February 11, 2015 § Leave a comment
Just in time for Valentine’s Day, or more importantly, Galentine’s Day (thanks Leslie Knope). Here are some random reasons to dump a dude who’s not worth it.
#1: He has an unconfirmed tick. You’ve seen it on the first couple dates, and are now on the look out. You end up paying more attention to a twitch sighting than what he’s saying. Translation: You aren’t that into him. If he was perfect for you, the supposed tick wouldn’t be an issue!
#2 He’s got a trick and he likes to show it off. So he can do a cartwheel. Bravo. The second time he does it in an unprompted,”look at me” fashion, eh dude, this is old news. The third time. He’s not well rounded enough for you. Sit, Stay.
#3 Sex is subpar. Subpar all the time from the beginning of time. It’s not going to get better. You can settle, or you can be honest. If he doesn’t take your notes, maybe it’s time to be friends.
#4 He’s lazy. Don’t date a couch potato unless you are a potato. Have some ambition.
#5 He doesn’t make you laugh. Amendment: He doesn’t make you laugh when you do something laughable (like trip or spill food). Amendment: If he doesn’t get slap stick comedy, it’s just not worth it.
Here are a few more my little Galentines.
November 11, 2014 § 1 Comment
I love a good beard. There is something about rugged handsomeness that really does it for me. I’ll admit to being a little picky, I’m like goldilocks when it comes to whiskers: not overgrown, not patchy, juuust right. It’s all about the trimmed beard. He doesn’t have to sport one all the time, but he does have to be able to actually grow one. That’s the mark of a real man, facial hair. If you saw a third grader with a mustache you wouldn’t think twice about offering him a beer. As an aspiring cougar myself, I find peace in knowing that the difference between peach fuzz and a five o’clock shadow is about 10 years. While I can’t even imagine having a bush like that on my own face, I love my guy to have some scruff.
My father has a full beard. Some how it has been instilled in my mind that this is the sign of a good man, despite loathing it while I was growing up. It was all scratchy and would scrape my cheek when I got close. This cut down on the cuddle factor for a daddy’s girl. When I was about eight years old he challenged me: if he shaved his beard I had to give him one hundred kisses. I certainly had never seen him without a beard in all my life, and I don’t think his cheeks or chin had seen the light of day since he could grow one. We’re talkin’ at least 15 years of beard. In an effort to insure he still received goodnight kisses from his little girl, he shaved it all off. I waited, anxiously dancing around my mother while he unveiled his face behind closed doors. I was excited and optimistic; a lot of my friend’s fathers were clean-shaven, it seemed more normal to have a dad who took a razor to his skin every morning.
When he finally revealed himself I stood there shocked. For the first time, I saw with my own eyes, my father’s face: bare, beardless. I burst into tears. This was not my dad. “Put it back on!” I cried. Of course he and my mother had a good laugh at this. My mom kissed him on the cheek to show me it was okay. It was not okay. Not in my book. I wanted to erase all my complaints and have my dad back. And so it began, my end of the bargain. I posted myself at his side and started planting wet ones on his cheek. I counted through the tears. He was a stranger, I was kissing a stranger! I calmed down when I reached about 30, but then got upset again around 60 or 70. Whoever this guy was, I did not trust him. Over the next few days, I braved the stubble and fulfilled my debt. My parents still get a kick out of this story to date and giggle about the fact that I haven’t dated a guy without facial hair since middle school. Clearly this experience left me scarred.
Needless to say, I’m quite partial to beards. I’m pretty weary of any guy with a goatee. Even though I had the biggest crush on my high school geometry teacher who sported the fashion. It was more about his khaki Dockers then it was his facial hair. The goatee and the chinstrap are one in the same, both just trying too hard to be something their not. Like Diet Dr. Pepper and leg warmers. Mustaches get mixed reviews: from the classic pedophile and Hitler to Tom Selleck and Hulk Hogan. The mere idea of a dirty Sanchez or a mustache ride is a bit unsavory. But then there’s the goodstaches, like Einstein and Ned Flanders, both reputable enthusiasts. It’s not the ‘stache but the man behind it. I also find there to be something reptilian about a soul patch. Keeping in mind that the redneck version of a soul patch is called a flavor saver and/or more immaturely, the landing strip. You also have to be cautious of the haircut that accompanies the facial styling. The goatee paired with a mullet is like a princess at a pawnshop or when Brittney Spears walked into that public restroom without any shoes.
