"The Course of True Love Never Did Run Smooth"

I'll admit it, I've only ever read the "No Fear Shakespeare" version of A Midsummer's Night Dream. I like watching Shakespeare's plays, but have never, not once, enjoyed reading them. Methinks he doth befoul the language too much.

But he was a man who knew a thing or two about us crazy humans. And didn't he just nail it on the head with "the course of true love never did run smooth"?

I am not currently in true love. I am not even in mediocre love (although I am abnormally attached to a new pair of shoes I recently purchased). But I have been in love and I am currently in search of love again. And I'll tell you, the course TO true love never did run smooth either, Will.

The course TO true love isn't a stroll on the beach. It's more like scaling the side of a mountain without a Sherpa in sight. And now that I'm in my mid-30s, it's not getting any easier.

'Cause here's the thing - I have an inkling of what I'm looking for now. It's not like when you're in your early 20s and you're thinking - "He's hot. I'm in love." Oh no, it's more complicated than that now.

It's about personalities. It's about a sense of humor and that doesn't include telling knock-knock jokes. No, we're talking about a sense of humor that will allow the two of you to laugh when life feels like it's falling apart. Being able to see humor in your mistakes - big and small.

It's about forgiveness. Love isn't about "an eye for an eye" - it is balls out Jesus-sized forgiveness...every day.

It's about understanding the perfect amount of space. This is like super-duper scientist stuff. We're talking spatial-temporal reasoning type understanding. What's the middle ground between distance and smothering? I'll let you know when I see it.

We'll leave out the part about how he needs to be employable, into hygiene and able to drive down the street without tailgating, cursing or flipping someone off. (I don't want to sound greedy.)

And the big truth is this - it's not just that I know what I'm looking for (or what I'm not looking for). It's that, at 35, I know me.

It's been me and me for a long time now and I guess I know me as well as I know anyone. I know who I am. And without getting all "big-heady" about it - I'm a pretty cool chick. And I'm looking for a pretty cool guy. Sounds simple, but it's not.

So, I'll continue to be patient (insert fingernails tapping madly on linoleum tabletop). And I'll be comforted by those who came before me.

The course of true love never did run smooth? No shit, Shakespeare.

Of Mice and Men

I have, over the course of my life, acquired two fears. Neither of them is based on sound, reasonable logic. They are, in no particular order:

1. Mice
2. Men

I have no problem with mice when they are in little wire cages and running on a wheel. They are, in fact, a bit like men. If you know what they’re up to and when they’re gonna pounce, they aren’t too terrifying. This led me to wonder, what else do my two nemesis have in common?

1. They’re unpredictable. No telling when they’ll show their beady little eyes
2. They do, on occasion, hang out in your house uninvited
3. They make weird noises at night, conjuring visions of poltergeists and making one check under their bed for monsters
4. They look cute, but have been known to attack and leave you with life-threatening diseases that involve remedies including needles as long as your arm
5. Some of them would rather lurk about at home than get dressed up and go dancing
6. They leave messes for you to clean up
7. They think that chewing their fingernails and toenails is equivalent to a day at the spa
8. They do not utilize the toilet and quite possibly think you’re interested in checking out their doo-doo
9. Some don’t mind having millions of offspring, since they’re more about the breeding than the parenting
10. They make grown-ass women turn into a girly-girls of the highest order, instead of acting like rational, professional, educated women
11. They always seem to side-step the traps I carefully lay for them

Cheap Ass Bitch

Did I mention than on occasion I am what one might call a - cheap ass bitch?

In general, you will not find me in the mall shopping for clothes. Clothes are expensive. Especially when you cheap out on the generic laundry detergent and you clothes actually begin to disintegrate after 3 or 4 washings. Who can afford to spend 50 buck on a shirt that has a hole in the neck from some battery acid detergent after you've only worn it a couple times?

Anyway - I am particularly in love with this one Cheap Store. I will not share its name, as those who know me - know of which store I speak. And those who don't know me, well, you really shouldn't be judging someone you don't know, now should you?

The point, is that today is the first day of a well-deserved vacation and I thought it was appropriate to celebrate by buying some cheap ass clothes.

I dutifully traveled to the Cheap Store to see what loveliness I might find to cram into my closet.

On a side note - I usually hit the Cheap Store at 10:01am on Saturday mornings, as it's right next door to a bookstore/coffee shop and that ain't a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. So, I am not exactly used to running into actual patrons of the Cheap Store, as I show up one minute past opening and am out of there in 20 minutes flat. It's just me and the teeny tiny shopkeeper chippies and that's always worked just fine for me.

