When will he call you?

Ladies, we wait and wait for that phone call, don’t we? Of course, we don’t want men to know that, but men, we are.

The Setting: We either just got home from a spectacular first date, or we have just been dumped by our boyfriend of two years. We are waiting for the voice on the other end of the call to either tell us– “Wow! You’re amazing. I would love to see you again.” Or “I miss you. I was an idiot to ever think I could do better than you.”

But what our irrational-love-infused mind cannot comprehend is that a watched pot never boils (and trust me, I make a lot of pasta!) And it’s the reasoning behind why we do wait. It’s why when we type into Google, “When will he…” call is the third guess Google has for us (propose is first, followed by ask me out). It’s why we go to the bookstore to find the self-help books. It’s why we watch all six seasons of Sex and the City after a breakup. But the answer isn’t in the aforementioned places. It’s right here, on my blog.

So, when will he call you?

Never.

Ouch! Harsh? Perhaps. Truthful? For sure. If it has been over a month and no word from that person, start looking elsewhere. But don’t drown in your sea of sorrow, reader. You’re awesome! Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t see that.

When you’re with a new love and/or have moved on to bigger and better.

Exes always seem to come back at the wrong time (for them). It’s usually the right time for you. You know, when you’ve moved across the country, got more attractive, and have dated at least three men since him. Humor him though! It’s a wonderful ego stroke.

When your phone dies or is turned off.

Going off the grid on purpose is a freeing experience. I visited Vancouver, British Columbia about a month ago, and turned my phone off (namely because I was roaming…) And for those two days, I didn’t care about the possibility of someone not being able to reach me. But have you ever had your phone die unexpectedly when you’re not within distance to a charger? Oh, god! What a terrible feeling. When I got back into the States after my short adventure, someone called me and left a voice-mail.

The moral of the story: leave the country for a few days. He’ll call. Sans passport? Turn phone off.

When you change your phone number.

You decide to do a reckless thing after your breakup. You’re in Stage 3 of I have a Broken Heart, now what?: ANGER. You think, “Oh yeah? He doesn’t want me in his life anymore?! FINE! I’m going to go change my number. Now he will never be able to contact me.” And you do go change it. He inevitably will call because that’s how Life works. And remorse starts to set in. But really, why would you want to get back together with someone who pretty much deemed you unlovable?

If anything, you still have facebook to get in contact with one another.

Calm down, it has only been four hours.

You’re too eager. Let him miss you a bit, yeah? Good.

Not on Valentine’s Day.

He won’t even know it is Valentine’s Day. February 14 is just another day in the year. (As it should be…)

He won’t. He’ll text you.

Along with the rest of my generation, I loathe talking on the phone. We prefer text. I break out in sweat at the thought of having to call someone to set up a hair appointment. What do you mean I can’t do this online?!

So when you hear your phone ringing for some odd reason, don’t get your hopes up! It’s just an automated voice trying to sell you an alarm system.

When he wants to.

Yep. If he genuinely is interested in you, reader, he will call you. It’s hard to wrap one’s head around that but he will. Why? Because you’re awesome and he knows it.

Or you could discard all of these answers and call text him yourself.

*Jamie snapped this shot in Portland, OR.

In Perspective: Unrequited Love

I once liked a boy, who didn’t like me.
A boy even liked me once, but I didn’t like him.

Unrequited love–My marital status throughout most of middle and high school. (Later on in life, I got a bit more lucky.)

Life is rough when you’re a boyfriendless, fourteen-year-old girl suffering from a crazy little thing called unrequited love. (Oh wait, those aren’t the lyrics.) But come on, everyone would have to agree that unrequited love sucks at any age! It fits oh, so, snugly under the category The Worst Feeling in the Whole Entire World. Some other things would include: waking up five minutes before you have to be at work while rushing out the door (sans shower and coffee), experiencing food poisoning on vacation, and having dreams nightmares where one is pregnant (But, man, what a relief waking up!).

Like most teenage girls, my life was defined by the opposite sex. (We can thank Disney for that one.) Did I have a boyfriend? Did anyone like me? Did I even like anyone? I remembering “liking” multiple boys just to increase my chances of getting a boyfriend. It didn’t work, of course. I also remember “liking” boys just to make my life more interesting because what woman doesn’t love to over-analyze when a man says “fine” and “sure.” Does he, like, really mean that? Something is totally wrong.

