Monthly Archives: January 2011

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

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You finally have the man of your dreams, whom you have been seeing for the last three and half months. It’s established you two are an item, a salt to his pepper, the apple to his eye, the peanut butter to his jelly and, well, you get the point: you’re seeing only each other.

Hello! It’s even Facebook official!

Whenever I meet another potential victim suitor, the question I inevitably ask (and god, do I ask a bunch) at one point or another is, “What is key to making a relationship work?” Some may say respect, communication, or maybe sexual chemistry. All those answers are acceptable, but the one that holds it together is trust.

To make a great and original analogy–Trust is like glue. You need glue (trust) to hold two pieces of paper (hearts) together and with no glue (trust), those pieces of paper (hearts) just won’t stay together.

Of course another question I unfortunately forget to ask is, “What is your definition of cheating?” Presumably, I assume everyone has the same definition. If you develop romantic feelings for anyone else, it’s cheating, emotionally. If you kiss or have sex (and anything in between) with someone else, it’s cheating, physically. If you’re sharing a french fry Lady & the Tramp style [No pun intended], it’s only escalating my suspicion. If you’re having sleepovers that aren’t in our bed, something isn’t right. If you’re choosing to spend time with her over me, there’s a problem. Hell, if you feel like you’re doing something wrong, you’re more than likely! Maybe A and I never discussed this because apparently, in his book, kissing someone else when you’re intoxicated because you thought the person was me somehow isn’t considered cheating.

But I was drunk, and I thought it was you. It didn’t mean anything.

I should have said goodbye then, but I didn’t. He told me it didn’t mean anything, so I believed him. It’s funny how lie is in the word believe.

As soon as I started snooping through his phone or perpetually checking his and her MySpace, was the moment I knew I didn’t trust him anymore. Was I being paranoid? Was I trying to prove to myself in a fucked up way he was going to cheat on me? I looked, and felt crazy, but my gut instinct was right all along. He was a cheater, a liar.  I put him on a pedestal, a place he didn’t deserve. I wasn’t crazy at all.

Before him, I suspected the same with the previous boyfriend and a girl he worked with. Was I crazy then too? Did I inherit some crazy, jealous gene? No. A week after we broke up, he started seeing the girl I was suspicious of, which has me asking: You don’t think he is going to cheat on you either, Other Woman?

Please.

And to even have the audacity to call me a crazy bitch!?

I’ve come to the realization that I am not crazy. I never was. I am just mm, blessed , with a great intuition that if I feel something is suspicious, I am more than likely right. And I think most women will agree that they have this. It’s just their discretion whether they decide to use it or not.

I know that with A, I was just too dependent on him and the idea of being without him was terrifying. I would have rather been with him, be unhappy and continue to get walked all over than to not be with him at all.

It took me a long time to finally realize what I learned from that relationship. I will never put myself in that situation where I am a doormat. I will never jump out in front of a bus to get the opposite sex’s attention. I let him off easy the first time, and he knew he could get away with again, and again, and again.  A man who loves you, respects you, and wants you would never stray or put you in that situation. Ever.

With that being said, my previous relationships have more than likely molded me into being cautious, bitter, and jaded about relationships, but is it going to stop me from wanting to be with another person? Nope. Is it stopping me from wanting to fall in love with someone new? Absolutely not. In fact, I am so eager and ready to be in another relationship. It only took me over two years, but this is exciting for me because I thought I would never be able to make it here again.

Goal number nine

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I’ve started my third book of the year. Goal number three was to read a book a week, so in a way I’m slacking but then again, I’m reading more than I was able to do before.

The last three books, plus the one I am reading now has all had a recurring theme that has stuck out to me: the setting. It’s usually the characters that I want to go further into detail about, but lately it’s the setting. I’m pretty sure I am craving some kind of adventure to a foreign place. I haven’t traveled since May of last year when I went to Key West (it was in Florida so it doesn’t really count), and before that it was in May of 2009 when my mom got married on a cruise ship.

My current read is Lunch in Paris, it’s pretty much Eat, Pray, Love without all the hype so I prefer this to that. Before this one, I read about a woman in Los Angeles. Before that, about a man who hitchhiked up and down 1-75. And way before that, a recent college grad who had no idea what he wanted to do so he traveled the country picking up different jobs every week.

