Single in Saint Louis: Guy Requirements

Relationships: Grudgees, Ending Friendships, and Learning from Siblings

Thu, 08 Dec 2005 15:43:21 GMT

I do not study the morning before exams because of test anxiety. I only organize my stuff for the exam. So, I decided to write an entry that is not exam related. Yeah! Liberation! Even if just for 1 hour!

Some people just deal with things differently. I have never been much of a grudge holder. I quickly realized at a young age that this often led to being taken advantage of, but I just don't see the point in a grudge. To me, it isn't about the other person in the argument. It is about me. Why prolong my hurt feelings, my anger, or my pain? It is easier to just let it roll. If I was really hurt I will just leave that person. Then just let it go. I would rather just not have the person who hurt me affect me anymore. Those strong enough to forgive and forget will become friends. Those who are not, will drift away.

This was the gist of a big problem in a relationship I had once. I let things roll, he held grudges. In a week, I would forget we had an argument, and he would still be brooding. I would remember the argument in its shell outline. 1) What sparked the argument, 2) Why we had the argument, 3) What we discussed in the argument, 4) How the argument was handled, and 5) What became of the argument. Then, I would decide if it was worth losing a friend over. He would remember details and every word said to hold it against me in a later argument. To add to the turmoil, I have a very vivid memory. He would take things out of context, or tell me I said things I didn't say. It became very confusing and frustrating. Which is where I would scream. There is only one reason that people scream. It is because they feel like they are not being heard. And if there is one thing I cannot stand it is screaming. If you are screaming it had better be for a good reason. Most of the time, in this relationship, it was just because I felt like I wasn't being listened to. I wish I would have known then that it was a warning sign that things were not going to work out, but sometimes you learn from making mistakes.

Although detail use makes for an excellent method of cross examination in a court room, it was horrible in personal life. You are not in front of a jury, you are at home. You are convincing one person who knows you very well, not twelve who hardly know you at all and could care less about you after the trial. Learn to draw the line.

This leads me to the two types of issues that can arise in a relationship.

Oops's: Oops's are forgivables. Like not taking out the trash, forgetting a birthday or anniversary, buying a wierd christmas present, saying you will call and forgetting to call (Assuming you are still wanting to call), having to cancel a date because you had a car accident, or even just not quite understanding how to communicate with the other person early on in the relationship. Little things. Things that can be chalked up to learning how to communicate or freak accidents. Oops's

Then there are the unforgivable sins: Adultery, Cheating, physical or mental abuse, neglect, abandonment, disrespect, prolonging a relationship far past its due date, being the center of your own world and not ever caring about the other person in the relationship, never doing the little things that really count, and not being able to let the little things go. If you commit an unforgivable sin you are immediately at the mercy of the person you sinned against, and you better never do it again if they even consider taking you back.

Sometimes relationships end because of big things like the unforgivable sins, and sometimes because you just grow apart, but they should never end because of the little things. Growing apart usually makes for great friends if you have somehow managed to work past your feelings (see blog entry on being friends with an ex) and if you can be grown up enough to see that hurt and pain doesn't last forever. However, when a relationship ends for an unforgivable sin, very rarely will two people be able to stay friends. Even after the pain subsides, unforgivable sins come with incredible distance. You must choose your battles wisely, and only fight when fighting is truly needed.

Picking Battles

I think this understanding of picking battles comes from having a sibling. Even though my sibling is a lot older than me, we did live in the same house for awhile. You learned to pick battles and love in spite of the battles you choose. You do not just learn to love from your parents. Sometimes you learn from a brother or sister. I was lucky enough to have a brother. Which has given me insight into a whole world of guys I would otherwise have never known. Restored a certain amount of respect and faith in the opposite sex, and helped me to hold out hope for someone who does not brood. I understand exactly the level of importance looks plays to most quality men and how they learn that those looks are not very important sometimes. Although, just as with women, it would be nice to land a looker. I have seen a boy cry over a woman, be scared of women, and angry with a woman. And contrary to the usual image of girls, I am a bit protective of my older brother. My sister in law had to pass my test, and let me tell you, many failed. Watching the two of them play videogames together did me in.

As for me, I want a guy who can pick his battles wisely, doesn't brood, and who I can imagine would read books with me, paint with me, and dance with me. All things the guy mentioned in paragraph two would not do. Not too much to ask, I know they exist. I have a brother who would.