While most of my friends were out catching boyfriends, I was sulking in my room wondering, “Why not me?” My online and handwritten journals were filled with the unrequited-love blues. After all, it can be quite detrimental to a person’s ego, especially a shy, insecure girl going through puberty. Imagine that you have finally found the courage (it was hiding behind procrastination and motivation, by the way) to go up to that someone, who you’ve only watched from afar, and proclaim your feelings to only receive absolutely nothing in return.

But then again, should we be surprised by the outcome? We aren’t in the movies. Our crushes wouldn’t just confess that they, too, have been watching us from afar all along. This could be the cause of unrequited love! The cause being we are lusting after people who are simply out of our league. When we are younger, our parents tell us we can be anything we want to be when we grow up. In our simple minds we figured we could have anyone we wanted as well, regardless of how attractive they were. We are setting ourselves up to be unloved in return.

Alas, I must touch on both sides of the spectrum. (As I have been found on both sides before.) Surely we have all had our fair share of people who we weren’t interested in, but who clearly were interested in us.

I had a really good friend during my freshman year of high school. The said friend was a boy and he liked me, a lot. (He actually confessed his love for me.) Although flattered, I had no interest in him. I told him that he was my good friend and that’s all I could ever see him as. Ouch, Jamie! On the other hand, I knew exactly how he felt because at the same time I was pining for the popular tall, dark, and handsome boy in the junior class, who had no idea of my existence. Oh, high school.

Fortunately by the time I entered my senior year of high school, I had finally experienced requited love. (I could finally relate to those damn love songs!) So, what’s the secret? Time. I was no longer that awkward 14-year-old girl going through puberty. I’ve continued to grow as a person since then. I got smarter, hotter, and funnier all the while attracting better quality men each and every time. Soon enough, you’re bound to meet the perfect person for you. So don’t worry, pubescent person reading my blog, you’ll get rid of the unrequited-love bug soon enough. Just give it time.

Or maybe lower your standards?

*Getty Images

The Gypsy Gene

I have a fantasy. More than likely, it’s not in the way you are thinking. Oh no, probably not.

I want to be a gypsy. A what? A gypsy? Yes, you read that correctly. A traveler. A nomad. A wanderer. A carnie. A person who doesn’t settle in one place for the rest of their lives. Are you serious? Obviously. What the hell is a gypsy, anyway? Esmeralda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame? No! Not her. Well, sort of like her. Physically, I don’t look like her. I don’t have the dark complexion. I normally don’t go around carrying a tambourine without shoes on. I don’t tell fortunes. Nor do I have a pet goat. (But I sure would be willing to adopt one.) But mentally, we are similar. So while seven-year-old Jamie would have chosen to be the Sleeping Beauty princess (or any of the blonde ones), the almost twenty-three (holy shit! I’m getting old) year-old Jamie wants to be Esmeralda.

I have mentioned sporadically throughout different posts about the “gypsy gene.” But what is it exactly?

The name should say it all: Someone who travels with a group of people and lives off by whatever work comes their way.

This mindset appeals to me for a myriad of reasons. I need to see the world. I don’t like the idea of settling in one place forever. Traveling is good for a person*. I need to see the world. Oh, did I already say that?

Where did I get this so-called gene? Where I get everything else, of course: my mother.

We are all cursed with certain traits that our parents have inevitably passed down to us. When I am habitually five minutes late for everything, I blame it on my mom. While all the kids were getting picked up on time from school and/or camp, I was usually the last one, crying, wondering why my mom forgot about me. When the opposite sex learns that I have never made homemade mashed potatoes, I blame it on my mom. When I have a break out on my face, I can blame it on the oily skin gene.

However, I can’t say I have been cursed with all bad traits. I have an open mind. I am independent. (Even my senior class in high school knew that.) I have a good sense of humor. (I think.) And of course, the most important one: the gypsy gene.

My mother is an immigrant from Germany. She grew up in the northeast, mainly Massachusetts. Left home as soon as she could to head out west to San Francisco. (Gee, wherever did I get the idea?!) Eventually headed to the Tampa Bay area where she has been since. She, too, needs to explore. Her means of touring the world: by boat.

But what is it like to have such a gene? A gene that makes us want to venture out into the world? It’s both a blessing and a curse.

I have been in Portland for over a month, and am already thinking where I want to go next. I’m not ready to settle. I just want to somehow pick a spot on the map, stay there for six months, and move on to the next. It almost saddens me when I think that there are places in the world that I will never get to see because a) I’m not wealthy and b) I’ll probably never have the time.