Ever since I decided I wanted to be a starving writer, I wanted to live in New York City. I wanted to be cliche. I wanted to be that writer who moves to a big city to pursue big ideal dreams. I wanted to live in a place I had never visited. New York City was by far my longest lasting crush, all through high school in fact. When I finally had the chance to see the magnificent city in person I had long dreamed of, I fell quickly in lust.

I fell even harder when I had the opportunity to stay for four days in the fast-paced, career-driven city. New Yorkers were rubbing their vibe on me. I was inspired.

But it wasn’t ever goal number nine.

Goal number nine in my life is to fall madly in love with a city that I live in. A city that when I wake up every morning, I’m excited to be there because I know there’s something new awaiting for me to explore. A city that welcomes me every time I step foot on it. A city that is excited for my presence as well. A mutual addiction for one another–the exact kind of love I want.

And after reading a friend’s blog post on her love of New York City, I knew I needed mine.

I’ve fallen in love with fictional characters. I’ve fallen in love with real men, twice. More importantly: I’ve fallen in love with myself. I’ve even fallen in love with material things that quickly lose its spark. But I’m yearning, pining, craving to fall in love with a city that I am proud to call home, wherever that may be.

I’ve been waiting for the day to leave Florida for the longest time. That day was December 11, 2010. The day where I no longer had an obligation to stay in this place I dread. This place that gives me no inspiration, no desire to explore something new, no hunger to be a tourist in my own backyard.

I have been proclaiming to leave ever since I could remember. I never understood how people could settle down in a town that they have lived in since they were born. I don’t understand how people are so content with staying. I thought all people wanted to leave their home state when he or she reached adulthood. I thought that’s just what you do.

But it’s not. When I tell people I am moving to California, another place I have never been to, they give me a face that could be described as confused or unbelieving. That’s all right, I don’t quite believe myself either. I won’t believe myself until I am driving north bound on 19 that I am finally leaving the place that I no longer want to call home.

In March of last year, I was talking to a friend who lives in California. I don’t remember how the exact conversation went, but I do remember him saying that San Francisco would be perfect for me. It’s probably because I’m a pro-marijuana liberal feminist, who was  a hippie in her past life. But that’s okay. I’ve wanted to live in San Francisco way before he mentioned it. I wanted to follow in my mom’s footsteps, but I was sucked into New York City. I placed my California dreams on the backburner. My friend reignited the flame.

I started a fund in June called “Get Jamie the hell out of Florida and to California.” I was making my dreams a reality. I was going to move to San Francisco–the other bay area on the west coast.

Until my best friend from Los Angeles came down in November and planted a seed in my head about moving to LA, instead. I suddenly liked the idea of knowing someone(s) in this new city. But LA? I picture it to be superficial and blonde and, well,  Heidi Montag. Not the pot smoking hippies that I so often envisioned of the Bay Area.

But I went home and researched the hell out of LA. I’d been researching San Francisco for the past eight months, so now I needed to quickly learn about LA: what’s safe and expensive (Beverly Hills) and where to stay away (South Central). I already knew this about San Francisco. I wanted to stay away from the Tenderloin, but I couldn’t afford Nob Hill nor Haight Ashbury. I would have to try for the Inner Sunset with ten roommates. I was going to get rid of my Acura RSX, and my next diet plan was to walk everywhere. The benefits of living in a city that provides decent public transportation and it isn’t so spread out.

Los Angeles, I am painting a picture of you that may or may not be true. I may or may not fall in love with your smog, your superficial Hollywood glam, or I just might. You’ve got hills, beaches, and Michael C. Hall.

You are nothing like Florida. I adore you already.

I think I could fall in love with you. I think I could be excited to wake up in your smog and explore new things awaiting me to discover it. I could be a tourist, but still be able to call you home.

You could be the reason why I can cross off goal number nine. If not, I still have San Francisco to capture my heart. And if California sucks all together, there’s Seattle.

At least I’ve been there.

Check yes or no

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via Getty Images

You’ve been seeing one another for three and half months. You’re pretty sure neither of you are seeing anyone else. At least you aren’t. He calls you baby, you call him bananas, or whichever food item you prefer to call him. You’ve been out on the town together, you’ve slept in together. You’ve met his dogs; he’s met your cats. Things seem to be promising but one little thing is missing.

When is it safe to call him your boyfriend? (At least in front of his face. Technically you’ve been calling him your boyfriend since he kissed you on date number two.)

It would be assumed that as we get older it would be easier to decipher when a relationship becomes, well, a relationship. Or rather when does a pair get the label? The label that I so often dread. The label that seals the deal you’re an item and you go running to the computer to finally change your dreaded relationship status on facebook.