The Stormy Stormy Night

Mon, 07 Nov 2005 03:22:59 GMT

I have never been very fond of thunderstorms. I believe this has something to do with being from Oklahoma where nearly every thunderstorm is accompanied by at least a minor natural disaster if not a major one. Needless to say, because Oklahoma has such incredible storms, our meteorologists are really really good.

For 20 years of my life from the first clap of thunder until the last strike of lightening, I would keep my television on waiting for a tornado. I prefered Gary England. Famous in Oklahoma. He would explain what the stuff on the radar means. What the colors mean. Where the hook echo is. Why tornados are usually riding the front of the storm. Why the little black spots meant hail. Something about learning what was going on soothed my fears about the storm. After watching 20 years of storms via radar, I can now officially read the radar. (Which was entertaining to anonymous him, as he kept me safe from the storm last night.) Reading radar is a great party trick. On that same note, there are entire nights when the evening news is dedicated to a thunderstorm. Beautiful Oklahoma. There is nothing like seeing the lightening strike the plains or hearing the thunder echo between the buildings. Everything is so flat you can hear the thunder while it is miles away. Bottom line, if you grow up in Oklahoma you deserve an honorary degree in meteorology.

Here, in da lou, things are much different. First, occassionally someone might notice a thunderstorm and it make the weather section of the news. The "huge" storms they have usually consist of a 20 minute thunderstorm with some hail that melts before it hits the ground, and 3 claps of thunder, which you usually can't hear because the sound is blocked by mountains or buildings. Thunderstorms here are weak wussy storms. They do not even start to compare to tornado alley.

But supposedly, on the outskirts of town they are just as bad. I am not so sure I believe it just yet. The storm last night was a little rougher than usual. It was your usual Oklahoma everyday thunderstorm, but considerably large for St. Louis. It was funny. People ran scared. I was loving it. I turned on the news to do my obligatory reading of the radar. I listened to the newscaster blab on and on. Then I realized, he was reading the radar wrong. How crazy is that? I guesstimated how long it would take the storm to pass based on the direction of wind flow, the size of the line, and the other relevant factors. The newscaster said, 30 minutes. I said, 1 hour. Sure enough. 1 hour. Thank you Gary England! Poo on you, Mr. St. Louis Weatherman. I win.

It was a beautiful storm. I hope we have a few more just like it! It reminds me of home.

Guy Requirement: Keep me safe from thunderstorms.

Single goes to Chicago

Sun, 30 Oct 2005 18:03:52 GMT

A weekend getaway. That is exactly what I needed to refresh myself for the MPRE. After an exhilirating plane flight with dancer friend filled with practice MPRE questions, that she was enjoying as much as I, we hopped the train the the Hilton. Unpacked our things and went quickly to sleep. The next morning we awoke early to the sounds of the city. Sounds I have become oh too familiar with here in STL (Read Crime for punishment sixology). Then off to a ballet class where people who are far more experienced dancers proceeded to lift their legs above their head and leap 7 feet in the air while making it look easy. As we all know, this is not something everyone can do. Dancer friend and I struggled to catch on, I believe the struggle was apparent. Then out into the town.

The sweet feeling of being swallowed by a big anonymous city. A feeling I remember from when I first moved to STL from Oklahoma. A feeling I had not felt in a long time at least not since St. Louis became home. It was invigorating! Next was a night at the ballet. Then to the signature room at the top of the John Hancock building for drinks. A beautiful view, which brought back some memories. I remembered eating there once with the exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy who is now just a friend and a distant one at that. The memory was from a time he was clearly a boyfriend before the confusion, the heartache of realizing that things just weren't meant to be and nothing could make them be, and before I started to make the conversion to viewing him as a friend, not a boyfriend.

It was August a few years ago. We were right by the window overlooking the entire city of Chicago. There were fireworks shooting off of Lake Michigan. We could see them as they exploded, only we were so far above them. I had been in a really bad mood the entire trip for various female irrational reasons. Then, there was this perfect moment. Almost like an oasis in the tumult of the trip. It was right there in the signature room. I couldn't help but think about it. A beautiful memory. One of those you don't replace or edit. Ever. A memory of a perfect moment. It is fleeting, so it is gone now. Years gone. But nice to think about having been there once. Having had that moment. There have been many moments like this in my life. Perfect. I am sure there will be many more, and sitting there, drinking a chocolate martini, eating tiramisu with my ballet friends, I was forced to reminisce. Have you ever had a perfect moment? I mean a fleeting perfect moment. One that didn't last, but will forever have a little spark in your memory book, just because of the beauty of it?