Although every woman has her own pallet for whisker fashion, there is one thing to be asked of all you men. Please, please, when your done styling, trimming, shaving, primping, will you make sure you clean up after yourself? There is nothing worse then bending down to spit out your toothpaste and coming inches from yesterday’s stubble. It looks like pubes. It’s gross.
This is not to say that any guy who takes a buzzer to his face every day shouldn’t be trusted, perhaps it’s the ritual he enjoys or a metaphor for shedding the day before. I just have an affinity for the lumberjack-type. I have also noticed a recent fondness for red beards. Upon further research, I might be the only woman on the planet who prefers this. I love a ginger with trimmed scruff. I can’t help myself, must be my Irish blood. However I must generalize, I bet beards are a lot like boobs. You want someone who’s stacked.
June 10, 2014 § 2 Comments
In honor of my FOUR YEAR (gasp! that’s a lot in kid years!) Anniversary-ish/thing with Mister Red, I wanted to reprise a post from 2010 about the day we met. The day we now call Double Wink Day (aka Game 6 of the NBA Playoffs). What a fantastic muse he has been. I look forward to a lifetime of adorable antidotes about this goofy human. Okay, they aren’t all adorable, but they are all at least funny.
Sometimes you meet a man, and within the first 30 seconds your posture sinks, your head tilts, and you need a handkerchief to wipe up the drool. Most of the time it starts with his sly, corner-of-the-eye smile. It’s subtle, but you know it’s just for you.
Hold on, while I peel my chin off the floor, try to form actual sentences, and attempt to remember my name, and my age. Ahem, definitely my age. It was just a little ol’ smile. Total swoon. It’s the trifecta of the charming man, and no woman is safe from his spell.
These men glow with God-given charisma, a twinkle in the eye, a gentle nod, saying the punch line at the exact right moment even if it is about farts. Suddenly, all the women in the room are running into walls, tripping over their own shoelaces, and kissing babies who aren’t their own, spontaneously blinded by the stars in their eyes. All the single gals engage their claws.
He becomes a trophy synonymous with a bride’s bouquet. Never underestimate the ultimate power-move: the bouquet toss. We have all seen enough America’s Funniest Home Videos to be aware of the danger in this sport.
The trifecta is a perfectly balanced cocktail of boyish charm, old-fashioned sensibility, and sharp whit with hints of kindness and worldliness. He’s the man who will buy you a drink, subtly reveal a past heartbreak, crack jokes about current events, and at the same time weave in his admiration for his mother, love for animals, and desire to be a daddy one day. All while telling you that you are the most gorgeous woman he’s ever laid eyes on. You believe every word. Lap it up, kitty. Think 007, Jack Dawson (never let go), Danny Ocean, Batman, Will Hunting, or anything Jon Hamm has played recently. Okay, maybe just Jon Hamm, the person.
I experienced such an encounter with a striking ginger-haired bartender. You know I love a red beard. If I had a type it would be: Irish. With an Irishman I know what I’m getting: maybe a temper, most likely a drinking problem, but for certain, a fun loving guy with a sensitive side. Not to mention, Irishmen are the most loyal of them all.
I was meeting some Celtics fans to watch the battle in Game 6 of the NBA playoffs against the hometown heroes, the LA Lakers. Having lived in Boston only a short while before moving to Los Angeles, my allegiance didn’t lie what-so-ever with the shamrocks and as a Michigan girl, the Pistons weren’t doing much for me either. But a former flame was rumored to be in attendance, so… Go Celts!
