I really want to fall in love.
I tell myself that I do not believe in it, but I do. What can I say? I am a girl.
A silly girl at that that falls in love very quickly with guys who are attracted to me only because they need a friend that they don't want to have sex with.
Sad but true.
A couple of opportunities have presented themselves in my 24 years of life to just give myself to guys that are just as lonely and hopeless as I, and maybe I should have bitten on one of them, but I just couldn't.
You see, I want the love that was promised to me as a little girl; the idea that was formulated in my young, ripe mind by Babysitter's Club books and Lifetime movies that I was definitely too young to be watching. And who could forget Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club? Molly Ringwald had a way of just stepping into everlasting love, and she wasn't even that cute. She even found love in detention!
I see now that little bits of pop culture helped in creating a massive lie in my mind that is impossible to find and live up to. But damn it, I want what I was promised! I am ready to cash in! And I don't want reality love, but the soapy love that requires no effort like I used to see on TV. To say that I am growing impatient is a massive understatement. Where is my Alex from Ghost Writer? I have gone to every Latin-owned grocery store in Atlanta, and I can not find him! I can not possibly be the only person who remembers the passionate kiss he shared with Tina in the garbage can that episode! Where the Hell is my dumpster kiss?
I guess I was stupid for buying into this nonsense but in my defense, I was a child. Love happened for Cinderella and Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. If it could happen to fictional white women, why not me? I mean seriously, didn't Lisa Turtle even get Zack that one time?
I see my sister watching "Hannah Montana" and "That's So Raven" where all the love interests always reciprocate feelings and are overwhelming loving for their age. I see that she is being packaged the same huge lie in a small, cute, well-packaged gift box. Yet for some reason, I can not force myself to burst her bubble.
I guess in a place like Earth where life tends to have a way of kicking your ass, a little love lie is needed to hold on to to keep you sane and looking forward to growing up.
However, I fear that my sister, who is ten, will grow up to inevitably reach a point of painful irritation where I currently dwell. I guess I just have to tell myself, and one day will have to tell her, that this point in her young womanhood is necessary to appreciate love when you get it...whenever that is.
So until then, I guess I'll just wait on Alex. Hey, do you think he's still seeing Tina?
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Boys: The New Girls
After doing the math in my head, I have come to the conclusion that it had to be around 1978 when women started giving birth to male babies that had a gene that caused them to sprout vaginas around the age of 20-years old.
On Halloween, my girls Dev, Tasia, Court and I went to The Velvet Room for a costume party. And as I expected, most of the guys that showed up did not dress up. They just stood against the wall and made disgusting comments about the girls and the costumes they were wearing. In between comments, they checked out each other's outfits and nursed their bottles of Smirnoff Ice. They were rude, they were obnoxious, and as Dev politely put it, they were "douchey." The thing that stood out most about these guys was how obsessed they were with their appearance. Their eyebrows were shaped. Their nails were manicured. They smelled fruity. And for lack of a better word, they looked pretty. When did it become okay for heterosexual men to be so feminine, and then not just feminine, but assie too?
I listen to the new R&B songs today, and they sadden me. I love Ne-Yo, but his new theme is all about the "independent" woman; the woman that needs no help with anything- a "boss" if you will. I am all for the woman that is not dependent on a man, but I find that in a lot of these song lyrics from Ne-Yo and singers like him, the same thing that makes the woman independent, makes that man pathetic. These new age men love these independent chicks because they pay for their own meals and drive their own cars on dates and pull out the man's chair. Whatever happened to masculinity? Whatever happened to shivery? And why are dating single women okay with this? I am all for "trading places" as my imaginary boyfriend Usher would say, but it seems that traditional gender roles are being shot to Hell. This would be fine...I guess, if it was not, in turn, turning today's young men into...um...bitches. Soft, irritating, spoiled, sorry...bitches! And let me just say for the record that I do not have a problem with clean cut men. There is nothing I hate more than a guy who lets his pants hang off his butt. But there has to be a line between the two to the point that I still at least still consider the guy a guy.
With all this being said, I can not wait for New Year's Eve. I know that all the fellas will be in rare form. Perhaps they will actually where tampons with their fake pinky rings and feax-swade jackets.
