The Joy of a Softened Heart

I read an article recently that sort of rocked my world. It wasn't new information that necessarily knocked me over, but rather my receptiveness to reading how a biblical relationship should look that surprised the pants off of me. (Not literally, of course. I'm a la-dy!)

If you look back on some of my older posts about relationships, it should be obvious that a whoooole lot has gone on in my heart. God has been trying to shape this little girl for decades, but I refused to let him in. I refused to let many things in. (As I've shared before, my friends lovingly referred to me as "Alcatraz" because of my complete unwillingness to express emotion or be vulnerable.) 

Lock-down notwithstanding, I still managed to get hurt and have my heart broken by boyfriends, friends and even family. I wasn't protecting anything, but rather closing myself off from the offer of His sovereign love, an acceptance of which would free me to approach my relationships accordingly: not treat them as my subject of worship and therefore set myself up for inevitable disappointment. This is not to say that I no longer believe in or have faith in people. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm more open to love and intimacy than I've ever been before.

(Side note: I'm drafting this in Starbucks while listening to Joy Williams's "Speaking a Dead Language" and my eyes are filled with tears. How's that for growth? I'm showing emotion in public, y'all! More importantly, I'm fine with it. It's a joyful experience, truth be told.)

The difference is that I know my identity and my happiness are safely in the hands of a loving, almighty God. I know that people are broken, sinful and feeble. (And, truth be told, I still sometimes lose my focus and misplace my affections.) In spite of this, we can glorify Him by sharing life together, encouraging each other, loving each other and keeping one another accountable.

The article above considers relationships between men and women seeking marriage (or not, in the case of modern dating). I, for years, excluded God from my relationships. Even if we went to church, it was just that: going through the motions to check that item off the list. Can I be all that surprised that I have yet to marry? (I don't bemoan that I'm of a certain age and haven't yet had the privilege of a family and marriage. The desire is definitely there, but I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I've checked myself before I've wrecked myself.)

Without assuming too much about my current relationship (in terms of what is in store for us), I will say that letting Christ lead your time together while dating (and seeking a guy who is willing to step up and guide the relationship while submitting to God) makes a world of difference. The focus becomes learning if you're a good partner for someone else; not finding the right person for you. As broken people, we can't expect perfection. But we do. I certainly did.

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It's far easier to pursue being the women I know God is calling me to be (which is quite far removed from the identity I created for myself) when I place my trust in Him. Relationship-wise, that requires trust in my fella, which is much less of a challenge when I place that faith in someone who isn't a bonehead. (Ladies, don't date boneheads.) Trust, we struggle: with each other, with ourselves, with what God expects from us. But the best stuff comes from struggles and changes. My heart didn't soften overnight, and it certainly didn't happen while I was being carried around on a cashmere pillow and fed grapes. (But how rad would that be?)

I don't pretend to be on a steady path to blissful happiness. I am stubborn and prideful as can be, so I expect some loving shakes and sacrifices along the way. But I am immensely thankful for God's intervention in my life, for opening my eyes and finding a home in my heart.

Follow the Leader

Growing up, nothing could get me riled up more quickly than someone (wisely) advising me to reconsider my fierce independence (-slash-borderline-man-hating). I was raised by a super strong mama and a not-so-involved dad, and gathered from the feminist literature in which I immersed myself that to be intelligent and successful, I needed to embrace being single or at least ensure I was wearing the proverbial pants.

Oh, Natty. ((Pats teenage self on the head.))

I am not, for the record, blaming feminist literature nor my parents for these beliefs. Rather, I wish I had recognized and sought godly women to teach me what it meant to be a stand-up gal and how to look for an equally-stand-up guy. I was going at it blindly and making all the wrong assumptions. But I don't think this is unique to my nuclear family. How many of us find ourselves without a paradigm, without a "good" example of a positive, healthy, loving relationship to emulate (or at least think we are without such an example because of pre-conceived notions of what this should look like)? We're a very unique generation, certain that our parents were wrong, yet ingrained with many of the same attitudes that resulted in whatever dysfunction we know of as "marriage."