Will he approve?

If we refer back to our younger days, we simply relied on our friends or even notes. We had Susie tell Bobby that Jane liked him, and wanted to know if the feelings were requited. Bobby would then send Susie to tell Jane the good or bad news.

Maybe you didn’t rely on Susie the Messenger, but rather the reliable pen and paper that wishfully read,

I like you. Do you like me? Please check yes or no.

Of course Susie could get the message wrong.

“Well he said he kind of liked you.”

“Eeeek! Really?”

“Or was it kind of did not like you?”

Or maybe your note never got delivered to the right person, and there you wait for days to never hear if he wants to be your beloved. And if you do get a response, it ends up being from that creepy kid in the back of the classroom who picks his nose and wipes his boogers on himself and the letter.

Now that we are so called adults, it would be immature and very much like a fifth grade thing to do to rely on friends or paper. Now a days, we use the internet.

The moment I knew I was in a relationship with an old boyfriend is the day he changed his MySpace relationship status. Sad? Probably. But I knew that it was at least safe to call him my boyfriend without him running in the other direction. The boyfriend before him? I don’t even remember. But that’s beside the point.

When we get older, when do you know you’re in a relationship? It’s almost like the elephant in the room. You know something is going on between you two, but no one seems to discuss what the hell is going on.

Unofficial boyfriend and I never did have the talk, nor did our social media relationship statuses change. It was what I wanted. It was not what he wanted. I mean, he was someone I saw romantically. I enjoyed kissing him, meeting his dogs, and playing scrabble with him. Yet, because we never had the note-passing session he never became official.

Good thing, too.

The First Date Curse

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We have all been there, or at least most of us have. Whether we are only doing it because we want to prove to an ex (yes, definitely him), friends, or family that we can move on or we are doing this because we are in constant search of that Mr. or Mrs. Almost Right.

I am, of course, talking about the first date.

Stepping back into the single’s field is terrifying. Especially if you have been with one person for so many years, months, weeks, hours, minutes, nanoseconds. The idea of having to start all over again isn’t fair. I once read in a book that I thought was great. It said there should be a “relationship equivalency exam: a test that would allow you to earn credit for past dating experience so you could pick up a new relationship where the old one left off.”  Sure, it would be difficult being married for ten years already and wam bam, you have a brand spankin’ new man, but after so many failed attempts of long-term relationships,

Who really wants to start all over?

I'm exhausted. Where is he?

But maybe you’ve had plenty of first dates and it isn’t a big deal for you. Like Charlotte York would say, maybe you’re just exhausted and want to meet him already. You have dates lined up for the whole week. In fact, you even decided to double book because you were just THAT eager desperate. Whatever the case may be, I’m here to discuss the first date.

I’ve had a few first dates in my life.

Another great predicament I’ve heard friends wanting to know: “Is this a date or no??” In which I say, if he is paying, it’s a date. Wait, that sounds like chivalry. It’s dead!

“But he is taking me fishing on his boat!” Well, as long as he is paying for the bait, I suppose it’s a date. Or if you find yourself buying new pants and bra, consider it a date. Others say anything after 6:00 pm. But I tend to disagree.

Thinking back to my first dates, I have found that I always go to the same damn chain restaurant followed by a movie. The order may be switched, but it’s still the reliable dinner and movie. Is it always me suggesting these places? Absolutely not. It must be the men of the 21st century lacking date ideas. Something about being with a stranger in a dark room, not having to speak with them is ideal. Clearly.

I know someone who always goes to pool halls on first dates. Which got me thinking, if these dates never go past that first date, or doesn’t end in wedding bells, is it cursed? After so many failed attempts of going to the same place but with a different guy, maybe it isn’t a lack of chemistry, but the date location?

We’re all about change. Even my man, Obama, campaigned about it. Yet we are so intimidated of doing something new, being in a new environment, or fearing the unknown, we won’t step outside our comfort zone.

Furthermore, if you continue to take someone new to the same place, wouldn’t it just bring up old memories anyway? Sigh. This is where we first ate dinner together in which we built a house with all the sugars, salts, and straw wrappers. He was so creative. True Story.

Cue the tears to start rolling.

Or if you continue to see the same type of people. I somehow always end up being attracted to men born in May. Of course I don’t go picking them, I just seem to be attracted to the always-stubborn-usually-dependable-loves-food-who-is-surrounded-by-female-friends-man. Won’t this just continue the pattern with the same old results?