Regardless, I love a game of ball with a beer and old friends. Boston fans are fiercely devoted (most of them Irish, case in point) therefore innately the Beantown Bar we were attempting to cram into was at max capacity. Plan B: throw a stone, hit an Irish Pub, order a pint, and you’ll be in the good company of loud Mass-holes.
I searched for my friends at the second pub. My scan of the playoff crowd was pleasantly interrupted by a tall Irish bartender. Pleasant is an understatement. It was magical; slow motion, soft focus with a wind machine. He was a blonde prince charming. Not a hair out of place. Perfectly coiffed, as though it had been taken out of one of Mattel’s fine Ken molds that morning. His shoulders broad and strong, piped with budding biceps. This boy ate his spinach. He was sure a tall drink of water too, really long legs. Hello, blue eyes! Oh that group of loud bumbling Boston fans harassing you? Yeah… unfortunately, I’m with them. I’ll just take my Guinness and be over here, mortified, if you need me.
One could assume I no longer was there to watch the game. The the former flame, the Tall Musician? Oh, at that time, I couldn’t have told you what instrument he played. Maybe the obo? Of course I tried to play it cool as I watched the ginger’s every move, gracefully dancing from one end of the bar to the other, sharing his winning smile with lucky patrons. Certainly, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his charm. Even the burly couch jockeys I came in with were making side comments and developing man-crushes. Good, so it’s not just me, he actually is making it hot in here. This man possessed the power to turn straight eyes gay.
Every once in a while we would make eye contact as he slung beers at my end of the bar. When I got up from my stool to graduate to the bathroom, he winked at me. Yup, he winked right at me.
Normally, winks from strangers are a kind of creepery I avoid, but the guy had the trifecta. I had a grandfather who would pass me pieces of candy before dinner with a wink. There’s a special place in my heart for a good winking, and I felt satisfied I had received special attention.
“I think I just got winked at,” I exclaimed with a pre-pubescent delight.
“You got what?” my friend, Ms. Pepper, was confused.
“I think the hot Irish bartender just winked at me. Do you think he winks at everyone?”
“He must be into you, because that outfit does not make you look like you have deep pockets,” she counseled and insulted. Sound advice, I had to wait for a second sign of reciprocated attraction before I made any aggressive plans to marry, and I put my jacket back on to aid my suffering ensemble.
At the end of the game we closed our tabs and collected outside the bar. The place was still packed inside. I resolved: one wink was all the attention Mister Handsome could give me.
As we waited for stragglers, my group started talking about him again. That’s the thing with a charming man, they leave a lasting impression. Just as my friends denigrated me for not striking up a conversation with Blue Eyes, speak of the devil, he walks outside to assess the area, and manages to look busy with the outdoor chalkboard displaying the specials. Our eyes locked. Another wink. Okay, now my knees were weak. I almost melted like the wicked witch. Oh what a world, what a world.
“He came out here just to wink at you,” Pepper encouraged.
“He didn’t do anything but move that sandwich board two inches. Literally picked it up and set it back down. Literally. He was looking for you. Go give him your number.”
Once under the spell of the Charming Trifecta a lady must make a bold move to prove she’s worthy. Fortunately for me, I was surrounded by enough clear thinking people, and had the consumed the right amount of liquid courage to make that bold move.
I, like any good soldier, am prepared for anything as long as I have my big purse. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and with careful tact, legibly scrawled my number (the real one). Without allowing too much time for second thoughts, I marched into the bar and right up to Mister Handsome.
“I know you probably get this a lot, but… here’s my number,” I blurted out trying to disguise my fear, certain I was venturing out of my league. I’m only a seven at the beginning of the night, sober. I was probably down to a five at that point after a full day of work, a few brews and a cheap outfit. I held out the wishful piece of paper. The handsome ginger smiled and took my number.
The bar erupted into a celebration as the game ended. I forget who won, I was memorized by blue eyes.
“ACTUALLY I DON’T GET THIS A LOT,” he shouted above the loud bar, “I’M GLAD YOU CAME UP TO ME, I THOUGHT I MISSED YOU.”