On Halloween, my girls Dev, Tasia, Court and I went to The Velvet Room for a costume party. And as I expected, most of the guys that showed up did not dress up. They just stood against the wall and made disgusting comments about the girls and the costumes they were wearing. In between comments, they checked out each other's outfits and nursed their bottles of Smirnoff Ice. They were rude, they were obnoxious, and as Dev politely put it, they were "douchey." The thing that stood out most about these guys was how obsessed they were with their appearance. Their eyebrows were shaped. Their nails were manicured. They smelled fruity. And for lack of a better word, they looked pretty. When did it become okay for heterosexual men to be so feminine, and then not just feminine, but assie too?
I listen to the new R&B songs today, and they sadden me. I love Ne-Yo, but his new theme is all about the "independent" woman; the woman that needs no help with anything- a "boss" if you will. I am all for the woman that is not dependent on a man, but I find that in a lot of these song lyrics from Ne-Yo and singers like him, the same thing that makes the woman independent, makes that man pathetic. These new age men love these independent chicks because they pay for their own meals and drive their own cars on dates and pull out the man's chair. Whatever happened to masculinity? Whatever happened to shivery? And why are dating single women okay with this? I am all for "trading places" as my imaginary boyfriend Usher would say, but it seems that traditional gender roles are being shot to Hell. This would be fine...I guess, if it was not, in turn, turning today's young men into...um...bitches. Soft, irritating, spoiled, sorry...bitches! And let me just say for the record that I do not have a problem with clean cut men. There is nothing I hate more than a guy who lets his pants hang off his butt. But there has to be a line between the two to the point that I still at least still consider the guy a guy.
With all this being said, I can not wait for New Year's Eve. I know that all the fellas will be in rare form. Perhaps they will actually where tampons with their fake pinky rings and feax-swade jackets.
Holly and the Hamburger
The other day I was at work just standing there like an idiot with my manager. No one had come in thus far and there was nothing to do, when this older woman that walks the mall for exercise decided to come in and talk to us.
Among other things, she told us her biography. She used to work for the Board of Education. She had a son and might have had another one if she would not have had an abortion. Luckily, she met her husband, a minister, who saved her from walking the sure path to Hell she was on who showed her that she could "work for the Lord." Now she has a Christian talk radio show and rents apartments in between dodging the po-pos who want to arrest her for soliciting because she preaches on the mall property and gives out free Bibles. 100 free Bibles a year to be exact.
I'm a sucker for a good story, so I was following her seemingly endless rambling until she told me that God had told her to come in and talk to me about losing weight because she witnessed me buying fast food for breakfast.
This annoyed me. Not as much as it should have because this happens to me often. At least twice a week I am approached by some amateur Richard Simmons who has a cousin who lost twenty pounds on the cabbage diet or a daughter who used to be "heavy" until she started drinking Slim Fast for all her meals, including the sensible dinner.
Not too long after my run in with Bible Lady I spoke to my friend Franny; my fabulous buddy that has a fabulous life who is living fabulously in New York. She told me that she is really excited about meeting up in New Orleans in February for Mardi Gras. It will be all of us girls together again for a kick-ass vacation.
Yet, when I think about my last vacation to New Orleans, I think about the wonderful fat intervention that my friends put together for me.
Under the impression that we were going to my friend Mike's apartment for gay and marry conversation, the evening quickly took a bad turn when my homies confronted me about my weight. I guess what bothered me most is that they had to gang up on me instead of coming to me individually. It also bothered me that I fled the bullshit that I was going through at home just to walk knee-deep into more bullshit.
I don't know if the point of the evening was to make me cry or what, but the whole thing was ridiculous, especially when I found out that they had called my other friends for advice and to attend. I had never been so hurt.
My run-in with Bible Chick has put this event on my end again. I think about how it could have been. How funny it would have been if when they were confronting me about my weight I acted like I didn't know what they were talking about as I took a quarter pounder with cheese out of my bra and licked the melted cheese off of the bun.
It also would have been a gas if while they were talking about my fat intake I fell to the floor and had a heart attack. Knock on wood, but that would have been priceless.
The whole thing was uncomfortable. All I could think of was those crack heads on A&E's "Intervention" who think that the cameramen are taking them on a drug run when they enter a room full of their family and friends who are equipped with "I love you" letters and stern faces.
Whatever. I just hope that next year's trip doesn't end up like my previous one. I don't think it will, but I will keep a quarter pounder on hand just in case.