IN Need of a Personal Assistant

Sat, 15 Oct 2005 12:58:05 GMT

My wonderful loft. It is a reflection of me. From the 14 ft. high ceilings to the billowing peaceful curtains. The couches and tables are all mine. I saved for a year and sold my old stuff to afford them. I own everything here. It is mine. That is the most wonderful part of being an adult.

The crazy thing is, now that everything is mine, the cleanliness of my apartment is the clearest indicator of my mood. Right now. It is a mess. There are clothes strung across the floor, my bathroom needs to be cleaned, my kitchen still has those dishes in the sink, my floors need to be swept, there are dishes strewn here and there around the house, my bed is unmade, and I need, desperately, to do laundry.

My mood feels the same way. I am stressed out. I feel like I have just been going and going and going. Only I am not the energizer bunny. Everytime I settle in to attempt to do the dishes something happens, like...class...or class or class or job searching, a friend calls who I haven't talked to in ages and isn't someone I can just say, "Hey I can't talk right now" to, the neighbor starts a minor fire in his apartment, the monkeys that live upstairs above me are dancing with elephants in their living room, etc... I have a to do list a mile long, and from the looks of things not much time to do it in the next week or two because I have to start studying for the MPRE.

To do...change the lightbulbs in the kitchen and bathroom, do my laundry, study for class, do the dishes, sweep, get a break job and an oil change for my car, Clean out the interior of my car, pay my bills, Make my bed, Go to home depot to get the lights that belong in my kitchen and bathroom. Purge Purge Purge all the junk mail that has piled up on my desk making it all but impossible to do my homework, make sure thanksgiving dinner is taken care of for the out of state student organization for school, and somewhere on this list, Study for the MPRE, go to class, ballet (can be cut back if needed, but should probably go to a class here or there), Send out resumes, get my cover letter in order, figure out why my computer keeps crashing, get a zip drive so I can save my notes from reading, my resume, and all this crap I have been working on for class in case my computer takes a fatal crash, and have all the personal stuff done by October 27 and all the professional stuff done by Nov.4, so I can start studying for finals.

It would sure be nice at times like this to have someone else around to pick up your slack. A personal assistant would be nice. Why is it that only famous people get personal assistants? Why not law students? Med students? I mean, right now I could use a maid and a personal secretary. I suppose this is the down side to being single. With every privilege comes a consequence. Not saying that a boyfriend or husband would pick up the slack, but maybe, just maybe someone might do my dishes.

Guy requirement #1 for SISTL: Must be willing and able to do my dishes, clean my house, do my home repairs, take my car to the shop, and/or do my laundry when I am stressed out.

The Plight of the Ballet Dancer...

Thu, 13 Oct 2005 13:31:25 GMT

Last night right after school I went directly to ballet. Great. The studio was empty. Which was absolutely PERFECT! I propped my legislation book up on the barre and began reading my homework as I stretched. I finished my homework. Nothing distracting me but the screaming voices of "Sauteed! Sauteed!" in the other room. It was very tranquil and productive. I quite enjoyed my homework last night.

Then, I spent 2 1/2 hours in dance class and by hour 2 my feet felt like some strange combination of jellyfish and boneless, skinless chicken. I had three pairs of dead pointe shoes, and was exceptionally tired. My back hurt, my sides hurt, in fact, I could have been hit by a car and felt better. Welcome to work out 101. What happens when you actually try. Then it was time for rehearsal.

By the end of rehearsal, I felt exhausted. I am understudying quite a few dances for Nutcracker this year. I am supposed to be learning them on my own with the video from last year, but I do not have the video yet. So, I stayed to learn the Spanish Dance and the Chinese Dance, and review the Maid's Dance and the Flowers Dance. On my way to learn Spanish I goofed around a bit and decided to also learn Marzipan. Since my homework was done I wasn't in as big of a rush to leave ballet as usual.