Thankfully, my heart and my head have been shaped to understand the marriage relationship in a completely different way than I ever before considered. During an 8-week seminary course (a Titus 2 study) at a phenomenal church I attended while living in Austin, I learned more about what it really means to be a woman--and what that means to my relationships--than I had in 29 years of barging my way through what I assumed was true womanhood. (I come from a nuclear family that positively associates loudness with rightness.)

For the first time, I understood the importance of seeking a godly man, and am now experiencing the absolute joy of partnering with such a fella. Truth, it's not always rainbows and sunshine, and I'm going to be challenged. But I don't expect nor want it to be "Yes, dear" all the live long day. I want to be led and know that I must be trusting and willing to follow in order to facilitate leadership. There's just no way around it. I want to change and grow, and that certainly doesn't always happen gracefully. (I won't even tell you how ugly was the process that got me to this point, but let's just say the levels of hot mess have been epic and sad.)

My journey of growth and understanding are far from over. (Thank you, God!) But I am so thankful to have made enough headway to appreciate the leadership qualities in my honey and to respond accordingly to such love and conviction. I can't wait to see where God leads us next! 

[Women's Writes] Hormones are no joke, y'all...

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of May, we’ve chosen to write about Women’s Reproductive Rights and Issues. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read the first installment, click here.

This post is not going to be some diatribe about freaking the eff out on the boyfriend/husband/stranger on the bus because “he sniffed funny” in your general direction, and then blaming this behavior on the monthly cycle we ladies know and loathe. (Oh please, Gods of Foot-in-Mouth, don’t let anyone post about said bashed topic.)

Nay, I’d like to talk about the mother eff of a conundrum in which we ladies find ourselves when it comes to selecting a birth control method. I’d like to be PC and include the boys in this, but...well...y’all have the luxury of a fairly simple choice between one of a few birth control methods, none of which suck even an eighth as much as the choices with which we’re left. (Not hating on y’all. I speak the truf.)

It has been a while since Natty got her groove back, but after a few years (SHUT UP) of being pill-free, I am all sorts of pissed off about my options when it comes to keeping my body sans baby when the time does come to once again frolic among the birds and bees. Having been on the pill for almost ten years (stop doing the math...yes, I was young) when I discontinued, I didn’t realize how pervasive were the effects of those little bastards (God bless ‘em) on my body, my moods, my appetite, my sex drive, etc. It’s wacky, y’all! And after two years (and counting...) of being hormone-free (well, of artificial, elective ones, anyway), I’ve never felt better or more capable of keeping my shit in check. (Which is pretty huge considering my "mood moments" sometimes resulted in hurled books--preferably large hardbacks--and abusive behavior toward customer services reps at any given utility company. But seriously, aside from that, I was an absolute peach. Don’t know why things didn’t work out with the dude.) (/sarc)

See, most of the truly effective methods of birth control are as such because of hormones. (I’m not really including abstinence in my discussion of BCMs; though, obviously, I don’t discount that method. I mean, HELLO.) They alter the way our bodies work (by halting ovulation, thinning the lining of the uterus, thickening the cervical mucus...sexy, right?) to ensure that there aren't any unplanned, pigtailed, baby Hot Messes running amuck.

Moreover, I believe that many of the unpleasant side effects are intended to keep the sex from happening in the first place because, let's face it, folks, there is no better insurance against babies than proceeding sans sexing. (Unless you're the Virgin Mary, in which case hormones are likely the least of your worries, Mommy Jesus.) I mean, being an emotional A-bomb is a sure fire way to keep from getting pregnant seeing as how NO ONE WANTS TO BE NEAR YOU when you're vacillating between tears and rage every two minutes.* I swear, it's a conspiracy that the no-baby pill/device-makers have expertly designed, making us ladies look like total basket cases so that we (a) don't steal their jobs (which we could likely do with our eyes closed and in five-inch Christian Louboutins) and (b) don't call our boyfriends/husbands/friendboys on their idiotic behavior. Clearly, we're hysterical. (/sarc) (duh.)

What the hell was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so it totally sucks that in order to utilize safe, effective birth control, I pretty much have to sacrifice my sound mind and lovely countenance. OR! I could use one of those hormone-free contraptions and only risk sacrificing the walls of my uterus.

Oh, the joys of being a lady. (Do I even need to tag this?! Me thinks not.)

*I realize that not everyone experiences the emotional ups-and-downs (to put it really effing mildly) that I did while on the pill, but none of the side effects are generally enjoyable. Except for the bigger boobs. Which I never got. Sonofa.