Among other things, she told us her biography. She used to work for the Board of Education. She had a son and might have had another one if she would not have had an abortion. Luckily, she met her husband, a minister, who saved her from walking the sure path to Hell she was on who showed her that she could "work for the Lord." Now she has a Christian talk radio show and rents apartments in between dodging the po-pos who want to arrest her for soliciting because she preaches on the mall property and gives out free Bibles. 100 free Bibles a year to be exact.
I'm a sucker for a good story, so I was following her seemingly endless rambling until she told me that God had told her to come in and talk to me about losing weight because she witnessed me buying fast food for breakfast.
This annoyed me. Not as much as it should have because this happens to me often. At least twice a week I am approached by some amateur Richard Simmons who has a cousin who lost twenty pounds on the cabbage diet or a daughter who used to be "heavy" until she started drinking Slim Fast for all her meals, including the sensible dinner.
Not too long after my run in with Bible Lady I spoke to my friend Franny; my fabulous buddy that has a fabulous life who is living fabulously in New York. She told me that she is really excited about meeting up in New Orleans in February for Mardi Gras. It will be all of us girls together again for a kick-ass vacation.
Yet, when I think about my last vacation to New Orleans, I think about the wonderful fat intervention that my friends put together for me.
Under the impression that we were going to my friend Mike's apartment for gay and marry conversation, the evening quickly took a bad turn when my homies confronted me about my weight. I guess what bothered me most is that they had to gang up on me instead of coming to me individually. It also bothered me that I fled the bullshit that I was going through at home just to walk knee-deep into more bullshit.
I don't know if the point of the evening was to make me cry or what, but the whole thing was ridiculous, especially when I found out that they had called my other friends for advice and to attend. I had never been so hurt.
My run-in with Bible Chick has put this event on my end again. I think about how it could have been. How funny it would have been if when they were confronting me about my weight I acted like I didn't know what they were talking about as I took a quarter pounder with cheese out of my bra and licked the melted cheese off of the bun.
It also would have been a gas if while they were talking about my fat intake I fell to the floor and had a heart attack. Knock on wood, but that would have been priceless.
The whole thing was uncomfortable. All I could think of was those crack heads on A&E's "Intervention" who think that the cameramen are taking them on a drug run when they enter a room full of their family and friends who are equipped with "I love you" letters and stern faces.
Whatever. I just hope that next year's trip doesn't end up like my previous one. I don't think it will, but I will keep a quarter pounder on hand just in case.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Sex Perplexed
When I was in middle school, I had a sex education teacher, this cute petite woman that used to wear coordinating cotton short sets, who stood before the class one day and told us with a smile that we would never regret waiting to fall in love before we decided to have sex.
I am now a 24-year-old virgin that doesn't even believe in love. At this moment in time, I can not think of a decision I regret more than waiting.
I see now what I did not see at thirteen: waiting is not for those that do not have patience.
You see, Cute-Petite forgot to mention that if you are a virgin past eighteen, all you attract is ass hole cherry poppers because all the normal guys dodge you like bullets. They fear that you will get "attached." This may be true, for I can not think of anything at this moment that I am attached to more than my hymen.
Cute-petite also left out that the longer you keep your hymen, the pickier you are about who you let tear it. No matter how eager I am to bone, I just can not see myself under the guys that I am surrounded with; technical school dropouts with blotchy marijuana stained lips and a Black and Mild behind their ear. They usually come equipped with their own customized low-rider, perfect for cruising the mall parking lot or housing some good spirited premarital smashing numerous girls.
I have now even entered that red zone where the doctor offers to break my hymen during pelvic exams. This is something else Cute-Petite forgot to inform me about. Either I lose my virginity to some inexperienced loser in high school, keep my virginity until I'm 100, or lose it on a hard, steel table to a pair of cold vagie tongs.
Then, of course, there are those uncomfortable comments from sexually active people. "I wish I waited," they said slowly with an irritating, stiff smile. "You should be happy you waited," they assure you as they answer booty call texts on their Blackberries.
Do not misunderstand me. I guess that I am proud of myself for having something that most women my age do not have, even if I did not have much of a choice of doing anything besides keep it.
I also understand that I have single-handily lowered my chances of STDs and VDs and blah, blah, blah.
Perhaps I'm just impatient. I don't know.
Either way, I could still go back in time and kick Cute-Petite in her smiling face. She was always so damn happy. I bet she had a lot of sex.
