winter
Winter = (Cold + Snow + Amputated Frozen Dead Limbs) Crap

Not that I'm overreacting at all. But seriously. These crocuses? These are my hope. My hope that I'll be able to come out on the other side with limbs intact and hydrated eyes and some of my eggs left.

not wanting to change the subject

I'm still having a great time reading all of your comments from the last post, so I don't feel quite ready to move on yet. Keep 'em coming! My roommate told me last night that nearly all of the guys she's chatted with through sites like LDSLinkup have tried to initiate the dirty talk. What the heck, guys? Why can't they just call 900 numbers or whatever like normal deviants?

I never had anyone do that, but the one guy that I chatted with through Linkup (about a year ago) seemed very nice and funny and all those good things. Only, he turned out not to be too honest. Or smart. His most recent ex was an acquaintance of mine and I eventually found out through a mutual friend that they had gotten back together, that he hadn't told her he was still emailing other girls, and that he was keeping me on the line as a backup in case things didn't work out. Also he had misrepresented himself to me in a lot of strange, unnecessary ways. Like he would speak about "past girlfriends" when it turns out there was actually only the one. So once the Network of Women finished connecting the dots, she broke up with him and I cut off communication. That's what you get, boys. And he still had the nerve to act all baffled by this strange turn of events.