Then I thought about how masochistic my artform is. Here I am, on jellyfish skinless chicken feet, and wanting more. "Hey, yeah! I can rehearse now that I have no skin on my toes and my ankles are about to give! No problem! Just let me change my shoes again for the fourth time. That should take care of it." An artform that uses phrases like "Bleeding in your shoes" and "Draining your legs after class." And yet, we still do it and have for hundreds of years. Ballet. Not only do we do it still, but the benefits of it actually outweigh the difficulties, and it is one of the few 'disciplines' left in the world. Only rivaled, I believe, by the martial arts.

So, the moral of the story, the next time you go to the ballet and watch that beautiful graceful ballerina in her tutu glide across the stage effortlessly. Think about this. Her feet hurt, her bones are tired, she is tired, she is counting in her head every mistake she made during the performance so she can fix them for the next, her head is throbbing, the blister on her toe just burst in her shoe, she does this everyday, sometimes for hours, and she is not complaining. She is enjoying herself, and she is enjoying herself for your entertainment.

Go to the Ballet, get tickets and go. It is just as tough and painful as basketball and the players are prettier too.

Guy Requirement: Must be willing to go to the ballet with me. At the very least must be willing to dance with me.

Spirit

Sun, 09 Oct 2005 16:57:16 GMT

I actually all but live...in a church. I do not mean this in the metaphorical sense. A very big old beautiful church at that. When you all but live in a church on occasion, you feel compelled to actually attend church. I mean it is convenient and an excellent method of procrastination. Who is gonna hold it against you if you say you couldn't make it because you had an important meeting with God? On a usual Sunday, any talking with God is done via conference call. I sit in my window doing homework and let the religious vibes soak in through osmosis as I eat my turkey bacon and Kashi cereal with fruit in it, alone. This sunday, as happens on occasion, I decided that the religious vibes were exceptionally strong and I should go.

It was awkward at first walking into a big old Cathedral by myself. But there were other people walking in by themselves too. This church is in the middle of the city, so it has less families and more random people, single people, homeless people, divorced people, widowed people, alternative people, older people, and an overall array of people more diverse than your usual suburban church. A lot of people at the church aren't even Catholic. They are just there looking for hope. I know, I have people watched their going to and from church from my window.

I had a moment when I first walked in soaking in the huge marble pillars, the old stained glass, the designs on the walls and ceilings. I know these things have a history, a tradition. Things that for 1000's of years people have been using to understand their religion. We kneel for a king. When someone can't read we show them pictures via stained glass window, statue, or painting. I felt a bit overwhelmed, but uplifted at the same time. Like I was a part of something much larger than myself. Like a community of people who have been around for thousands of years. I felt honored to all but live in a place this beautiful. I mean it definitely isn't an eyesore when I look out my window.

I looked at a man across from me in another pew. He was obviously a recluse of some sort. Sat by himself, muttering to himself, didn't want to be near other people, looked fidgety and scared. And another man. Clearly, homeless. Carrying everything he owned with him. An old woman on the front row with a walker. A family a few rows behind me. Single mothers, fathers, and random children running amok, a man whose wife had her head covered with a scarf. She had come with her husband to his church, she was clearly a practicing muslim who had married a Christian. There were also some nuns without their habits (aka.nunclothes). All singing, laughing, talking. Carrying on. There was no badgering people or asking people to join the church. There was no one preaching about the witnessing duties of Christians. All these people, I might have had a different impression of in a different setting.

However, There was something beautiful about this scene. Something more inspriring than any sermon that could have come out of the actual service. Something more certain than any verse of a Holy Book could ever be, and something spiritual. Something beyond religion. I thought, this is what a church should be, and these are the people of my world.

Then the service began. Much to my surprise, the church I all but live in happens to be one of the most entertaining, fun, and yes, guilt free, catholic churches I have ever been to in my life. Yes, I said Catholic and guilt free in the same sentence. I also said Catholic and entertaining and fun in the same sentence. This is a super cool church. I came home feeling happy, relaxed, and tired. Not like hungover, but like I had just been to some kind of family gathering.