When the unofficial boyfriend took me on an unofficial date, he took me to go get breakfast, and it was all his idea. For once, I wasn’t taken to a dark room where we weren’t speaking to one another. I absolutely loved discussing his dogs, my cats, and everything in between, all the while having a cup of coffee, eggs and toast. Granted, the unofficial boyfriend would eventually leave me to get engaged with a co-worker.

So even if you do go to a new place with a new man, it still has a chance of ending in wedding bells, just not with you.

Why I’ve finally given up on The Bachelor

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I have this slight addiction to reality television shows, especially the dating shows. The worse, the better. I can’t help it. (I am the same way when it comes to campy horror films.)

Roberto made me swoon. If only I knew him when he lived in Tampa.

I wish I could stop feeding my guilty pleasure but the dire need to know who gets eliminated next is oh, so, filling. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside to know I am not that desperate that I have to publicly seek my dream man. Oh, wait–does blogging include publicly seeking..?

The Bachelor(ette) and women could be described as the equivalent to men and the Superbowl. I hate gender stereotypes!, says Feminist Jamie.

Parties are thrown, the fans talk shit, and there is always that one you want to win in the end.

There have been 15 seasons of the show, while there have been six seasons of The Bachelorette. And one spin-off show called Bachelor Pad. I’m pretty certain I have seen all the episodes.

Until recently.

The latest season is with the returning loser, Brad Womack (see insert left). You see, Brad had his shot already with 25 desperate women trying to bid for his Texas heart in 2007. And for the most dramatic season (wait! that’s every season, Chris Harrison) finale, he dumped both women. Gasp.

:cue the Brad Womack shit talking among message boards:

Watching reality television has somewhat become a ritual with my mom and me. There have been three episodes and I have watched probably 40 minutes out of the possible 360 minutes that have aired already.

Monday evening comes around and I tell my mom that I am going to read or indulge in another reality television show, Bad Girls Club. She seems sad that I am leaving The Bachelor nest, but I’m finally ready to spread my wings and fly away from that dating show. I had a similar realization occur when I decided to leave Cosmo magazine to my high school years. (One issue told me the worst time to date is in the winter. Another issue told me that most breakups happen in the summer. What the hell? When can I date, Cosmo?!)

The writers of the show, because it is scripted, are desperately looking for new ways to top last season’s most dramatic season ever. Whether it’s the man not picking either of the final two women, one of the contestants having a significant other back home, or another contestant canoodling with one of the producers.

After 15 seasons, how can you come up with new dramatic schemes? They write the same characters every show: the mom, the Southern belle, the one-all-the-women-will-hate-because-she-is-hot-but-that’s-about-it, along with Ms. Single and Desperate.

Here comes my liberal, feminist rant:

The show is racist. Even though there have been 15 seasons of this show, not once has there been either a black, Asian, or Latino/a bachelor(ette). There has been the token black contestant, but that’s all ABC is willing to let slide. They usually end up getting kicked off in the first round anyway.

It reiterates my argument about women competing against each other because of a man.

It’s setting up disappointment for women everywhere, especially the poor contestants. Have you seen those first dates these couples go on? Every date, a helicopter whisks the duo away to Las Vegas where Seal will serenade them on their date. Thanks, production! If I ever decide to apply and somehow land as being THE bachelorette, I will tell producers I don’t want that helicopter in my season. The Bachelor likes to give the impression the contestants are real people, you know, as opposed to characters on a scripted show. But these magical dates are hardly real life.

The show is just playing upon the notion of fairy tales: The princess (contestants) waits forever (final rose ceremony) until the prince (said Bachelor) comes (no pun intended) to rescue her (gives her a rose), where she will fall deeply in love with him (but he won’t fall in love with her).

The reality: You waiting by the phone forever, but continually check anyway until you see him with some girl in his default facebook picture. Then you will slowly fall out of love with him.

The show has only had one couple to actually make it for more than a year. (In fact, they did get married, and even had a kid or two.) A show that fails more times than it succeeds, yet it still goes on. I argue the main reason none of the couples last is because a) it’s scripted and b) once the characters get slapped with a dose of reality, they realize they can’t go on a private helicopter to Hawaii whenever they want. The couple has to go to the movies or to dinner to Chili’s. After all, it’s two for $20 right now.

ps. I’m not bitter, but rather a realist.