Never has not hearing a man made me so tongue-tied. My nerves were eased as the trifecta took hold of me. The intoxication of his small talk sent me over the edge and into a poppy field. Although, not much was actually communicated because we couldn’t hear each other.
“WHAT NIGHTS DO YOU WORK SO I CAN STALK YOU IF YOU DON’T CALL?” I must have been mad to admit I would be all private investigator if he came to his senses.
“OH I’M GOING TO CALL YOU… BUT IF YOU WANT TO STALK ME ANYWAY, TUESDAY, WEDNESDAY, THURSDAY, AND SUNDAY.”
I just smiled, engraving his schedule in my brain; positive he wasn’t going to call.
“BUT I AM GOING TO CALL. I’LL CALL YOU FRIDAY.” With that he winked at me, a now signature move. I smiled broadly, turned on my heel and tried to play it cool.
It took all my power not to shout with delight as I skipped out the door in celebration, which was a total fail at coolness. I actually skipped, like a 3rd grader at recess after trading a chunky peach yogurt for a chocolate snack pack. I may have even thrown my hands up in triumph.
I didn’t care if he saw me frolicking. I just thought, “if nothing else, it was truly explosive to make the acquaintance of the striking ginger-haired Irishmen with the trifecta of a charming man.” Maybe unnecessary celebration. Whatever. It was a bold move for me.
And he’s still winking at me, four years later.
February 1, 2012 § 2 Comments
Life imitates art and happy are we to have so much art all around us. Believe it or not, TV is art. Well… some TV. I’m not sure there’s anything artistic about The Real Housewives of Anywhere, although camera operators would disagree (yes, your time-lapse of sunset clouds is real pretty). Lately, there’s all these period dramas sprouting up… yes please. Romance me, fancy pants-y. From the Petticoats of Downton Abby to the starched collars and dropped waists of Boardwalk Empire, then 50s and 60s glam of Pan Am and Mad Men, who doesn’t want to sit on Don Draper’s lap? The home decor, the clothes, the technology, we are in heaven, immersing ourselves in a simpler time. Then life immitates art, Banana Republic releases it’s Mad Men line this past fall. But I’m not going to hold them single-handedly responsible for the revival of the skinny tie.
Skinny ties were in for summer, but now they’re out. Why? Because it looks silly. Ahem. It only looks silly on The Bachelor, not on you, Jon Hamm, not on you. You’ll notice: if the skinny tie isn’t on Ryan Gosling in GQ, in a period TV drama, or on a hipster meeting his girlfriend’s parents, it’s not doing a good job of being a tie. Politicians are not wearing thin ties, why? Because it’s an election year, they needn’t be likened to hipsters. Sports announcers don’t wear narrow ties because it would look down right puny on them. This is sports, the tie represents the twig and berries.
I think we can all agree on the phallic resemblance of the necktie. So what do you think that means for the skinny tie? You guessed it. You know what they say about a guy with small feet or demur hands…. so what do you think they say about the guy with the thin tie? In this respect, the skinny tie is quite the fashion risk. As far as media has taught me, neckties are the penises of a man’s outfit. Collars? They are of course the balls.
I shall impart my wisdom with a few cinematic examples in no particular order…
Notice how the collar (detachable and heavily starched… some hard balls) is pinned together underneath the necktie, mimicking an almost erection. A halfey. In the 1920s and 30s, STDs were running rampant without much control or modern medicine, having a properly working member was a sign of health, wealth, and happiness. Thank you, Boardwalk Empire.
Reporters have a lot to prove. So did the 70s. They wear their ties super thick with a big o’ knot at the top. And Robert Redford is really hot. You know I got a thing for red beards. And with that tie, I can only imagine what he’s packing. I think he just winked at me. Not the little guy, the other one in All The President’s Men.
Back to wise guys. I think we can all agree that mobsters have got some major balls. Check out the collars on these dudes. The very definition of balls. All looking very dapper, I might add. Except for Robert DeNiro in the front there. He looks like he had four minutes to get dressed and then someone told him his goldfish was kidnapped. Goodfellas.