The good thing is that I have already done the hard part: move to a city across the country, alone. Mentally, I know that if I really wanted to be in England (or wherever) by next year, I could do it. The want outweighs the fear enormously. Monetarily, it could be a different story.

This is what it’s like.

But then again, it’s my fantasy. I’m a hopeless romantic, and I am simply in love with the idea of being a traveler. Realistically, I have two cats, and they’re more like kids than one would think. I would probably be miserable doing whatever work I could find. I know that I am too much of a dreamer, and I’m just romanticizing the idea of never settling down.

Besides, I’m just getting used to Portland.

* “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.”

The perfect city: It exists, right?

If you can’t find the perfect man, well, you may as well find the perfect city to live in, right? Especially if you’re a 22-year-old recent grad who wants to escape the wretched state of Florida.

And I did just that. I went searching for it.

Now, normally I refrain from telling people to go look for someone to love. This is a dating no-no because essentially the love of your life will find you when you start doing the things you love (e.g. writing). However, like most rules, there are always exceptions.

Most readers may have (or not) been aware of my recent journey to the west coast in pursuit of goal number nine. (My reasoning behind my writing hiatus.) Namely because I enjoyed boasting (on facebook) to my east-coast friends that I was far, far away living three hours behind all of them. I am sure most readers facebook friends will also be glad the moment I stop counting down the days of getting the heck out of Florida.

I like to think that when most little girls were dreaming of their wedding, I had been romanticizing the day of leaving, and living in a new city where I knew absolutely no one. After all, it’s what you do as an adult, right? You go to school, you graduate, and you leave the state nest. That’s not the case for the people who live in a life of security. Fortunately, I am not one of them. My mom says I was blessed with the gypsy gene. I thank her for it.

I was quite certain that the city to complement 22-year-old Jamie was over there, whether it be San Francisco, Seattle, Los Angeles, or Portland. I knew it was where I wanted to be: on the west coast and as far away from Florida as possible. It’s a difficult decision figuring out where one wants to call home. What is a home anyway? The home I have come to known is boring, dull, and monotonous. I have become comfortable. It is my security blanket. It is being with someone because you don’t think you deserve better. Oh, you do. It’s settling in a rut. And it’s not what anyone at 22 should be doing. I do know that home shouldn’t be a place I call wretched or talk shit about right in front of it, but I do. Rather, it should be a place I want to show off. It should be a place where I am proud to call it my home. You know, quite similar to showing off that Mr. Almost Right on your arm.

So, how does one come up with the qualifications for a city to win a heart? Simple. It’s just like my figuring out what the qualifications of Mr. Almost Right would be.

  • It needs to be a blue city. Preferably a blue state, altogether. I’m a liberal stuck in a conservative state. HELP!
  • I’m tired of the humidity and the heat. The city must welcome other temperatures other than “Today is hot. I hope you don’t melt.”
  • Are cars dependent? Yes? Really? This probably means the public transit sucks and the city is terribly spread out. I want it to feel as close as possible to living in Europe (ha!) while living right here in the States. I want to spend less money on gasoline and have my new diet regime consist of living in a walkable city. That way, my city will never leave me for getting fat. (Or that Mr. Almost Right.)
  • The average age and IQ should not, I repeat NOT, be 75.  Plain and simple!
  • Our values should be the same. I’m not religious, so I would like to stay away from the Bible belt.
  • Also, I believe spending time with good company is more important than working in an office for eight hours a day. I don’t think making the most money equates to being successful. Which kind of also means, I hate big corporations and I would rather support a local business. Which also, ALSO means I don’t want to live where chain-restaurants align the streets.
  • I like to think I am creative. Naturally, I want to live in an artsy city. I need inspiration!
  • Okay, I know this is really shallow, BUT I want to live in a pretty city. Florida is just plain ugly (and flat), and I cannot take it any longer. Give me mountains!
  • I don’t want to be within driving distance just to the beach. I don’t like the beach. Give me mountains!
  • Last, but not least, I want my new city to make me feel like this. You know, like a bunch of hippies dancing.

I knew I would find it here. It hit me when I was inside strolling through the world’s largest independent book store, when I was deciding what to eat amongst the city block of food-carts, when I was being serenaded to on the streets by a guy from Boise looking for a few extra dollars, when I was taking in all the green landscape (Oh, and there IS a mountain), and when I was getting around the city without a car.