As you might guess, at 7pm on the day before a big holiday weekend - it's a little busier. Not only busier, but jam packed. Not just jam packed, but packed with people who one might not consider socialites of the highest order. In fact, I walked into some kind of bizarre milieu where everyone was loud, everyone was bumping into me and everyone was yanking their kids by the arm (the ones that actually had any idea where their kids were - hint: peeking under my dressing room door). In fact, one patron (who sadly had hit the Mad Dog 20/20 a little hard before she went clothes shopping) was actually getting the boot as I was exiting my dressing room - careful not to step on the little street urchin who had previously been staring at my potential purchase and yelling - "That's really orange!"

Even though I'd considered buying the "really" orange shirt, I left it on the return rack and exited the Cheap Store with as much haste as my flip flops would allow.

It left me feeling a little icky and remembering the adage - you are what you eat. But what if you are also where you shop? That was more than I was willing to consider and so I rushed a few stores down and popped into my books and coffee shop. I tried to melt in with the snobby books and coffee people. And while I can get snooty with the snobbiest, there is the teeniest tiniest part that is probably also just a cheap ass bitch.

Confessions of an Ungrateful Bridesmaid #3: The Dress

In a little less than two weeks I will be a bridesmaid for my baby cousin.

I imagine this will be my last time donning the dress. Even if any of my friends get married for a second or third time, I imagine it'll be a little more low-key and probably no need to get satin shoes dyed.

There are about a bajillion things I love about my cousin, but currently the thing I love most about her is that she is letting all of her bridesmaids pick out their own dresses. Her one condition - make it black.

No, I'm not kidding. That is how effing cool she is. And we all understand how freaking lucky we are - it is with great solemness that we are choosing these gowns. We don't want her to regret her magnanimous decision. Perhaps this will set a new precedent of kindness amongst brides.

A new era of no longer trying to shoehorn your friends into gowns that you have only ever seen on Size 2 models in "Modern Bride". I don't know about you, but I haven't been a Size 2 since I was floating around in amniotic fluid in my mother's uterus.

The idea itself is ridiculous. One dress that looks good on your 3,4,5 or god forbid, 6 closest friends. (Once the peels of laughter subside, read on.)

The truth is, your friend might otherwise be a reasonable woman. An engineer. A marketing executive. A woman who can go into the dressing room with you and tell you whether your ass looks big or your boobs saggy in any given outfit. But all of this rational thinking flies out the proverbial window once she’s planning the wedding.

Anyway, you are no longer her dear friend. You are her dress-up doll. You are not her soul-sister with the massive thighs or confidant with the small(ish) chest. You are Skipper to her Barbie. You now miraculously have smaller hips and a bigger chest because, well dammit, you must. She has been planning this day since age 9. She’s been clipping out dresses in bridal magazines since 18. She’s now in the position of complete and utter power over your life and you’d just better get used to it. Okay, take a deep breath – cause this next part might hurt.

It doesn’t matter what you look like on your friend’s big day. This is not about you. (Gasp!) This is entirely, 100%, without a doubt, about the bride. Okay, take another deep breath and I'll continue.

I know. I have pictures too. Me in a flowing lavender Empire-waist number that should have, by all of the laws of nature, fit like a glove, but instead clung in a most leach-like manner to every bit of cellulite on my body. Or my friend, K, who should have been a wondrous site to behold in the baby blue Vera Wang knock-off. It unfortunately was made of some polyester-blend (I'm pretty sure the original Wang was not) and could apparently not be taken in anymore in the chest (although it did leave plenty of room for Kleenex and her Maid of Honor speech. Both pages.)

The thing is, you just have to suck it up. Don’t go getting an inkling that you are going to shine like the belle of the ball. This is not the prom and you are not the Prom Queen. The big tiara goes to She-Who-Snagged-The-Boy. Get used to it.

Try to remember this: your friend is not trying to ruin your life. Somewhere in that twisted mind she truly believes you look beautiful in that dress. An angel. Leave her be, she’s in love. And the truth is - generations of bridesmaids have been getting laid no matter what sort of ghoulish gown they are wearing, so what's the big stink?

The upside is this: you will never have to wear this dress again! This is it. One day. Oh, I know both the bride and her mother will regale you with tales of shortening it into a cocktail dress or using it at next year’s New Years Eve party. Hogwash. This is $150-$300 dollars of fabric that will never see a profitable return.

Now, I have used old dresses for other occasions and even turned them into other-worldly creations, but dammit - you'll just have to wait until I finish the book. It's taken me thirty-five years to figure this shit out - did you really think I'd give all this knowledge away for free?