What about bow ties you ask? Don’t worry, I got this.
Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. Dorkdom. Nerds who wear bow ties are not concerned with flashing their manhood around in fashion or otherwise. Pee-wee is a man-child who’s basically asexual except for those allegations of indecent exposure. Geeks don’t think with their ties, but they do like to dress up.
Tuxedos are a different story. Obviously Mr. Craig as James Bond in Casino Royale absolutely has a johnson that begs attention. However, a man in a tux has put business aside for the night to honor his lady. A black tie affair is no place for a dick measuring contest. The bow tie for the tuxedo is a sign that the man has tucked his lower ego away for the evening. Notice how the tie covers the collar too. The whole package tied up in a nice little bow for a lucky gal to unwrap later. Why do you think tuxes are customarily worn at weddings, hmm? The eye should be on the bride not the tie. Then why would a huntsmen like 007 wear a tux most of the time? Well, because it’s the best disguise. No one would assume he’s got gun in his trousers in that penguin suit.
So now you know. Look for the tie you like, bold or blending… color doesn’t matter, but the size does.
May 9, 2011 § Leave a comment
This is a girl after my own heart. I thought these exact same things when I was 10. She’s going to be a bright, independent, successful modern woman one day with forward thinking like this. You go girl!
There is just one thing I have to say before I go on. STOP BEING SO STEREOTYPICAL! . The reason I have to let this is out of my system I am yet to tell you. So today I was reading a Mini Boden magazine ( some place in Sweden), and the magazine people asked questions to the kids who were modeling. The one question that ticked me off was this question: “What is the biggest difference between Boys ( That means you Boys) and Girls?” Here are some answers that were in this “magazine”. Kian, age 6, “Girls Like dolls, and Boys don’t”. Oh okay I know what you’re thinking “Oh he’s just six!”. Well you better listen to this. Stefano, age 7, “Girls wear pink, and Boys wear blue and green.” Okay you’re probably thinking the same thing. “Oh he is just 7. Well here is another one. Aiden, 6, “Girls like nail polish; Boys like Soccer Balls.’ Yeah I know he is six too. But getting closer to the older ones. Asha, age 8, “Boys are rougher and stronger.” Yeah he’s eight. Not six, or seven. He’s eight. He’s got a brain. He’s smarter than six and seven yr olds. It’s kind of old to me, because I am turning 11 this year. Okay so now that I have listed those Boys’ opinions, I am going to list the reasons why I think they are stereotypical.
#1 Hey I’m a Girl, and I HATE dolls! I also hate Barbies, pink, my little ponies, and glitter is okay I guess. But I don’t love it like boys think all girls do. But that’s just my opinion. Well let me give you a quick lesson. Not all Girls like prissy stuff including me…Give it a ponder.
#2 Like I said I HATE pink. I despise it. HACK See I spat on it. That’s how much I hate pink. Hey guess what Stefano, age 7, I wear blue, green, orange, and white about everyday like every other kid in America ( and for this kid in Sweden). I like just about every other color in the rainbow. Except for Pink ( the color not the singer). and purple. So Stefano, I think you have learned an important fact that not all Girls like pink.
#3 For one thing though I do like nail polish, but not just Boys like soccer. For example my friend Heidi is a master soccer player. You mess with her, she kicks you in the shins, or maybe just trips you on the field. Seriously I think you should stay away. For reals. And finally
#4 Okay one thing is that I could beat many boys in a wrestling competition that is up to my grade. Like at lunch today, I was an arm wrestling my friend that happens to be a boy. I beat him. Finally I took my hand off , because I knew he had enough. And also Jillian Michaels, or at least I think it is Jillian Michaels, she’s really strong. Probably the strongest woman I’ve ever heard of. So Asha, 8, give it a ponder.
So really the only reason I wrote this editiorial was to address Boys to stop being so stereotypical and for reading that messy magazine. And the only reason I was reading the magazine was because I was bored. And I must have been really bored to be reading a Swedish magazine about clothes that strangely gets sent to my house.