So, Mom will be glad to know. I might actually go back next week. I might go back not to hear the words of Jesus Christ, or to be sucked into the no, ifs, ands or buts, Catholicism that for some reason Catholics think you should be. Not because I have "found Jesus," or feel a need to witness, or because I feel like God is missing from my life. I don't feel that way. I won't be going back for any of that. I will actually go back because of the spirit of this particular church. It is like none other that I have attended in my life. There is something special in the spirit of the crazy people who infiltrate this church every Sunday. Something comforting, caring, loving,and nonjudgmental. Something I think is supposed to be in churches, and is usually missing. Spirit.

Guy Requirement: Must have some kind of positive spiritual base in his life.

Market Trip!!

Sat, 08 Oct 2005 20:58:25 GMT

It is a beautiful fall morning with birds singing and that crisp morning air. It is also 8am and I have just rolled out of bed to the buzzing of my apartment buzzer. It's J. We are off to market. As I have mentioned serveral times before, I love the Farmer's Market. The food is cheap, the farmer's friendly, and the veggies fresh. Doesn't get better than that. J wants to get a fake Lous Vitten purse. We are off.

Since, J had never been the the Farmer's Market before, I felt it necessary to give her the grand tour. It was also a great opportunity to check the prices from the different farmers to get the best deals. (I am cheap. I am still a student). On our way down aisle one, two farm boys started yelling. "Hey, ladies, come eat our grapes!" as they whistled at us. Now, I must say of all the pick up lines. "come eat our grapes!" Is a new one. We went over to the boys and told them we were just making a lap. Then we tried one of their grapes. Huge seedless grapes. Tasted wonderful. We promised to come back. They gave us one hour before they came searching for us.

Then across the way, J saw roses. Beautiful roses. Marked at $7 a dozen. Of course, J immediately threw on her country girl from Iowa flare, "How much are these?" she asked the man running the stand while batting eyes, looking clueless, and giving a 'don't you want the Iowa sweetheart beauty queen to have flowers look?' "$5 dollars a dozen" ooo...that prowess. Never underestimate the power of prowess while grocery shopping. J was a natural at this barter trade stuff. She even knocked down the price on the Lous Vitten purse. Must be those mad negotiation skills we learn in law school. We made our way through the market.

Naturally, when I found out J knew very little about vegetables, I felt honored and happy to get to tell her all I knew about picking out good vegetables. Something I learned from when my parents worked at a grocery store when I was younger, and from a couple of grandmothers who had flourishing gardens. It was the least I could do for someone who has diligently reminded me of Secured Transactions homework, and helped more than once with tackling some shaded-lined legal concept.

Avacados: you don't want them too ripe, but not too tough either. Just squeeze and you finger should dent just a little bit. Onions: no moldy looking stuff growing on the outside. The onion should look a little juicy. Tomatoes: If it looks like it has worms it probably does. There is a difference between hot peppers and sweet peppers and they are not the same a green peppers. It really is a science you know. Picking out veggies, and getting good ones.

Then somewhere between the hot peppers and the Onions, we were checked out. Loudly, might I add by a man walking past. I suppose our sweatpants, tennis shoes, and sweatshirts were high fashion. Maybe it was the fact that J's shirt was glaring Attorney General's office intern and mine screamed LAW STUDENT!!! But I thought this guy was gonna pass out as he shouted "Oh! My Gosh! WOW! They are hot!" As we squiggled past...very very quickly. Once we were a safe distance away both of us busted a gut. Wondering if he has really checked us out or just burned his tongue on a hot pepper. I guess the farmer's market has an array of veggies, but slim pickin for the ladies. Perhaps, it was just the Avacados that did it. I suppose there is nothing hotter than a couple of law students with a sack of avacados.

(See Also Jen's Blog, link on Right for another entry about the Market!)

Guy Requirement: Must be willing to go to the farmers market with me on a Saturday early morning.

Chick Flicks Defined

Sat, 01 Oct 2005 14:24:55 GMT

For the men who might happen across my blog, let me explain the concept of Girls Night. Imagine it is Monday Night. Your two favorite teams are playing football on TV. All your guy buddies come over and you drink some beer, eat some chicken wings, and watch the game. You scream at each other when your team scores a touchdown. You bond.

The girl version of this is Girls Night. Girls Night last night consisted of my baseball friend and myself (see baseball blog entry). Both of us are working toward post graduate degrees and this comes with a bonus: Discounted movie tickets. So, We started the evening at Café Eau, local cocktail and bistro (equivalent to chicken wings). My friend drank a martini (equivalent to beer). I watched (not in the mood to drink). Then, we hit the Chick Flick (equivalent of the football game). Our chick flick of choice was In her Shoes. It was a special feature at the Chase Plaza Cinema.