My mom said I would just know, and sure enough as I was people watching alongside the Willamette River I knew this was where I wanted to be. I wanted this to be my home, for now. I wanted this to be the place to show-off to my east-coast friends: See? It’s possible! You really can leave Florida. Do it while you still can! Do it before Rick Scott ruins this place! Now! Hurry!

Although I’m sad to leave my mom, I’m so, so, SO ready to leave this place. And I am. Today.

Adieu, Tampa.
Bonjour, Portland.

That girl.

She’s the girl you see at the bar. She’s usually laughing (it’s more than likely infectious). She’s sipping her cocktail, and has an amazing pair of heels that complement her attitude. Men are gawking, all the while. Each of them discovering the words pouring from her mouth, fascinating. They all stare at her lips in anticipation of what will be said next. I never know what she is saying, (Hell, it could be rather dull) but I still envy her.

She is confident. She is funny. She is attractive. She knows this while she looks at herself in the mirror, getting ready for the day. She can easily charm the people surrounding her. Why? Why does it appear to be so easy for her? What is her secret?

Is it because men are surrounding her? Does that make her more confident? Because she has often been told she is funny by the opposite sex? That she is attractive? That the words eloquently rolling off of her tongue are fascinating? Is it the shoes? Or is it all an act?

I’m insecure. My choice of shoes (flats) reveal my fear: the humiliation of falling in public. I laugh a lot to fill in the awkward gaps where small talk should be placed. I’m an introvert. Words don’t eloquently pour out of my mouth. I mumble over my words when I don’t re-play in my mind eight times of what I will say out loud.

I am uncomfortable in my own skin.

Even if I get the slightest attention from anybody (namely the opposite sex) other than who I am with, I think horrible thoughts. Oh, dear! Did I forgot to wipe all the toothpaste off my face? Is my zipper undone? The thoughts are never him possibly thinking: Wow, I think she has an amazing smile! or She seems like a real, groovy chick. I want to discuss the meaning of life, and what she would do if life handed her lemons. (I would peel them, throw them at people and hope the juice would get into their eyes.)

I often wish I was that girl at the bar.

In the beginning of relationships, I have that confidence. I feel like I am that girl at the bar for a moment or two. Inevitably, when I get dumped, I’m back to who I previously had been. (Or maybe it’s who I’ve always been.)

After my break up with A, I vowed to myself that I needed to be on my own for a while. During most of those two years together, I relied on him to be the one to tell me how great I was. The one to tell me how lucky he was to be with someone, like me. The one that broke down my barrier, releasing my confidence. It was always a relief when I could finally be myself around a person and they found it absolutely charming. (No, really! I am quite funny.)

I relied on reading self-help books and talking to anyone who would listen to my whining about the break up. I kept reading and hearing, “You must learn to love yourself. Otherwise, if you can’t even love yourself, how could anyone else?” What does that even mean? I do love myself! I think?

No I didn’t.

Otherwise, I would be comfortable in my own skin. Right? I wouldn’t need to rely on the opposite sex to tell me how fascinating I am, nor would I need a man to be happy. That’s the problem with most relationships. More often than not we aren’t in love with ourselves. We rely solely on one person (who aren’t even ourselves!) for that happiness. Rather, the person should just add to your already batch of happiness.

That’s the girl at the bar’s secret: she is in love with herself. She really is smart. After all, it makes sense. Yourself wouldn’t let you down. Yourself wouldn’t go cheat on someone else. Yourself wouldn’t break your heart.

But how does a person fall in love with themselves? It seems like it’s awfully hard to start over with yourself, especially after knowing yourself for 22 years. But if I looked at it from the other spectrum, a break up is really just a new beginning. It’s the perfect time to start over. (Even if it’s just dying your hair a dark brown.)

Since mid 2008, I have kept my vow and have been on my own. I’ve been unhappy, but I’ve also been quite happy with where I have been. I am in love with myself. I think?

I recently was asked, “Are you really in love with yourself, Jamie?” I quickly said yes. But then I thought about it.

I’m still terribly insecure with myself. I blush when I get compliment from someone. No! You’re just being nice! I refuse to accept that he thinks I’m attractive when I have no makeup on, and that my arms are perfect just the way they are.