Dating is a synonym for lying

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via Getty Images

I’ve come to realize I’m not a serial dater, but rather a serial monogamist. Despite reading a book once that said we are actually all polygamists. Sure, most will say, Well, Jamie, I am the same way. But some people can just casually date, which may or may not be beneficial because I hear you’re supposed to kiss a lot of frogs before you find “Prince Charming.” Ugh, the feminist in me cringes as I write that.

I don’t believe in Prince Charming, but rather Commoner Charming. A Mr. Almost Right.

I wanted to believe that I had the I-can-date-you-a-few-times-and-not-feel-bad-about-disappearing-on-you in my DNA, but I don’t. I would rather get my heart broken by one person when he inevitably leaves me after dating for three plus years where I will write about him for the next two years until the next victim comes along. That, or be single in which I have been trying on my single girl swag for quite some time. The time is nearing where I’m ready to hang it up.

One time, I went on a date right after my next-door-neighbor-unofficial-boyfriend unofficially dumped me. My date was a complete opposite of what I’m used to: a 29-year-old police officer from the Midwest. In other words, he hunts, fishes, and votes Republican. Now the irony of all of this is how anti-law enforcement I am and how far left I lean. However, I was strangely intrigued, and wanted to see if there was something. After all, I hear opposites attract.

You know, like, Hugh Hefner and his 24-year-old fiance.

As everyone was changing into their Halloween costume, I was deciding what I was going to wear on this meeting of strangers where they wine and dine with one another, and hopefully an attraction blossoms. They call it a first date.

I started with a dress, then switched to a tunic and tights, then back into the dress, and finally settling for my standard jeans and a t-shirt.

Dating. It’s nice to dress up, get ready for four hours in advance, switching outfits five or six times, but aren’t we just lying to our potential suitor? Face it—we don’t take the time to get ready everyday (at least I don’t) like we do on a date. I’m ready to hang out in sweatpants in bed as soon as possible. It’s my fantasy—staying in bed all day with someone I like, love, adore, need, want, and other synonymous words. (Not to the extreme of the old people in Willy Wonka, but somewhat close.) This is why I’m a serial monogamist. How often can you show up to a date with your hair a mess, without showering, and not wearing your best outfit? It’s very rare, if that.

Some may argue (an old boyfriend) that the moment the sweats start coming out, there goes the end of romance. Most will say (me) that it isn’t about how both of you have stopped impressing one another and getting lazy, but rather this is how most of us are everyday! That’s the whole point of dating—to impress and court and what not. Yet after all of those shenanigans comes the fun part. To me, the best part of a relationship is that moment where you’re both comfortable with one another.

With these differences in mind, it’s just another reason why we have parted ways. That, and he lacked goals.

Dating. It’s expensive. Every time I went to see the unofficial boyfriend, I would run to the mall and buy a new shirt, new jeans, new bra or something. It seemed pointless as the clothes would be coming off anyway, but I still felt like I was in the I-need-to-impress-the-hell-out-of-him stage. Granted we could have gone out more, but we were fulfilling my fantasy, partly: staying in bed with someone I liked, who adored me. Unfortunately, it was never the mutual addiction I craved.

The date met my expectations more or less. He was shorter than what I’m used to, but hey, this is casual dating. I wasn’t looking for a future husband, although he was probably looking for a wife. Nor did I like his chivalrous acts. It’s dead, damnit!

Dating. I loathe it. I hate those awkward moments where no one says anything. We chew bread silently, thinking of what the hell we can say to one another. Fortunately, I was an inquisitive journalism student, so asking questions usually filled the silent gaps.

If you were stranded on deserted island and could bring only three things, what would they be?

“You sure ask the most random questions,” he said.

“Yeah, so?” At least I’m asking questions, I thought.

After our meeting came to an end, and I drove back home, I didn’t know how I felt. I kept thinking about the unofficial boyfriend, with a sliver of Alex. I didn’t feel the same way about my date as I did when I was with them. Sure, he is at that perfect age where he has all his shit together, is great on paper, but that was it.

He was good on paper.

I realize it was the first date, but I figured there would have to be some kind of urgency to see him again. The next day I didn’t contact him. He didn’t either, and I was okay with that. I was beginning to see why men often don’t contact women after a few days. I needed to let it sink in, and see if I was “missing” him.

I didn’t.

He contacted me a few days later with a text that simply read, “Come make love to me.” I quickly deleted him from my phone, from my facebook, and from my memory. 