A Random person in Avon Indiana
Eliza Sayers, age 10
View the complete “editorial” here.
January 17, 2011 § 1 Comment
I know this is a little forward because we haven’t met yet, or we have met and maybe I’m waiting for you to get a promotion, or for your ex to move to a different city, or for you to stop getting your “tips” frosted. Regardless, I have a list of things you should be aware of when the time is right for you to swoop me off my feet. Swooping to be done in the happy-ending-romantic-comedy way, not the Fantasia-dancing-hippo way (that ended badly). I write this prematurely in part because I know my future-self will get immense pleasure out of saying, “I told you so.” So without further explanation, my list of requirements and dealbreakers are as follows:
- First and foremost, never lie to me. It has less to do with core values and more with the fact that I can’t lie. You see, I cannot control my facial expressions, I read like a billboard. You’ll have to come down to my level on this one.
- If you’re a vegan or a vegetarian that has to end now. If you aren’t into seafood, you’ll have to become more adventurous. Eating is one of my favorite hobbies, I don’t want to be forced into personifying the animal I’m about eat, like when fish is served with the head, his huge saucer eye looking up at me. So if you’re not into splitting a cute little cow, back off my steak!
- Making it your personal mission to make me laugh will be rewarded amply with sexual acts.
- Cheating at cards, stacking the deck or otherwise is considered a federal offense in my book and will not be tolerated. My Grandmother is watching.
- Must look adorable in a baseball cap, but not wear one too often.
- I’d really prefer it if you didn’t have a criminal record. Besides a few unpaid parking tickets, if you need to call a guy to get the slate wiped clean, you should do so now.
- Know hot your ass is and purchase pants accordingly. And if you don’t know, ask me for advice.
- Cut apples into perfect bites so we can share.
- Get a fun car and a serious car, but let me drive the fun car most of the time.
- Desire to dance drunkenly to a classic rock cover band on a steamy summer night.
- Random acts of flowers accepted.
- Know I can’t take a complement, but shower me with them anyway.
- When asked to name three things you can’t live without, sex should be one of them.
- Put grand ideas in ways I’ve never heard.
- I’m not asking you to plaster pictures of us making out on your facebook page, but at least hide your relationship status so you’re not advertised as single.
- To ensure I am attracted to you for a lifetime, it’s better to be a hot potato than a couch potato. If you’re a whole sack of potatoes, you’ll need to make some dietary changes and get a gym membership to keep up with me, I’m not into slackers.
- ‘Slackers’ brings me to my next point, as the song clearly states: I don’t want no scrubs. Have a job, have a goal, have a passion. If you don’t, you’re not bringing much to the discussion and I’ll end up talking too much. No one wants that.
- Love The Big Lebowski and be able to recite almost every line in addition to perfecting the ultimate white Russian. This is not ‘nam, there are rules.
- Please don’t make me go to church on Sundays. Not only am I not a morning person, but I was raised Cathloic, I’ve put in my time.
- Understand my love for the Big Ten Conference, specifically Michigan State Basketball and the lord of the dance: Tom Izzo. I will watch your team, pro or college, with the same enthusiasm in return. You can’t get a girl this cool and not give a little back. You will bleed green.
- Cook with me.
- One day a week, stay in bed with me until noon.
- Come to a happy medium on the whole PDA thing. I’m not really a hugger, and I am defiantly not a lap sitter. I will, however, hold your hand, offer a quick peck on the lips, give the “oh Honey, you’re being dumb” pat on the arm, and I’ll let you slap my ass in front of your friends for comedic effect.
- Zero drama please. Let’s not do petty arguments or fester feelings over small stuff like toast or handsoap. If you feel something, say it. If you want something to change, do something about it.
- On occasion, pick me up and carry me to the bedroom, even if it’s firemen’s style.
- Let me have my independence, but desire to take care of me.
- Be okay with watching television marathons, even if that’s all we ever do on Friday nights, and never stand to watch a movie in full screen.
- I can hang with the boys but there will be times when my friends and I need a chaperone. These ladies are my family, we come as a package and, unfortunately, you have to deal with the shenanigans.