I'm not looking to make a million dollars - just enough to recoup the cost of those bridesmaids dresses rotting away in my closet.

Hot to Trot

After some extensive shopping this morning, I swung by the gym. My car does not easily turn into my gym's driveway. We argue extensively about the cleaning, writing or loafing I could be doing instead of going to the gym. But today, the gym won out.

This is a good thing and I wish I was one of those people who could just love the gym. No, really LOVE it. I don't though. I never feel worse afterward, in fact, I almost always feel better. And yet it's still a struggle to put on the running shoes and hit the treadmill.

One of the things I don't particularly like about the gym is the sweating. The beads around the forehead. The dripping down my neck. That very attractive sweat mark on the back of my t-shirt at the end. I am one sweatacular little piggy by the end.

I get that the sweat is a part of the deal and is a good indicator that I'm doing things right, but it never makes me feel all gorgeous as I'm hoofin' along.

Which leads me to this - any time you read any magazine articles on where to meet men, they inevitably tell you to join a gym. This, to me, is some sort of insane troll logic.

Whilst I am working out I look winded, red-faced, sweaty and probably even a tad grumpy. Are these the attributes that today's bachelors are really looking for?

Not to mention, I'm not exactly "on my game" while I'm trying to jog in a straight line on a piece of rubber that is moving. Who in the hell is capable balancing themselves on a moving roadway, winking and saying "Do you come here often?" This is the reason I'm not able to flirt in airports either.

Anyway, I guess I'll continue to fight with my car, hop on the treadmill and god-willing, try to remember my freaking lip gloss. A nice neutral color to go with my sweaty t-shirt and the grumpy look on my face.

Free is for Me

Some days I bemoan the fact that my checking account isn't brimming over with extra fundage. Funds that would like to be spent on an overpriced pair of shoes or a bunch of music on iTunes. Instead it's earmarked for rent and car payments and insurance and pesky things like laundry detergent.

And on those days I spend a few moments thinking about the trip I'd take to Italy or the great loft downtown and how I'd like them to be all mine, Mine, MINE!!

And then, I realize - while Rome would be great, I can get one of the best slices of pizza at this great local joint. And while the loft I covet has exposed brick, wood floors and a sunken tub - it costs as much as my studio in New York City did. And when it comes right down to it - I'm a pretty simple girl and the real fun isn't in the shoes that pinch my toes and eat away at my savings - the real fun is in the little things.

This weekend I did buy a few trinkets and while I admire them and think they do wondrous things to make "home" even cozier - they really don't hold a candle to my favorite thing this weekend.

That was driving to Indiana on Saturday and passing two hillbillies walking down the side of the road without any shirts on (one in cut-off jeans) each with an open beer can. And to make it all the sweeter - they were trying to hitch a ride. I know it will shock and amaze you that no one was quick to pull over and offer their chauffeur services to Misters Dee and Dumb. But there they were - givin' it the ol' trade school try. And that's a story I got to laugh over later with friends, plus get to pimp out in a blog and no doubt will re-tell any time I see a shirtless man in cut-off jeans.

So while I am slightly in love with my new Martha Stewart towels - I am ever reminded that the best things in life really are free.

Queries of an Insomniac

Okay, fine, so I'm not a bonafide insomniac. But for some reason I am just not tired tonight. I've actually accomplished quite a bit and yes, managed to screw around quite a bit as well. And somewhere in the mix, I've started a list of questions:

What's with superheroes and capes? Okay, fine - Superman, that makes a little sense. Some sort of aerodynamic thing goin', but I've watched X-Men 3 tonight and just can't figure out why Magneto needs a cape. Granted - Sir Ian McKellen is a little on the aged side, so maybe it's to cover his geriatric heiny. I'm still stumped.

Did you know? That the girl from Juno and McSteamy from Grey's are both in X-Men 3? Plus Miles from Lost? This is new trivia that will be in my brain forever, while little by little I forget my multiplication tables.

Why can I never remove ALL of the change from my pants pockets before they hit the laundry? Inevitably, a dime, nickel or penny manages to sneak past my thorough search and opts to clamor away in the drier for a good 40 minutes. I could get up and dig it out, but I might miss the critical juncture where Iceman takes on Pyro. (I embrace my loserdom)

What power over the space/time continuum does YouTube have? I swear, I go to look up a 3-minute video and suddenly an hour has passed. Someone ought to look into that.

What is up with dust? I read somewhere that like 80% of dust is ex foliated skin. First of all, eww and second of all, I'm not sure that's even true. There is simply no way that one woman could ex foliate that much without a pumice and loofah going like 24/7.

These are just a few of the things I'm still pondering at 2 a.m. How about you?