I'm on to you...

I observed an interaction as a young girl that informed at an early age what I believe about men and how they operate...

My dad was sweeping our kitchen. Badly. He was dusting crumbs to and fro, and basically making a bigger mess than we started with. So Mom grabbed the broom and shooed him right out of his chore. He shrugged his shoulders, said, "I tried," and plopped down in front of the TV to watch the hockey game.

Fast forward to the very next day.

Dad, broom in hand, is sweeping the sidewalk outside of our business. (Yes, we sweep sidewalks. Publicly shared concrete. We like it tidy, folks.) His technique? Perfect. Never once having to backtrack, no wayward scraps, solid coverage, etc.

What I learned from Dear ol' Dad? If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how.

My brother was also a big fan of this technique and used it on more than one occasion growing up (apple, tree). He would do friggin' donuts with the vacuum so he wouldn't be responsible for this duty again, seeing as how we Cottrells are not fans of jacked up carpet patterns. (If you don't understand where my OCD comes from by now, you probably never will.) But after living with him in college, I learned that he is diligent about making sure all the carpet fibers are laying the same direction once he's vacuumed a room. Interesting his sudden skill, no?

The point: most men (see how I avoided the absolute there...even though it felt correct) apply this same strategy to dating/relationships. If you don't want to do something, pretend you don't know how. Don't want to commit? Come up with a myriad of excuses for why you're not ready (as a man) to put a ring on it. Not sure if you're really interested in someone? Cough up a laundry list of "issues" that render you ill equipped to get involved at the moment.

And ladies, for sobbing out loud, this is not a cry for help to which only you can respond by ushering them through this difficult time. THEY'RE FULL OF IT*. If you aren't there to hold their hands, guess what? They'll survive. Even if you are there to hold their hands, they will likely maintain the same stance they told you from the get-go (some call them "red flags," I call them "turn ons"), and remind you of said issues when they break your heart and go marry a twenty-two year old fresh out of college. (Nothing cures a crisis of manhood like a recently sprung co-ed. Bottle it up.)

So what are we NOT twenty-two-year old co-eds to do? Dunno. But I will say that we should at least acknowledge what is likely going on and stop being so willing to accept the crap that is spoonfed to us by these very tasty losers. If you want something, ask for it. If your dude can't deliver and it's something you truly deem important (like, say, monogamy), it may be time to start looking for a guy who can. (Now, after a dozen or so attempts, it may be wise to re-evaluate what you're asking for. Like, a proposal within six months of dating? Maybe not.) But if every time you explain to your friends/family/therapist why you're unhappy with someone, you fall back into a script of excuses, maybe you take a look at all the stuff you are juggling to take care of this basketcase and realize that life (for the most part) should be enhanced by your relationships. Not drained by them.

In short: give 'em the damn broom and make them do it right. Or no dessert.

(You know..."dessert." You probably got that. Just checking.)

*To be fair, it is possible that guys have real, legitimate issues when you come into their lives. For the most part I am saying that guys make up a lot of crap to justify not having to do anything, but they're not always deceptive. Nevertheless, my point stands. Justifiable issue or not, you can't take responsibility for or owndership of an issue that isn't yours. How you respond to what those hurdles mean you are likely going to get out of this guy? That's on you.

A parka doesn't go with my LBD, dammit!

It should be a rule that weather cannot suck on a national going-out holiday such as New Years Eve! Ordinarily I would welcome this cold, rainy day with open, Snuggie-clad arms, but today? Color me ticked off!

It's not enough that my beautiful girlfriends and I will spend half the night wading through drunken D-bags? Now we have to teeter Bambi-style in adorable heels to our destination, all the while praying the wind won't steal our fabulous fake lashes (that's probably just me) or blow up our skirts. (The breeze between skyscrapers in downtown Dallas has been known to provide complimentary peep shows here and there. Ladies, never leave home without proper underpants. For the love.) Not to mention, there's a chance of ice. Alcohol + cute shoes + icy sidewalks = busted ass. (At least Gofahne already promised she'd pick me up if I fell...all the while laughing. I heart her.)