Maybe I really haven’t been all on my own. Perhaps the person I am now isn’t truly the person I am supposed to be. I’m hoping this move across the country will allow me to become the person I am supposed to be. This will be the ultimate test of being content on my own. I will be in a place where no one will know who I am or have ever been. It’s a fresh start. I won’t be judged if I go against the norms of who I used to be. Those negative thoughts when I get a double-take from someone will remain here, in Florida.

When I am the one telling myself how great I am, the one breaking down my own barrier to release my confidence, and looking in the mirror believing that I really do have an amazing smile, will be the day I can say I am truly in love with myself.

An open letter to my ex-boyfriends

Dear Ex-Boyfriends,

I realized I never got around to writing any of you a letter. Firstly, do you even remember me? I wouldn’t want to send a letter to someone that hasn’t the slightest idea of who I am. But you should. I was once a very important person in your life, as you were once number one in my life. (Perhaps a big mistake on my part. Never make someone your priority if you’re number 12 on their list of Things to Do.) Nonetheless, we used to see one another every day. We laughed. We held hands. We had romantic walks along the beach as we discussed the meaning of life. Inevitably, you told me you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. (Each and every one of you.) Nonetheless, you broke my heart. (Each and every one of you.)

I proudly decided you were once worthy enough to have my heart, which I purposely enclosed in bubble wrap, placed into a box, which was then wrapped four times with a chain and locked shut. As I handed you each the key, I said “Don’t ever take this out of the box or else…” It was very much like Pandora’s Box because you couldn’t resist not seeing what was inside. All  of you opened the box and left it unprotected on the ground, releasing evil (heart break) that could not be undone. Inevitably, you all fell out of love with me. Nonetheless, when I met someone new, he would pick up the unprotected heart, pack it in bubble wrap, place it back in the box, bind it with a chain, and seal it shut with the lock. Nonetheless, like the previous person, he wanted to open up Pandora’s Box.

I couldn’t help but ask myself What happened, ex-boyfriends? It actually didn’t appear so… clean. It went a little more like this: I was sobbing, uncontrollably. My hair was a mess, snot was running down my nose, all the while yelling “W-w-w-w-what ha-hap-happened?!”  (And you thought you had already seen me at my worst, when waking up. ha!) I was crying to anyone who would listen: my mom, my walls, my cats, my shower, the radio, a stranger on the street. I cried at work. I cried in restaurants. I cried while driving. No one who listened had an answer, and so I kept fucking crying. I thought you all might hear me if I cried long and loud enough. Again, there was no such luck.

But eventually, you weren’t the first thing I thought about each morning. Eventually, I was no longer the girl who cried in restaurants. Eventually, I got over it.

I occasionally peek on some of your facebook pages to see what is new in your life. (Actually, it’s to see if you two have finally broken up. No? Oh, well, I guess you two really are suited for one another then.) Some of you haven’t changed. Mentally, at least. Physically, I can see you’ve finally put some weight onto your lanky bodies and appear to look your age. Congratulations.

But I, too, am different since we parted ways. Mentally, I’m much smarter (No, really! I’ve my college degree now to prove it. I am still looking for a wall to hang it on, though.) I’ve realized that none of you ever deserved to be placed on that pedestal and I was wasting my time crying about you to strangers. Physically, I am much hotter than you last saw me, too. I know one of you used to tell me to go brunette, but I never listened to you. Guess what? I finally did it. I decided to get rid of those blonde locks and go a dark, brown. Chocolate brown #6 to be exact. It really make me eyes pop, just like you said it would. Thank you.

Speaking of thank yous. I’m truly writing this open letter to thank you for breaking up with me. No, really. I thank you for breaking my heart. I thank you for releasing the evil from Pandora’s Box. It has helped me learn how to be content on my own. It’s helped me figure out who I was meant to be. Otherwise, I would still be in those miserable and masochistic relationships. I would still be that girl who had big dreams, but would never get around to them because I was settling for each of you, instead.  Thank you for helping me be that one step closer to being with that bigger and better someone.

Signed, sealed, delivered. I’m no longer yours.

Alpha male versus Beta male

Good evening, ladies! Welcome to the main event of the night.

Introducing first: Fighting out of the blue corner, this man is an Alpha Male. He stands 6-feet-1-inch tall, weighing in at 185 pounds. Women find him attractive and hot. He is cocky, unemotional, and can be described by friends as dominant and a leader. He enjoys working out, playing sports, and acting tough.  He fights out of Cincinnati, Ohio. Introducing Max…”Protein Shake”..Powers!