Absolutely fabulous Chick Flick. One of the best I have seen in awhile. (Like favorite football team winning). Probably since, Bridget Jones (Super bowl of chick flicks in 2001). Loved it. I laughed. I cried. I complained with the rest of the theatre the three times the reel broke. It was wonderful. It takes a lot to laugh out loud in a movie, and everyone in the room was laughing. Even the tag along guys!!

I usually feel kind of bad for the tag along guys. You can always tell these guys. First, they are at a Chick Flick. Second, they are surrounded by a group of girls or are clearly married. Lastly, they did not bring their tag along boyfriend. These poor guys. Obviously, they are forced to suffer through yet another Chick Flick for the lady they love. Sometimes I wish I had a guy who would sit through a Chick Flick with me, but tonight was for the girls.

Guy Requirement: For every movie he wants to see, we have to see one I want to see.

The Pimpstress Mobile Needs a Brake Job

Thu, 29 Sep 2005 21:36:14 GMT

I don't think she is very happy with me. I have kind of let her go for awhile to deal with other things. That is why she has a crockpot in her backseat and a bunch of fast food bags scattered throughout her. I need to give her some attention. To get this much needed attention, what does she do? She starts screaming. She sounds like an airplane ready to land. It cannot be a good sign. Everytime I put on her brakes she was in excruciating pain. She could even hang with the big trucks at stop lights.

She has served me well. Even though I drive her like a bumper car, can't parallel park, and leave her out in the cold and rain. 7 years she has served diligently on the "get SISTL to where she needs to go task force." She has a few battle wounds from protecting her courageous driver. Some bumps, bruises, scratches, and scars. But she is still there, like a sturdy little support system.

Her windshield wipers squeak as they clean my windshield. Her lights shine when it is dark guiding my way. She helps me get from place to place everyday. She moans with me about the gas prices, worrying if she will be disregarded for some other form of transportation. She fights off the evil parking meter people when I have to stay an extra ten minutes at an appointment. She honks at people who try to hit her to warn them that her driver is inside. She waives at friendly police men as she passes them on the road.

Her oil change is almost due. She gets one every three months. The mechanics take good care of her. Like car doctors. Keeping her running. New tires, wiper blades, batteries, and now...brakes. I love my little pimpstress mobile.

If anyone knows a good brake place, worthy of the pimpstress mobile in St. Louis, please let me know. Thanks!

Also, Rock on MSN! Rock on!

Guy Requirements: Must help me fix my car or take it with me to someone who can.

The Exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy

Wed, 21 Sep 2005 15:40:02 GMT

I am so nervous for him today. Today he gets his bar results. I am pacing about my apartment as if it was my day to get my bar results. I am attempting to sort laundry but am drawn to the computer to check to see if his name is on the "list." There is no list yet. There probably won't be for awhile. But I keep checking obsessively.

I have never been so proud of someone in my life. I have never seen someone work so hard and care so much. I have never wanted someone to have everything he wanted as much as I do today. I want my exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy to have his dream. For three years, he has toiled through law school. For two of those years I was there with him during the good and the bad. He soothed my tears and fears about being in law school. Made the whole experience more bearable. To such a point that it is strange this year to walk through the hallways at the school without him around.

I want his dreams to come true. I want him to be the lawyer he wants to be. It has been amazing to see his confidence grow in just the last two months working at his job. He has grown from a teenage boy into a man right beside me. He wants his life to take off. I can tell. I want his life to take off for him too. Today, is a day that makes a difference. Today, he finds out if he gets to have his career.

Ms. KT found out Monday. She was ecstatic. I was proud of her. Happy for her. Jubilant. I want to feel that for my exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy too. I want to be happy for him. To celebrate with him. I anticipate the moment. Hoping. And fear the worst. Fretting. All at the same time. I don't want to see him with a broken heart. I want to see him jump for joy. Keep him in your thoughts and prayers internet world. Please.

Guy Requirement: Must care about me like this.