But you know what? In the spirit of new beginnings, I am going to walk it off. Here ends my ranting! (Well, for today. I mean, let's not get carried away. It's a new year. Not a lobotomy.) Tonight will be a blast, come what may, and I am going to get my glam on, weather be damned!

So when you're out and about tonight, children, look for the white girl in the sassy dress, acting out lyrics to awesomely bad pop songs while shaking her frizzy, bat-shit-crazy-lookin' mane to-and-fro, and send a glass of bubbly her way. (But, whatever you do, don't talk to her. No, no. Bad.)

Cheers to all my fellow hot messes out there! Hope you all ring in 2010 with style and grace...or something.

Solitary Confinement {A Throwback Post}

Here's a little ditty that I wrote on January 1, 2009 (at which time I maintained one of those MySpace pseudo-blogs...pfff!). Funny to think that not much has changed (minus my overuse of the word "myriad," thank goodness), though I am planning to venture out into the city this NYE. Stay tuned for that hot mess...

To ring in 2009, I decided to stay in and enjoy myself...alone. My mom called about four times last night to make sure I wasn't hanging from the shower head*, which was sweet, but reminded me how easily people can miss the point of choosing to spend a holiday/evening/weekend alone.

Just when I was starting to send a mass text assuring all that I was not, in fact, home wallowing and sobbing into my veggie kung pao chicken, I came upon a section of a book I've been reading here and there while cuddled up on the couch. It's a book about Audrey Hepburn. (I know I'm a little late on that band wagon, but I am so charmed by her grace and history; I've finally--like so many--taken to following her story and films as of late.) There is a chapter dedicated to Audrey's home life and it goes into detail about how much she enjoyed solitude, even before she became Audrey the Icon.

She said (in so many words) that there are few things more sublime than being at home, in your own space, alone and secure. She went on to explain that there is nothing lonely or sad about her spending so much alone time in her home because a friend is always a phone call away or could walk through her door at any moment.

I love this explanation because it so elegantly communicates what I've always felt about being on my own. I can happily eat a meal, see a movie, read in Starbucks, travel, drive....all by myself and never once feel lonely. I know my friends are a text away (since we all know how much I dislike talking on the phone). And nights such as last night: I could have gone to a myriad of parties and get-togethers. But staying [in my cozy apartment], bundled up and watching some great movies, is what felt best to me. There is nothing worse than being Sad Sally, all dressed up at a beautiful bar/club, thinking about escaping or getting drunk and dwelling. (Lord, there is just no saving me when I get to that place!)

Anyway, I just wanted to post a little something to (1) assure that I am alive and well (mentally and physically!) and (2) shed a little light on how I feel about spending time solo. I know some of you are the same way, so maybe that little Audrey moment will come in handy when you have to explain to your mom that you won't be drowning yourself in the tub anytime soon with "I Can't Live if Living is Without You" playing in the background.

*I am not one to take suicide lightly and have certainly dealt with it in my own life. Please don't take offense to how I am talking about it here. It's merely part of a humorous anecdote and does not reflect how I truly feel about the subject. But that would not exactly be an entertaining way to start my blogging streak of 2009, now would it?

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before...

Don't get me wrong: the division of the friends following a breakup is super sucky, especially if you have a long history together. But, by far, the worst, most devastating part of a split is having to take a break from the radio.

And your whole CD collection.

And any live music venue with a band that might play a chord that even resembles one of the songs from the Black List.

The Black List is comprised of songs that have lost their brilliance and beauty immediately upon the severance of your relationship. Songs that once pulled at your heartstrings and made you smile like a giddy fool, eliciting thoughts of making out in the hallway leading toward the bathroom at your favorite bar (HOT.) or rolling around between the sheets (minus the static cling and tugging of the hair, unless you're into that sort of thing...), now result in a clenched fist and decisive smashing of the tuner.

The good news: once you've reached the "he's a dumb ass and I'm waaaay better off" point, you can successfully re-incorporate these songs, CDs, venues, etc. back into your repertoire.

But if you really want my advice (and who doesn't want that?), don't ever, ever, ever associate your all time favorite band and/or album with a significant other. You'll never listen to it the same, and some things should remain sacred, just between you and (insert band name here).

I mean, no one comes between me and Paul Meany. Well, except maybe the rest of MuteMath. But I'll take the whole lot. I'm a lover.