Fighting out of the red corner, this man is a Beta Male. He stands 5-feet-10-inches tall, weighing in at a mere 152 pounds. Women consider him intellectually stimulating, and cute. Maybe. He is insecure, sensitive, and can be described by friends as smart and quirky. He enjoys reading, playing guitar, and writing. He fights out of San Diego, California. Introducing Seth…”Word Nerd”…Cohen!

Cue the howls of the ladies in the crowd.

Introducing our only judge of the evening, Jamie Lee. She’s had multiple years of ranting, raving, and writing about the opposite sex, and has tasted a bit of each of the two types. And tonight, ladies, she will be making the final decision of who captures her heart more often than not.

Let’s get ready to rumble!!!!!!!!!

When we first meet someone of the opposite sex, and haven’t heard the knock from the thought that asks, “Do we or do we not want to have physical relations with one another?we base the answer on the person’s physical appearance. Is he tall? Check. Does he have hair? Check. Is he wearing jean shorts? No? Good.

He moves on to the next round because we have said “I do” to the aforementioned question. Or at least didn’t cringe at the thought of it.

Alpha males know they are attractive. Sometimes it’s confidence. Sometimes it’s cockiness. (Other times, it’s just denial.) Alpha males usually win if placed against a beta male. It’s life. It’s social Darwinism–only the strong survive. Yet, in this case, it’s whoever looks more appealing to the woman. But how long are good looks really going to last? His big muscles aren’t going to be the one to tell you how much he adores you. His big muscles, however, will be fishing for compliments. And that is just stroking more of his ego.

In high school, began my fascination of baseball players. At 15, I quickly learned that they were the epitome of a good-looking alpha male. They weren’t (normally) overweight like American football players. Their faces weren’t covered in a face mask, making the sport more enjoyable to watch. They walked around school with an aura of confidence. They knew they were good looking.

But I am insecure. I am an introvert. I admit that I can be socially awkward at times (because I abhor small talk). I am a listener, and often get told “You’re so quiet.” Naturally, I was attracted to someone without those said qualities. Alpha males are the complete opposite of me.

Yet at the same time, alpha males intimidate me. Whenever I muster enough courage to talk to one of them, the conversations are quite dull. (Not because of me. Duh.) But something is missing. Alphas usually think Will Ferrell is hilarious. (He isn’t.) Alphas normally enjoy working out, and inevitably they are athletic. They smell of testosterone, even after out of the shower. They rely on their good looks to attract a female. Plus,

Men who are too good looking are never good in bed because they never had to be.

To be with an alpha male is simply a fantasy. It’s similar to what a child thinks when he or she hears the words Disney World. Their eyes light up with anticipation. Their stomach does a flip when the thought of meeting Mickey Mouse. But a visit to Disney World smacks them with a dose of reality: it’s a tourist trap with a mob of people who are all trying to meet Mickey.

It’s the idea that seems entirely wonderful. But I know I’d be disappointed because the relationship is based purely on the sexual attraction of one another. There would be no witty banter, no intellectual stimulation of the mind or laughing out loud when hearing the words reverse Boston creme.

After the physical attraction simmers down, I try to learn about this person. I want to know everything I can to see if there is something other than physical attraction. And I’ve finally found the question to ask someone of the opposite sex to decipher whether or not he is an alpha or a beta.

Do you prefer cats or dogs?

“Dogs,” he says. Alpha.

“Cats,” he says. Beta.

“I don’t like animals,” he says. This interview is over.

The epitome of a beta male.

If he is a cat guy, I am instantly smitten. I know his type. He’s a beta male. Think: fictional character, Tom Hansen. Or real life James Franco.

Betas are the right-brained men of the world. He is usually the creative type, with a big imagination. He reads, he writes, and he cooks. He is a dreamer and is musically inclined. He is a sensy. All of these are deal sealers.

He usually gets looked over by women because he doesn’t fit that mold that society considers “hot.” But rather, cute. However, this should not be considered a bad thing. Cute means personality. Hot means dull. (Remember that, ladies.)

He is smart. He is witty. He is the kind of man who makes the almost-perfect boyfriend. He knows he isn’t Brad Pitt, and makes the effort to woo you with his words and his charm. He appreciates you, even with your flaws.

He is a beta, and he is the type to completely capture my heart over and over again.

I’m looking for Mr. Completely Opposite of Me

I normally would never kiss such an ugly man, but I cannot resist those charming words coming from his lips. nom, nom, nom.