- Think my parents are as hilarious as I do.
- Put the toilet seat down, for God’s sake. This goes for when you’re mad at me too. I know retaliation when I fall in it.
- Take me to places fancier than us just to act inappropriately.
- Have enough kindness and understanding to pick me up when I’m feeling down, bring me soup when I’m sick, and talk in funny voices when I cry.
- Text me jokes during the workday.
- These legs don’t shave themselves and the snatch is even harder to groom. Give me a grace period, but tell me when I have an extraneous evil hair.
- Don’t be afraid to dance. Not in the sexy way, but in the silly way, most likely in the kitchen laughing hysterically doing the running man.
- Try not to over use emodicons and acronyms, and never initiate an argument over Instant Message.
- Know how to swim, build a fire, change a tire, use a power drill, drive a boat. Basic man things, yes, but you’d be surprised how many city boys are 0-5.
- You have to actually read something, like books or the newspaper. Maxium and Playboy don’t count. Your interest in something other then sports or video games is mandatory. In addition, have a broad vocabulary. I refuse to dumb down my lexicon for the rest of my life because you can’t pick up a novel.
- Lovemaking should be… athletic.
- Please travel well. None of this ‘afraid of flying’ or ‘fear of heights’ or ‘I don’t like camping.’ Saying you want to show me the world doesn’t hurt either, it worked for Aladdin.
- Don’t father me, I already have one of those.
- You’ll receive a big bonus for perfecting pancake breakfast on Sundays.
- Don’t keep me waiting, but don’t get mad if you need to wait on me. I know it’s hypocritical, but let’s weigh the facts. You’ll shower and get ready in under 10 minutes. I require 30-60. Believe me, once we get that grooming conveyor belt-thingy the Jetsons have, then you can get mad.
- Do the dishes without a shirt on.
- Enjoy a comfortable silence.
- And last but not least, put a ring on it. If you want me forever, I got to get some bling. My aunt got a canoe instead of a diamond, but it works out because she’s been woken up with a cup of coffee in bed EVERY morning for over 25 years. So if you aren’t prepared to get your Folgers on, find a good jeweler.
I don’t think this is asking to much. In return I will always greet you with genuine joy, allow you to laugh at me when I spill food on myself, let you rummage in my kitchen in the middle of the night, look pretty and be personable when it counts, and act foolishly just to see you smile, among other things between the sheets that shall remain unmentioned.
Truly yours, and hoping to no longer be,
The Internet Bachelorette
December 8, 2010 § 2 Comments
The average fifth grader in 1995 worshiped Ariel, Cinderella, Jasmine, Pocahontas, Snow White and many other big busted, tiny waisted, doe eyed Disney Princesses. Bred on fairytale endings these little girls grow up expecting every man to fill the quota of Prince Charming. Now in their twenties, they anticipate fireworks during first kisses leading to enchanted wedding bliss. Has Disney single handedly altered the modern woman’s matrimonial expectations? As the digital-age dames are sifting through the joe-six-packs of the world, they hold tightly to the belief that every street rat has prince potential, every beast beats his beauty, and every good cat is a lioness in the sack. The original Disney Princesses only got what they wanted because of their racks and like every fine American they want instantaneous results, obsessed with showing the goods to yield the gold. But what does “happily ever after” entail anyway?
I was recently told a tall tale from one of my strapping guy-friends. He had accidentally engaged in a courtship with a debutante who was crushing hard on Prince Charming. First, I adore this dude, but she was putting her pearls in the wrong jewelry box. This guy couldn’t be further away from prince material. He would rather throw someone else into moving traffic then even attempt to be courageous and he’s not much to look at either. But on second thought, Beauty did fall in love with the Beast. Just as an aside, can we all agree that he was much more attractive as a beast then as a prince? I remember popcorn bombs at the screen accompanied by rousing boos when that much anticipated transition happened. What a disappointment, I rather get frisky with that candlestick instead.