A Hottie Grows in Dallas

(Yes, I'm blogging about boys. Get over it.)

I went out two consecutive nights this past weekend, which is pretty much Spring Break status for this old lady. I joined Shine, Gofahne, Graygrrrl, and many other awesome ladies to celebrate someone's 30th birthday. (I won't say who.) (Bwahahahaha!) (It's only funny because she doesn't look a day over twenty-two, but acts twice as cool as...well...pretty much everyone.)

Anywho...

I have been a bit pouty as of late due to my prolonged singledom. (There is probably no greater understatement.) (April, stop laughing!) My eye is not easily caught, and I started to think that perhaps I was a wee bit dead on the inside.

And then we went to Bolsa. And I had a total come-apart.

Twice.

I am not going to go into too much detail here (as I have a few loyal guy followers and would rather not alienate them completely), but let's just say that I'm reborn. As of Saturday night, I'm feeling aaaaaaaallll kinds of situations on the inside.

What did I do about these feelings, you ask? Oh, well nothing. Duh. I mean, these DVR'd episodes of House aren't going to watch themselves if I'm out gallivanting around with Mr. Serving Up Some Sexy (which, really, applies to the bartender and/or the waiter). Let's not get too crazy, folks!

P.S. I still blame the polenta. Or maybe the delicious, delicious dirty martinis, which also made me realize that I am a total priss. (Yup, a priss who cannot form a sentence when Mr. SUSS grazes my arm as he presents my plate of beautiful, fancy veggies. I'm a bit of a riddle.)

A Throwback Kinda Guy

The last time I made a laundry list of qualities I wanted in a mate, God (being the comedian He is) gave me exactly what I asked for. This taught me a very valuable lesson: we silly humans don't know what the hell we really want/need. (And also, I apparently wasn't specific enough when I made that list. I failed to request "Not a cheater" and "Not an emotional hot mess." My bad.)

So in devising a new list for my next four-year-long disaster (because, apparently, I've learned not a thing), I've decided that I want a throwback dude: a clean-shaven crooner who has style, grace, and knows how to make a mean dirty martini. (Extra olives, please.) In short, I'd love me some Michael Buble. (But chances are pretty slim that that specifically is going to work out. For starters, I really don't want to date someone who primarily chases models. I mean, I eat.)

I typically lust after wannabe rock stars who (apparently) don't know what shaving is (nor deodorant), and wouldn't know how to treat a real lady (read: not a skank) if their oh-so-bohemian lives depended on it. But I'm changing it up. I like to bathe and smell nice, so it's high time I find a guy who likes to do the same. And champagne. There should be more champagne. Girls like bubbles. And sparkly things.

Now I'm not saying I want a squeaky clean square. I do love a boy with a lil swagger and sass all his own. But classiness has been underrated in my book for far too long, and I intend to remedy this oversight starting now.

Where, pray tell, will I find such a prize in Dallas, you ask? No effing clue.

Ain't that a kick in the head?

I Ain't Stuffin' Nothin'!

I feel like a bit of a loser because I am contributing absolutely nothing to our Thanksgiving Feast this year. This is ludicrous for two reasons:

1. I love to cook. I heart Food Network and all the wonderful network chefs, as well as the beautiful dishes they whip up and serve with the most elegant presentations.

2. I am 27 years old. I can't get away with the "kid's table" rules anymore (though, let's be honest, I am still a bit of a hazard where fiery hot surfaces and lickable spoons are involved).

Yet, I am still usually charged with the simplest and most unimportant of duties: filling the deviled eggs from the pastry bags overflowing with goop and preparing the veggie tray, the latter task consisting of simply picking up the veggies from the cutting board and placing them in the tray. Look out, Julia!

Coming from a long line of amazing and savvy cooks, this is a travesty. The fault is all mine as I refuse year after year to step up my game. (Get it? Game. Turkey. 'Cause the...nevermind.)

I love preparing dinner parties, replete with appetizers, dips, desserts, and (of course) a ridiculous amount of cheese. But when it comes to offering ONE DISH to the feast, I am an utter failure. (Hee hee. Utter.)

Maybe this has something to do with me also being the only single person at the gathering. Hmmm...baking begets coupledom? If so, hand me an apron because I am about to bake my ass off!