That was the last time I ever went on a date, and gave up for over a year. But I think I am ready to dive in again. (Or at least get my feet wet.)

Woman versus Woman

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Most women have all other women as adversaries; most men have all other man as their allies.

If you’re a woman reading this, you’ve called another woman a negative name before. If you’re a man reading this, you’ve had a woman call another woman a negative name because of you.

The times I have ever seriously called any girl a name was because of one thing: a man. Women are notoriously known for turning against one another because of the opposite sex. Now coming from a feminist perspective, there are various reasons for this.

First of all, it needs to be addressed that we live in a patriarchal society. In other words, a male-dominated culture, where the man has all the power. More importantly, the white male. (Anything I say beyond this and you happen to be a white male, who’s living in the United States will think I am just a man-hating woman. No, it’s because you are part of the dominant culture and don’t know what oppression would be like.)

Whether a person believes it’s based biologically or socially, men still dominate culturally. Keeping that in mind, when one has power, inevitably they will have control.

As more women are earning their degrees and not economically depending on men, the patriarch are finding other ways to control women and keeping them in “their place.” A great way is to focus on a woman’s physical appearance.

If you (woman) ever found yourself surveying yourself in the mirror, or comparing yourself to other women, you’ve just caught yourself in the heterosexual male gaze. The idea we are looking at other women, including ourselves, through the eyes of a heterosexual male. Think about it–how often are women judging other women on their looks? Whereas, it’s totally not acceptable for a man to judge another without being called homophobic names.

What about breasts being absolutely everywhere? Where are all the penises? Exactly. Don’t get me wrong, I really prefer to not see a bunch of man glands everywhere, but that just makes another great point of living in a patriarchal society and putting up with the male gaze. Breasts are just embedded in our society, where we think nothing of it.

How often do you find yourself dressing to impress the same sex versus the opposite? I will be the first to admit, when I get ready, I am trying to make myself not feel as insecure when I know there will be other women around. Albeit, I still usually feel insecure because some other woman will still have something better.

It encourages us to live in competitiveness with one another and feelings of inferiority when we cannot quite make the standards of beauty and fashion.

Men know this, consciously or not, and it affects women’s insecurity. Thanks to breasts being everywhere, women seem to be getting implants left and right (no pun intended). I’m fairly certain Victoria’s Secret models are put on this earth to make every normal woman feel bad about themselves. But! With great advertising, if you buy their bras, surely you will achieve their face and body.

I have only detested one female. I rarely like to even use that word when it’s dealing with another human being. Why do I hate this person more than anything? Sure enough, because of an old boyfriend.

For the next year after my break up, I would have recurring dreams where I just continued to scream at her, all the while her egging it on. Even my subconsciousness was reiterating this abhorrence for this person.

I hated her for knowing that he was in a relationship, but still pursued him. I hated how she didn’t even think about my feelings. Why couldn’t she put herself in my shoes? I hated how she allowed him to sleep over. Any woman with some respect would say, “No. It’s not a good idea, seeing as you have a girlfriend.” I hated how she was the breaking point to pulling him and me apart. I hated how she was the homewrecker and still received the prize in the end.

If someone can take away the man you love, let her have him because surely he is not worth keeping.

But that doesn’t stop me from having some terrible feelings inside for thinking that because I have a heart.

After reading what I just wrote, why do I not ever find myself blaming him? Ever? It’s because it is so embedded in us that we blame the other woman. Is it because we all feel like women should know better? That it should be known to be respectful of another woman’s significant other? I don’t get it because I would never do that to another person.

We’ve all done it, ladies. We have turned against one another because of a man, who probably doesn’t even deserve neither of our attention. Yet, we still continue to do so. I know there are the rare exceptions to this. You know, the two women who eventually become best friends after the man is long gone? These women are smart and realize it’s stupid to give up a potential friendship for a man. It’s only giving a patriarch a pat on the back every catty fight we have over him and his penis.

Mr. Right: He does exist, right?

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It’s okay to dream. It’s okay to dream of getting away from the place where you grew up despite it being a radical notion to others around you. It’s okay to dream of being rich and famous. It’s okay to dream of changing the world.

In fact, I encourage it. I thank my mom. She told me I could be anything I wanted to if I dreamed big.

I often find myself dreaming of doing all of the above.