You like coffee. He prefers tea. You’re an idealist. He’s a realist. You do take-out. He insists on cooking every meal. You like cats. He has two dogs. You’re water. He’s oil. You’re a Virgo. He’s a Pisces. You believe in astrology. He thinks it’s absurd.

You two are opposites, but are attracted to one another.

I’ve always believed in this theory of opposites attracting. I’m not the only one either, as screen writers insist on playing upon this notion all the time: a vampire and a human, a beauty and a beast (just creepy, really), a porn star and a straight-arrow high-school senior. But I cannot say it’s because of movies that have my believing of the idea. Sure, Jamie, sure.

Keep reading! I will blow your mind. Or at least think, Hmm! She may be onto something.

I’ve dated a person who was completely similar to me, and a person who was quite opposite of me. The latter one stuck around longer, so my theory was gaining points among the skeptics. Of course once we broke up, my critics stuck up their nose thinking, Told you so! Scoff! While my fans kindly told me, you’re too good for him, any way.

Thanks.

So, why do opposites attract? Jamie’s theory is quite simple: because she subconsciously or not looks for things in the opposite sex that she so often lacks in herself. A great cook. Take-out. Good with numbers. Uses fingers to count. Being a realist. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas while living in Florida. English accent. American accent. Having dimples on the cheeks. Having dimples on the wrong cheeks. Confidence. Insecure about said dimples.

This would inevitably mean I have all the qualities he is lacking. It creates the ultimate duo. The as-perfect-as-it-will-ever-be couple. The kind of relationship where the two people complement one another so well. That both of their strengths put together would make the whole pie, rather than just bits and pieces of the pie.

You often idealize your future fantasies out loud: I want to be a globe trotter, and conquer the world! Where he kindly would bring you back to reality: Jamie, you need money and a plan. You often find yourself running out the door five minutes late. Where he kindly would set the alarm clock five minutes ahead.

It would be this lovely, harmonious balance of a give-and-take kind of relationship.

When opposites attract, and a relationship has been formed, both people in the duo would introduce each other to new experiences or thoughts one might never have come to before. He likes hiking. You never thought walking could be a hobby. You like astrology. He never thought someone could actually say no to a potential suitor because the person is an Aries based on what pseudo science says about Virgo-Aries compatibility.

However, this does not mean the two should be completely opposite when it comes to everything, especially beliefs and view points on life. I don’t think I could truly be happy with someone if they believed there was an imaginary man in the sky. I couldn’t. Nor could I enjoy one’s company if he believes life should be viewed through a conservative lens. Unless he likes political debates, but I would get exhausted yelling back and forth at a wall. Have you ever tried arguing with a conservative?

Exactly.

Valentine’s, Schmalentine’s Day.

Being single on Valentine’s Day does not terrify me. It does not depress me. I do not eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, producing moisture on my cheeks, as I watch Lifetime movies. I don’t, as that is terribly cliche. Rather, I  stop at Dunkin Donuts to indulge in a large hot coffee (two Splenda) and a Reverse Boston Kreme doughnut (see below) before work.

In fact, I’ve been single more times than I’ve actually been with someone on February 14. And to be honest, I’m not missing much. What? Chocolate in a heart-shaped box? An impersonal card that some man female copywriter wrote? Flowers?

I will admit, however, I love dining out with a man, so this is inevitably missed. But really, I could do this any other day of the week when a reservation is not needed. (Okay so a man would be needed as well.) I also would probably miss a night of getting horizontal with someone, too.

I do not sulk at the thought of couples being wined and dined in the booth just for two. I work at a restaurant, I see this on an every day basis. Just two days ago, a marriage proposal was set up at the restaurant. Really? Valentine’s Day weekend? How unoriginal of you, man. I also do not become bitter as I deliver flowers to the higher-ups at the newspaper.

Because I don’t fall for the fauxliday that’s created by Hallmark. Some will say that I am just bitter because I’m single. That’s not true because if I wanted someone to take me out tonight, I’m sure someone would oblige to humor me.

So, how did Hallmark come into the picture anyway? Oh, I know.

Think like a corporation for a second. A corporation trying to survive in a capitalist society on steroids. To be considered successful in the world, one must make a shit load of money.

Corporations decided to prey upon the naive consumer, in particular, the in-love consumers. All the while making the single consumer feel bad about themselves for not being good enough, not lovable enough for someone. Maybe I should have bought the anti-aging cream.