Fresh Air

Sat, 17 Sep 2005 21:03:27 GMT

The gentle breeze is wafting through my windows making the sheer white curtains billow. The sun is shining, but it is not hot outside. It is beautiful. A beautiful day. The fresh scent of air flows through my whole loft. In one side and out the other. Sunlight seeming to come through the windows with the wind. I am swallowed by a sense of peace and wholeness.

I am not thinking of the fridge covered with wedding invitations for friends, the left outedness is distant today. Instead I am thinking of homework, cleaning, perhaps I will embark on getting those clean clothes out of the floor of my closet. They have been there for a month. I could organize my shoes by the memory of my life they were worn, and reminisce.

Then I think of my utter happiness. The kind of happiness you experience when you are a kid. Where you want each day to last forever. I am so incredibly happy. I am single, happy, and excited about my life. I am doing exactly what I have always dreamed of doing. At 24 I am right where I want to be. I have taken all sorts of strange paths to get here, but I am perfectly content with my life.

Today, I feel like I do when I am on the beach. The blue waves crashing on the shore. The sun beating on my hot skin. The sand squishing between my toes, which eventually crusts my entire foot and is difficult to wash off. The feeling of sitting reading a book, or just listening to the waves as they crash into the shore. Watching fish ride down the large waves as if they are surfing. The feeling of having both nothing and everything to do at the exact same time.

Perfection. Balance. My life feels entirely balanced. I am happy in its purest form. It is like a breath of fresh air.

Guy Requirements: Must make me feel like this most of the time.

Sick and Single and So pathetic

Wed, 14 Sep 2005 17:12:08 GMT

All I want right now is to have someone make me macaroni and cheese with hot dogs in it for my lunch, take a long nap, and wake up to chicken fried steak in the evening and some flowers. I want someone to clean my apartment, do my laundry, and my dishes. Most of all, I want someone to tell me I am even beautiful while blowing my nose which I seem to be doing every ten minutes or so. Oh, Wishful thinking...

Instead, I attempt to use ESP to make myself a sandwich in the kitchen without moving from my couch. I am failing miserably. I suppose I am not on the same wavelength as the bread. My brain waves just aren't strong enough to work alone. Hold on, let me try again. Nevermind. I guess I will have to just get up. I look in the fridge. Eggs. Ham. Roast Beef. Mayo. Moostard. guacamole. Cheetos. Telephone. Sock. It seems in my state of nyquil last night I confused the milk and bottled water with a telephone and a sock. Well, at least my sock is fresh.

I pull out some quacomole and some ham. Reach high to the top of the fridge to get some wonderbread. Slather the guac onto the bread and slap on some ham. For good measure I cut it into little triangles like my mom always did when I was a kid. I dump some cheetos onto the plate, pick up the not so cold bottled water, and voila. Gourmet lunch.

Being sick is one of the few times when I really wish I had someone here to take care of me. Most of the time I am cool with just being left alone to do my own thing, but not when I am sick. When I am sick I want to be coddled and told how wonderful I am. I want someone to make me truly believe that I should continue fighting the little coronavirus (common cold) that has decided to take over my body. Even moreso, I want someone to think it is important that I keep fighting the little devils. Because I am important to them.

My mother can sometimes fill this void. Usually, a phone call will happen where I tell her I am sick and she immediately shows excessive concern. Asks if I need to go to the emergency room. If I am taking anything. Am I going to die because she couldn't live with herself if I did. Then she begins to threaten to fly to St. Louis to take care of me and offers to bring with her chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes. Until reality settles in and she realizes that she has to work, and that I am an adult. Which is the worst part. For a few seconds I feel like maybe she actually will. But then again, at least I know someone cares.

So, since I am restless and lonely, I will go and sniffle my way through my afternoon classes. Probably won't be very concsious of what is going on from cold medicines. Which could make class all the more interesting. Then I will come home and sleep away the evening, and wake up wishing my apartment was clean, that I had someone to make me mac n cheese with hot dogs in it, that I could go to sleep and wake up tomorrow evening to chicken fried steak. The whole pathetic pattern will continue until I am well.

Guy Requirement: Must do the above mentioned things when I am sick.

Rank your date

Sat, 10 Sep 2005 05:33:50 GMT

Here is an example of my date ranking scale from an old email to friends. This is purely for entertainment value. Enjoy! Feel free to comment and rank your date! I love to read the stats! This is my lowest at a -7 3/4 points. My exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy scored a +3. You need to at least hit an even 0 to get a potential second date.