How Not to Get Smacked

I understand that every gal is different when it comes to the most effective wooing style. (Side note: How stupid is the term "wooing?") And though I am the first to throw a hissy fit when someone rubs me the wrong way (happens every 2.5 minutes while in public), I do feel it is a bit unfair to chastise guys for their lame ass attempts at catching a girl's attention if I don't provide a little insight into why certain strategies are wholly ineffective, if not extremely irritating. This is all from my perspective of course, and I am admittedly quite the bitch when out in public, especially in the typical "pick up" environments such as bars or clubs/lounges. But in an effort to quell my abrasiveness, I am going to simmer down and "talk" it out.

1. Girl's Nite Out - If you see a pack of cute chicks, dressed to the nines, chatting away, and completely ignoring every other aspect of their surroundings save for the perfect sing-along or booty-shaking tracks, leave them be. Guys, I know it's difficult to understand, but sometimes girls like to get dressed up just to look pretty. For each other. Nooooo, this does not mean we ogle each other's cleavage while pillow fighting and braiding ponytails. But we do enjoy getting fancy and dressing up to par with our beautiful, fashionable friends. The subsequent confidence and carefree vibe is what attracts you to this magnetic group in the first place, so look on in awe, appreciate, smile, and stay back. If one of these hunnies is interested, she'll catch your eye and step away from the pack. That's allowed. But let it be on our terms. Or face death by extreme ridicule and hateful stares. Your choice.

2. Dancing Queens - Whether you see another lovely pack of hot girls shaking their money makers on the dance floor or just a few pretty ladies amongst the crowd, be sure to respect their dancing space, as well as their personal space. If you haven't uttered so much as a word to each other, do not immediately sneak up behind Hot Girl and start grinding your baby maker into her backside. NOT. COOL. This is way creepy and may get you punched in the jimmies. Stay a respectful distance when approaching (FROM THE FRONT) and wait for two things: (1) her to catch your eye and smile, and (2) her to orient herself toward you. If she turns her back to you (or is doing the sprinkler, in which case you should just bow down in awe and let her bring the house down in peace), or starts doing the pseudo-lezzy dance* with a girlfriend, grab the boys and back away with grace.

3. Wingman - If a pretty lady is standing with or around another guy and clearly chatting with him, this is not some sort of challenge to which you must step up. (And while we're at it, if you see a ring on that finger, don't be an asshole. I don't care if she is undressing you her with your eyes. Don't be an accessory to adultery. Ever.) This gentleman could be a "platonic friend" (don't even get me started on that...) or even a brother, but until you know for sure, don't swagger over like Don Friggin' Juan and start spitin' your game at this girl. The assumption of availability can be both insulting and get you in big trouble. There is nothing more off-putting that being out with a new guy and having some asshat follow y'all around, trying to wedge himself between you two. If I was interested in having you holler at me, I'd keep my distance from any other guy so as to seem single-and-ready-to-mingle, not cozied up enjoying my date.

Now, I am the first to admit my hypocrisy in that I tend to be drawn to aloof jerks, but I am also exceedingly stern when it comes to respecting boundaries.

I am a riddle, wrapped in cynicism, topped with chocolate sprinkles.

Have a great weekend and try to behave.

*I am not a huge fan of this tactic, but I have had enough experiences with disrespectful guys who don't get the subtle hints (such as back turned--not an invite, by the way--toward them, avoiding eye contact, shaking head "no," etc.) that I understand why a lot of gals do this. Though, even that's failing anymore. Jerks.

On Applying the Friendship Paradigm* to Dating

*As I have been told I come across as pompous (read snotty bitch) when using esoteric words, here ya go:
par-a-digm (noun): a philosophical and theoretical framework of a scientific school or discipline within which theories, laws, and generalizations and the experiments performed in support of them are formulated

I am officially embarking on a new experiment.

(Pause for reaction.)

I seem to be more than capable of fostering balanced, meaningful friendships with my many awesome girlfriends, but when it comes to boyfriends, I am hopeless. It seems I have mastered the art of identifying and acquiring (wc?) said friends, but, for many reasons (a list blog waiting to happen), I seem to have the absolute worst taste in men and should win a medal for consistently picking the prize emotional disaster out of a dating hot mess haystack. Granted, none of these mistakes have ever hit me nor engaged in any other (ostensible) emotionally abusive behavior, so I guess I should give props where props are due. Way to go, idiot self.