It’s even okay to dream of your ideal man (in a relationship? You know you wish something would be better about him), as I frequently do. If I were to make a cocktail of Mr. Right, I would need to add:

  • One bottle of Michael C. Hall
  • Six cans of Jon Hamm
  • Seven tablespoons of James Franco
  • A splash of Joseph Gordon Levitt.
  • Shake well, and enjoy the Mr. Rightini for Jamie Lee

He has the voice of Dexter Morgan. He has the career of Don Draper. He has the smile of Daniel Desario. He has the heart of Tom Hansen.

He’s out there. Somewhere.

If a genie came to me one day (I imagine him blue, which means I can’t ever ignore a blue person from now on) and told me that he could find my ideal man after I told him my wants, needs, and pet peeves in the opposite sex, this is what I would tell him.

  • Has he been to school? Or at least in the process of finishing? I hope so, Genie. This is a must. He needs to appreciate the difference between your and you’re, along with other homonyms. I need an intellect.
  • I need someone who communicates, sans text messaging.
  • He also should have goals in which he actually pursues. If he wants to be a musician, does he at least have a reliable day job?
  • Tattoos are cool. (As long as they’re tasteful.)
  • Scruffy faces are sexy. (Even if it d0es gives me whisker burn.)
  • I’m 5’3” and perhaps you will think 5’7” is tall enough for me. It’s isn’t. I strive for at least 6 feet. This usually isn’t an issue, though. Most handsome men just so happen to be tall. It’s the other parts that they may lack.
  • He should be confident, not cocky. There’s a difference.
  • I want a relationship where it’s a mutual addiction for one another. I’m tired of the one who kisses and one who gives the cheek. Can’t we just make out? Be indispensable to one another? Eat up each other’s ego and attention? Please?
  • If he hunts, fishes, and votes Republican, he must be eliminated, Genie.
  • No alcoholics. I dated the I-have-to-go-to-a-club-to-drink-every-weekend-guy. It gets old.
  • What I do want is someone I can go to a hole-in-the-wall bar with, share pitchers of beer while watching a baseball game.
  • Speaking of which, is he a baseball player? nom, nom, nom. Preferably not the cheating kind, but a girl can dream, right?.
  • No smoking cigarettes.
  • I can’t date someone who is religiously religious. We’re all going to hell anyway.
  • Someone who will clean up after I make dinner/mess in the kitchen.
  • Does he wear jean shorts? This seems so trivial, but it tells a lot about a man if he wears  cut-off denim.
  • Like most women, I want someone funny.
  • Unlike most women, I don’t tolerate Will Ferrell-funny. I want a man dripping with sarcasm as we banter back and forth.
  • Oh, and he must get along with cats. At least tolerate them and not be allergic.

It truly doesn’t feel like a daunting list, Genie. I sincerely hope you can locate this man.

Facebook Etiquette 101

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tbt* once featured a story titled “Facebook etiquette: 10 Commandments.” The writer wrote a few in which I agree, and I thought that I shall come up with my own.

After browsing through my recent news feed of facebook friends, here’s what I have come up with.

1. Thou shall post statuses that constitutes as a full sentence and punctuation, including the correct pronoun.

Facebook has users everywhere using third person. (Third person? What’s that?) Perhaps it’s to deter users from being egotistical and constantly talking about themselves.

  • Real example: Lisa Gibson* Theres a boy in town who says hell love me forever :]

I understand what Lisa was trying to say, but punctuation is your friend! It really changes the meaning of the status. Hell will love you forever? And if so, should we really be smiling about that? Assuming hell exists.

However, it should be noted that she did use “who” instead of “that.” Good job, Lisa. Sort of.

2.Thou shall not post 10 or more statuses in one day.

Come on now!  You’re not that important. I have “friends” who post 27 times of what they did, who they did, where they were, when they ate, why they did that… all within an hour. These people are just attention hungry and have an addiction to seeing that red flag pop up in the upper left-hand corner.

Hi, my name is Charlie and I have the facebook red flag addiction (The Reflag on the streets).  Hiiiii, Charlie.

Just try and pick one great status for the day, like me.

3. Thou shall not friend someone you would never be friends with, in real life.

I once had an old boyfriend’s new girlfriend “friend” me. Really? I understand your neediness to see how I am doing–without your new boyfriend. I would never hang out with you in real life.

But for the record, I’m great.

Like with most rules, there are exceptions. I recently decided to accept a friend request from an ex–only because it had been a sufficient amount of time since our departing ways. However, I will never hang out with him despite his relentless need to see me–in real life. But I felt it was more appropriate to keep in touch with him–virtually.

This caused him to delete me. Some things never change.