I am now a 24-year-old virgin that doesn't even believe in love. At this moment in time, I can not think of a decision I regret more than waiting.
I see now what I did not see at thirteen: waiting is not for those that do not have patience.
You see, Cute-Petite forgot to mention that if you are a virgin past eighteen, all you attract is ass hole cherry poppers because all the normal guys dodge you like bullets. They fear that you will get "attached." This may be true, for I can not think of anything at this moment that I am attached to more than my hymen.
Cute-petite also left out that the longer you keep your hymen, the pickier you are about who you let tear it. No matter how eager I am to bone, I just can not see myself under the guys that I am surrounded with; technical school dropouts with blotchy marijuana stained lips and a Black and Mild behind their ear. They usually come equipped with their own customized low-rider, perfect for cruising the mall parking lot or housing some good spirited premarital smashing numerous girls.
I have now even entered that red zone where the doctor offers to break my hymen during pelvic exams. This is something else Cute-Petite forgot to inform me about. Either I lose my virginity to some inexperienced loser in high school, keep my virginity until I'm 100, or lose it on a hard, steel table to a pair of cold vagie tongs.
Then, of course, there are those uncomfortable comments from sexually active people. "I wish I waited," they said slowly with an irritating, stiff smile. "You should be happy you waited," they assure you as they answer booty call texts on their Blackberries.
Do not misunderstand me. I guess that I am proud of myself for having something that most women my age do not have, even if I did not have much of a choice of doing anything besides keep it.
I also understand that I have single-handily lowered my chances of STDs and VDs and blah, blah, blah.
Perhaps I'm just impatient. I don't know.
Either way, I could still go back in time and kick Cute-Petite in her smiling face. She was always so damn happy. I bet she had a lot of sex.
The Night Life
Fake boobs. Bad orangey-blonde highlights. Overpriced drinks, high heels, and adorable H&M outfits. Mmmm, it smells like a night out in downtown Atlanta!
I went to college in New Orleans, and got my fill of fun, tacky, drunken night spots where girls take their shirts off without reason and you could randomly get slapped in the face with a line of Mardi Gras beads; places where you would undoubtedly step ankle-deep into a puddle of fluid mixed with barf, pee, spilled liquor and dirty water, but there just has to be something said for the 20-something mixed crowd lounge scene in Atlanta.
A few weekends ago my girl Dev, her sort of beau Milt and I hit up CosmoLava, this hot downtown nightspot mixed with your fill of college students, recent grads, and random old couples who want to slowly grind to Brit Spears dance mixes in suits. Being the voyeur that I am, I spent more time watching everybody than dancing, and as to be expected, the lounge was filled with the usual downtown suspects.
What would a night out in Atlanta be without the line of brothas who stand against the wall staring at each other not because they are bored, but because they are the only people they see that look good? You know the type, the ones that probably have a picture of Kanye West on their nightstand, wear plaid scarves as necklaces, and have that annoying frohawk hairstyle that makes their heads look like neatly shaved vaginas.
Then there is the girl that is already drunk at 10:30, bumping into people and laughing and crying at the same time while her friends try to force her to sit at the bar.
Don't forget about the cute group of friends that show up for their weekly girls night out that don't dance, but just hold each other's hands and weave in and out of the dance floor.
My personal favorite? That has to be those Abercrombie types that wear scarves as shirts and those tight girlie pants. You can just look into their eyes as they sip on their cranberry spritzers and can tell that they just know that they are the snapshots of masculinity.
The most annoying? That prize goes to those VIP people who don't sit in their little reserved VIP area but out in the club while you stand, praying that someone will give up one of those rusty bar stools that take the pressure off your feet and onto your hips and back.
Who would I be? I'm the random fat girl who's wearing that shockingly stylish outfit that you can't believe came in my size. I'm that one that you look at with confusion on your face that you think you are masking, seeing that Fit TV has convinced you that there are no fat people left under the age of 30 that are still mobile. Depending on the crowd I came with, I may be that friend that you hate who stops that drunk girl from blowing you off in the back of your Honda or the girl who grabs that cutie you danced with to go home before you got her number or recited that line you recited in the mirror before you left that $2,000 a month downtown Atlanta condo you rent with nine of your frat brothers. I am the Big Girl in the City or the BG as I have nicknamed myself.
However, do not get confused by my descriptions. I am actually nice.
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