So, in an effort to avoid spinster cat lady status, I am going to give this whole dating thing a go. Yes, I realize it's unnatural and wholly unnecessary to consciously wait a whole year between relationships to give things another try, but that's just how I roll. I've reflected my ass off.

To reduce the likelihood of another harrowing relationship, I am going to try and apply the approach I use when selecting girlfriends to picking potential beaus. It's all in the attitude: act like you don't need the shit, and they give you the shit for free. Or something like that. I don't have to have a boyfriend (or husband, for that matter). I would like to have one. A good one, even. This blasé attitude toward a significant other may explain my prolonged singledom, but I think it also makes me a great candidate for finding a legitimately cool mate, in that I don't jump in head first just because some hot dude gave me the eye. (Well, not anymore at least.) Same thing with my girlfriends: I don't have to keep my friend roster chock full in order to feel loved. In fact, I prefer having fewer, close friends. This should serve me well when it comes to dating too, me thinks.

Because I am not trying to sleep with the ladies with whom I go out on a regular basis (not that they aren't fabulously sexy and totally do-able), I am utterly myself, a fact that may or may not be appreciated by all. Nevertheless, I can enjoy myself, make stupid, "witty" jokes till I'm blue in the face, eat enough cheese to give Vermont the cheddar sweats, and feel totally unguarded. My tendency when it comes to dating is to do the exact opposite of this: my filter is on overdrive, I take in my surroundings in an attempt to keep quiet by means of overstimulation, and I try to keep my snackage down to a minimum (not that I thinking eating is a turn-off for Pete's sake, but rather the horfing sound I make while inhaling snack mix is not sexy, per se). But to hell with it! If they're ever going to make it to the Sunday stay-in-bed-athon status, they'd better accept that snacks will inevitably make their way into the bed (not in the naughty way), I don't wear makeup on the weekend (unless we're dining with dignitaries), and a fuzzy yellow robe is my idea of boudoir chic. Might as well make that known from the get-go to avoid any confusion and/or disappointment.

Also, and this is going to be more of a challenge, I am going to try and give guys (or at least a few of them) the benefit of the doubt. I believe my girlfriends are awesome until proven otherwise--and even then I tend to renege on my disappointment as soon as we share a good cry and renewed vows of friendship (insert wine here). I am going to at least pretend to believe that some guys can be equally worthy of this level of awesomeness. It's a self-inflicted attitude adjustment, as it were. Many things have occurred over the past year that have given me a renewed faith in men. Long-overdue to say the least, these developments have inspired me to hold fast to my belief that I can find someone who will absolutely adore me and not behave like a total A-hole...at least, not all the time. I mean, an eye for an eye, right?

A League of Their Own

My friends are amazing. I realize that I am inevitably biased in saying this because, well, they're my friends. But they really are extraordinary human beings, even when viewed in the most objective light I can muster. I am in awe of how multi-faceted and talented are my friends, and they never cease to surprise me with their wonderful hearts and incredible minds. Never a dull moment with these women. And I mean that in the good way.

Now, I am not one to equate awesomeness with relationship status. You know this. Nor do I feel that my married or committed friends (haha...committed...like, mental...nevermind) are any less phenomenal because of their respective relationships, but I don't understand how anyone could let my super single gals slip through their fingers. Granted, most of the D-bags that pepper their dating history shouldn't be allowed within 10 feet of them, for everyone's sake. (In fact, I think we should be allowed to institute restraining orders for our friends and their hot mess exes, but that's another blog entirely.) We have all wasted plenty of time pining over and losing sleep over someone utterly unworthy of our time and affection, so those separations are welcomed and perhaps one of the best things for which we can hope.

These women of whom I speak are beautiful, confident, intelligent, witty, fun-loving, domestic, nurturing, reflective, spiritual, cosmopolitan, interesting, and classy. (Though they can still drop it like it's hot with the best of 'em!) And yet, they can't seem to find a good mate. Upon hearing our conversations and musings about the opposite sex, the uneducated listener may think to his-/herself, 'These broads are so picky and neurotic, no wonder they're still single.' But we simply won't settle for a mate who doesn't appreciate who we are, goofy quirks and all. I mean, we're supposed to accept that a 30-year-old man needs to play 10+ hours of Playstation a week, but God forbid we expect you to call when you say you will. Crazy gals, indeed.