Hallmark thought,

“Gee, we need some money. We have all these damn cards and people are only buying them for bat/bar mitzvahs, birthdays, and circumcisions. That’s not making us enough to feed our greedy souls! How about we create some crap holiday where couples show how much they think they love one another. How about a card that reads ‘I love you’?”

“You think people would actually buy that?”

It’s estimated that over $15 million will be spent during the fauxliday this year. Whether it’s cards, chocolate, flowers, or dinner. After all, they’re in the business of money, not love. Like every holiday, it, too, has become terribly commercialized. Christmas is  about camping outside a retail store nine days before Black Friday to get the best deal on a big-screen television.Retail stores will even take advantage of Earth Day to have an excuse for a sale, to have an excuse to get a customer in their store. I hate consumerism.

l’m ending with a moment of Don Draper.

What you call love is invented by men, like me, to sell nylons.

Fool in the Rain

If my life were a movie, there would inevitably be music playing during the big moments of my life: college graduation (not Vitamin C), a career promotion, or running away from a serial killer in the woods, where I inevitably would trip and fall. There would be music playing during the everyday tasks: taking a shower, laughing over a cup of tea coffee with friends, or preparing dinner in the kitchen getting take-out.

There would also be that moment. That moment the audience has known right from the beginning of my life, but I could never see it until the music played. It is the moment where I suddenly realize I have been in love, all this time, with the man who was right in front of me.  Not the man I thought I wanted to be with or was already with. Rather, he was the man who had seen me at my worst, he was the man who listened to my blabbing over old boyfriends who stomped on my heart, or maybe he was the man I detested at work.

And the audience knew all the while, as they watched me go through my trials and tribulations with the wrong men boys. They would scream at the cinema screen, “Jamie! Why don’t you see it? You’re in love with him–that man! Right there! Stop trying to get back with Unofficial Boyfriend or A, as they are both in committed relationships and jerks.”

But the audience heard the music. That was their cue.

I just haven’t heard it, yet. Because my life isn’t a romantic comedy movie, nor is it a romantic drama. (Maybe more of an indie romance because at least those are more realistic.) Nor do I have an audience watching me.

Otherwise, I would get the tall, dark, and handsome man in the end. My ex-boyfriend would come crawling back at the right time, not two years too late, to tell me he was an idiot, an imbecile, a jerk, or other words that are synonymous with “moron.”

Otherwise, I would have heard the audience yelling. Or at least the ruffled mumbles that I knew weren’t coming from inside my head.

Instead, I get the man who’s a college drop-out, not Don Draper a la mode. I get the blonde-haired alpha-male who doesn’t meet my superficial high-standards of being a dark hair, light-eyed beta male. He never knows the difference between your and you’re. He thinks Will Ferrell is god, and doesn’t appreciate witty banter. He prefers dogs to cats. He gets food on his face, and I don’t have the courage to tell him because he should feel that sour cream on his cheek. He doesn’t have quirks, but rather annoyances.

But if Life. As Jamie Writes It was a movie, what would be my song? What song would instantly start, and I would have that moment which always happens in movies? Which inevitably leads to the woman playing a game of Frogger, weaving in and out of busy streets, trying to get to wherever that man is. (He is usually at an airport leaving for Paris or awaiting for his soon-to-be wife at the end of an altar.) What song could describe that I am always a day late and a dollar short when it comes to romance?

It only made sense it would be Led Zeppelin’s Fool in the Rain.

When I realize I am in love with someone, I fall hard.

And the warmth of your smile starts a-burnin’
And the thrill of your touch gives me fright
And I’m shaking so much, really yearning.

But so often,

You said you would always be true
You swore that you would never leave me, baby.
What ever happened to you?

I’m always dumped. But I will continue to wait for him.

Now I will stand in the rain on the corner
I’ll watch the people go shuffling downtown
Another ten minutes, no longer
And then I’m turning around.

I start to realize he may never come back.

Now my body is starting to quiver
And the palms of my hands getting wet

He said he was going to be here. Until suddenly I start to play the game of Frogger.

I’ll run in the rain till I’m breathless
When I’m breathless I’ll run till I drop, hey
The thoughts of a fool’s kind of careless

Because I’ve just had that moment.

I’m just a fool waiting on the wrong block.

The block was never the right one. I’ve been a fool waiting months and months, standing in the pouring rain, trying to be with someone who wasn’t even the right block.