4. Thou shall not post pictures of you flexing, or of your half-naked model shots on the beach.

Again, you’re just attention hungry. Go feed your ego an apple and call it a day.

5. Thou shall not “like” every page.

I understand that you like “I love eating the salt at the bottom of a bag of pretzels!” but I don’t care–and how often are you really interacting with the people that share your love of pretzel salt? Exactly. And yes, this is really a group page. Search it.

6. Thou shall respond back to a message.

It’s just rude and annoying.

7. Thou shall not leave a friend request awaiting confirmation.

Unless it’s the old boyfriend’s new girlfriend, then you should just deny it. But come on, it’s embarrassing to be in the limbo of “to friend or not to friend?” I’d rather be denied. Oh, and what’s really cool is that facebook likes to make it difficult to cancel your inebriated self’s really great decision of friending that person.

8. Thou shall not send multiple event or page requests.

I do not, I repeat, do not want to attend the dance off, your rap concert, or join the “I love eating the salt at the bottom of a bag of pretzels!” group.

9. Thou shall not post depressing statuses about how you can’t get a boyfriend, disappointed with single life, and man hating.

  • Real example: Terri Schmidt* Why do I always get my hopes up???…I’m just not gonna try anymore, maybe something good will eventually come along…

Whine, whine, whine. ::cue the violin::

10. Thou shall not post or tag friends in embarrassing or incriminating photos.

It’s not cool to have my mom, my former professors, and potential suitors see that one night of me drinking and dancing. Let friends tag themselves.

11. Thou shall not post multiple pictures of just yourself (especially if taken in a car)–that aren’t your default picture.

Again, you’re not that important and really, what’s the point?

[*Names have been changed for obvious reasons.]

The Office

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via Getty Images

Most of my resume experience has consisted of customer service jobs, which includes either the hospitality business or retail. Dealing with the public everyday is stressful, irksome, and tiresome. However, it’s the type of job everyone needs to do at least once in their life. That way, dealing with the public wouldn’t be so stressful, irksome, and tiresome.

When the chance arose to work for the local newspaper, I jumped right on it. Not only is it opening the door to the career path of my choice–publishing–but because I wouldn’t have to necessarily feign happiness to hungry, irate patrons.

This is my first office job.

I was excited to finally expand my wardrobe to the cute office wear that’s sold in stores. When else would I wear the cute dress with the heels? Like with most pros, there comes a downside. I justify all shopping purchases with, “But I need it for work.” I don’t.

I’ve officially been here for sevenish months and this is what I’ve learned thus far:

  • I say “hi” to everyone I see in the building; regardless if I know his or her name. It’s very similar to when people are on boats and they wave to one another.

You’re on a boat, too?!”

Wave.

“You’re stuck in this office for eight plus hours, too!”

Wave.

  • Everyone loves food. I mean, LOVES food in this building. My mom says there will never be peace in the middle east, as it has been going on for centuries. However, I’m pretty certain if the assistant from editorial baked her homemade red velvet cupcakes, and shipped them to Al-Qaeda, there would finally be some peace in the middle east. That, or just be smart and leave. Food brings everyone together, despite one’s differences.
  • I still have to deal with the public when he or she feels their tip should be an above-the-fold story. Fortunately, it’s not face-to-face. My eyes rolling can’t be heard through the phone.
  • I find myself leaving work wondering what I even did to pass the time. When I leave my restaurant job, I know what I did. It involves dealing with the public, and me ready to go home to drink. At the office, I find myself spending hours browsing the internet that have nothing to do with work. This, however, does not mean I am not a hard worker. It means that I am not used to this much downtime, where you must FIND the work to do. Whether that involves cleaning the desk, organizing the morgue (similar to where the dead are stored, but think newspapers instead) or making labels for the phone.

via Blackberry

 

I realize I am paying my dues working these menial jobs. I do. I try not to take my two jobs for granted. There are plenty of people who would be thankful for having one job. One job that would earn  barely over minimum wage to support themselves. I get it. I am completely happy with my employers.

However, I’ve just been working the humdrum jobs since I was fourteen. I’m a college graduate, who is ready for the career. Whatever that may be.  One day I am so sure I want to do design. Then I want to write. Then I want to go to grad school. Then I want to travel the world. Then I want to be a reality television star. Then I want to be a high school teacher. Then I want to teach English in a foreign country.

Whatever it is, I do know that I don’t want to be the copy machine aficionado for the rest of my life.