I was at a lovely dinner party last night, taking in the sights and sounds (oh, and don't forget the incredible smells) of the preparations of enchiladas, nachos, fresh salsa, margaritas, etc., and marveling at how helpful and savvy are my friends when it comes to entertaining and nurturing their friends (via large quantities of cheesy goodness). These are the women I envision when I think of the kick-ass wife: barrel of laughs, handy in the kitchen, can put together an apartment-worth of furniture without losing a single piece of hardware (or ending up with a spare panel), fashionable, funny, and heartfelt in all that they do. To my point, it was during my moment of musing when the girls decided that we should celebrate each other by gifting lusted-after kitchen appliances and homewares as congratulations for making it to 30 years of age without a miserable marriage under her belt.

The implication here is not that anyone who is married or has been divorced is any less spectacular or deserving of gifts and celebration. In fact, the married ones, especially the mommies, accomplish more in an hour than I do all weekend and usually with zero recognition. And the divorcees are rebuilding their identities and hopes day-by-day, with exponentially more baggage than me (if that's possible). I just wish that we could all know what it is liked to be genuinely appreciated by someone other than our equally-wonderful girlfriends, and to embrace ourselves as whole and worthy of love in our own right.

And some good ol' snogging wouldn't be too bad either.

Back away slowly from the single girl...

I can’t entirely take credit for this topic as it was explored in an episode of “Sex and the City,” much like any other fun topic worth thinking through publicly. But I have noticed quite a few people lately who feel the need to fix me up in an attempt to assuage whatever anxiety they apparently feel in light of my being single for nine (gasp!) months. Granted, it’s a little odd for me too, seeing as I was accustomed to the same person for a very long time, but I have always been the type who is either wrapped up in a long-term relationship, or utterly single and perfectly at peace with that. I’m not the dating type at all, as exhibited by my inclination to wear a diamond ring on a very significant finger whenever I go out, which does little to curtail most dudes on the prowl in bars, which is disgusting. (Why would I date you if you clearly don’t respect boundaries and/or commitment? Zing!)

I love when people start using gender-neutral terms to ask about my dating habits as of late, inquiring as to whether or not I am currently seeing “someone” or if I have a “mate.” I’m not a lesbian. No problem with that assumption as I consider it virtually innocuous, but I share Miranda’s frustration with the only two acceptable options: dating like a fiend, or assumed lez. I am ridiculously picky and don’t waste my time if I don’t instantly feel that pang in my gut that almost assures I am acting like a bumbling fool in the presence of the dude who has just leveled me, usually without much effort on his part.

But shouldn’t it be that way? Shouldn’t you feel something powerful that draws you to someone, and then delve into a conversation (or whatever…) and find out if it’s a cruel joke that physics and/or chemistry inflicts on its victims? Maybe this is one of many aspects that sets my dating habits apart from others, though I know many, many women–most of whom I consider amazing and intelligent–who feel this same way and will settle for nothing less than being knocked on her arse.

You know you’re a Scary Single Girl if…

- Your boss’s wife plays matchmaker between you and the cute guy who works at the dance studio where her daughters attend class

- You get a not-so-subtle scowl every time you mention that your last relationship lasted four years, ended last fall and you haven’t been (seriously) interested in anyone since

- Your friends wonder what is wrong with you when you don’t accept whatever pass comes your way from Random Bar Dude

- Guys you know give you grief about “intimacy issues” because you don’t jump at the chance for a date (…you know, in light of my pathetic, wounded state)

I could go on for days about this…

But ultimately I just wish that people would understand that, though I am passionate beyond belief (especially about people I adore), I don’t have one night stands or welcome a date simply for a free drink/meal/movie. If it’s not someone who makes me nervous or giddy from the get-go, what’s the point? I understand and appreciate those whose love develops over time, friends falling in love, etc., etc., etc. But that’s not my path. I know that in my heart.

So leave me be. I’m not wallowing, lonely, damaged, guarded (well….maybe a lil), misanthropic, bitter, scared, etc. I’m just single.

Deal with it.