Apart from the lack of looks, the only thing in Not-so-charming’s wallet is a Ralph’s Club Card, but then again Aladdin swooned Princess Jasmine somehow. I know these animated examples aim to teach young girls to not judge on wealth or looks, but it’s also excusing men from basic grooming and ambition. Aladdin is pretty much saying that a homeless dude is worthy of banging a regal woman. At the same time it’s endorsing criminal admiration. No genie required. And in the end it promises everyone, from toad to trash, some sort of supreme being, be it godmother, magic spell, magic potion, magic wand, reality television producer, will come along and turn you and your sidekick into royalty. Exactly like what MTV did for those fools on the Jersey Shore.
Anyway, back to my friend. Despite his obvious pitfalls, he had been eyesing the tiara-ed tramp for a while. He caught her exiting the tanning parlor next to his gym “a few times” before he finally asked her out. And when he says “a few times” it really means only once. I promise you, even Prince Charming has an attention span of a goldfish and tanning parlors are revolving door for wanna-be princesses. She looked like she could be found romping around the Playboy mansion and that’s really what won him over. Just like the rest of the Disney sluts. For a first date he took her out for a drink, conveniently running into his buddies and without missing a minute of the game. The desperate damsel rewarded this haughty behavior by inviting him up to her apartment. Talk about hard up for a fairytale ending, where did she think this was going? It’s the classic first sign: she expects to fall in love instantly and throws caution to the wind, much like The Little Mermaid gave up her voice after spying on a man playing a flute. Come on, Ariel, you could have picked a man with a bigger instrument if you were going to trade in your tail.
Now that he’s in her bell tower, she traps him urging him to stay and tell her how wonderful she is, trying to mimic her idea of love purchased by her parents when she was just a little girl. Would he like to hear a song? Does the wolf follow the trail of breadcrumbs? So our would-be prince settles in for an amateur rendition of Part of Your World. After the ballad, the delusional dingbat continues to sing for the remainder of the score. Feigning enthusiasm our hero decides to wait it out for the promise of pussy. Villains have sunk lower, I suppose. The Big Bad Wolf dressed in drag to capture Red Riding Hood. And in his defense, Under the Sea IS pretty entertaining no matter who’s performing the cover. He did eventually give up and excused himself after she asked him to reenact the fight scene between Prince Eric and Ursula then busted out a trident. Okay, maybe I made that last part up, but singing the entire Little Mermaid soundtrack to your date can be filed as the worst case of the Disney Princess Complex I have ever heard of.
Beyond embarrassing herself regularly and her unhealthy idea of monogamy, I’m pretty sure this diva ditz finds herself visiting Disneyland at least four times a year and has a knack for beadazzling just about anything. It’s just unreasonable to think your curvature will attract love and loyalty, let alone a man you’d be able to stand for the rest of your life. Because that’s what happily ever after really is, enduring another person for the sake of companionship, even if they do fart in their sleep. “Poof” is not a magical term in the vocabulary of the contemporary courtship. I’d like to see those hourglass figures after popping out a few inheritors and if ol’ Princey’s found a new trophy wife, 20-years his junior. When you think about it, most of those Disney Princesses are just cat ladies in waiting. Thank god for those woodland animals helping Snow White and Cinderella with the housekeeping. Who would have listened to Jasmine if not for Raja? If your prince never comes you better hope you’re not allergic to pet dander.
A few weeks ago Disney swore off fairytales in the Sunday addition of the LA Times. This weekend Tangled scored the number one slot at the box office, beating out Harry Potter. Truth be told, little girls are still sufficiently swooned by princesses and the romanticized ideal they chase after. Come to find out Rapunzel’s prince is none other than a charming thief, who’s not that into her anyway. It gets worse; she totally gives up her magical golden hair for this convicted felon. Hopefully after a good time out, Disney will adjust their lens reworking these female roles to include solving world hunger or coming up with a national health care plan that works. But with the Kardashians still around, it’s going to be an uphill battle. Prince Charming could be forever dumbfounded by hotness regardless of how heroic he may be, and it will probably end in divorce no matter what Disney decides.