Well, It is probably gonna sound really stupid and petty, but things took a turn for the worst when he walked into the resturant 10 minutes late wearing a baseball cap, and he didn't take it off. The late thing is withdrawn because he attempted to call and he only had my house line. (so he starts at 0 points) But the ballcap was a bit much. Even the exboyfriendbestfriendsortaboyfriendthingy in all his lack of fashion sense, knows better than to wear a baseball cap into a restuarant that isn't a sports bar. I mean this guy doesn't know that I think I am a jr. miss manners, but I am. Stuff like that bothers me. A lot. (minus one point for not being better than my ex)

The movie was ok. Dinner was fine. However, I had a better time with the gay couple sitting next to us than I did with him. (not good but not worth losing points over) In fact, I had struck up a conversation with the gay couple before he arrived. (not nice to keep a lady waiting, but again see above) The gay couple and I were people watching for him at the bar. (6 points for the gay couple!) In walked a guy, not him, with a ballcap and I mentioned, oh how tacky! And they both agreed. We had a discussion about how annoying it is when people wear hats into a decent restuarant. (2 more points for the gay couple) Then in walks my date in the ballcap (minus 2 points) One leaned over

>and whispered under his breath, "oh he has lost already hasn't he." I kinda smiled at the gay man.

The date and I did talk politics a little bit, which is taboo (and ill mannered), but it was the best conversation we had all night so I wasn't about to judge on that and I like politics anyway. (so gained a point here)

Halfway through the conversation,Tiger Woods distracted him on the 18th hole of the masters and he stopped talking to me. (minus 4 points)

>The movie was ok. (but minus 1/2 a point because it was about affairs)But then again, a movie when you are meeting for the first time isn't a good choice because you can't talk. (So minus another 1/4 of a point). After the movie in the parking lot, we had a short but nice conversation (plus 1 point). I sent my regulatory thank you for a nice evening email this morning, he responded with "no worries" not "thank you too" So (minus 2 points).

>So point total for the entire date is ( -7 3/4 points) well in the red. The Gay couple scored a +8. Too bad they don't like women. They were marriage material.

It is obvious why he has problems wooing women for extended periods of time. He doesn't know how to treat them. It was obvious after one evening with him. When you meet with someone the first time, there are certain guidelines and he clearly doesn't know them. But now that I think about it. This could have been forseen. He never says goodbye to anyone when he is leaving. Which means it isn't just women it is people in general.

He tries to be a rules boy but doesn't know the rules. Just like most St. Louis men. So sad. What a waste.

Guy Requirement: Must have good manners and be personable.

Coiture 1985

Sun, 28 Aug 2005 13:24:05 GMT

I AM OFFICIALLY NOT BUYING NEW CLOTHES UNTIL THIS WHOLE SEASON HAS PASSED! I WILL NOT BE HARMED BY THE FASHION REVIVAL OF THE 1980's! I do not know what the fashion industry is thinking!

SHOCK AND AWE

Far Far worse than anything I could imagine. Quite possibly a sign of the impending apocalypse! If not, a horrible nightmare filled with memories of trapper keepers and Devo!

My unsuspecting friend and I went to the mall for a Saturday outing. A beautiful Saturday for St. Louis. 100 degree heat, 90% humidity, rampant mosquitos. But beautiful for St. Louis. I hadn't really wanted to go to the mall. I just went along for the ride. I needed to make a stop at office depot and buy harmless things like organizers, post its, and pens. My friend wanted to go to the mall. So we went. Little did I know it would be the end of my shopping emotional outlet.

Walking through the mall things seemed strange. The teenagers were wearing odd clothing. Fishnet tights with little denim skirts and large t-shirts cut at a angle so they hang off of one shoulder. Tiny tees that said things like AC/DC and Hershey. I should have noticed this as precursor to what was about to happen. Instead, I pointed to the girl in fishnets and jokingly asked my friend "Where's the side ponytail and neon pink headband?" He laughed.

To me it was just a few horribly dressed teenagers at the mall. Not uncommon. Then we walked in the door to famous barr.

Juniors Section

There on the rack were tons of tiny tees. "Hershey", "Italy", "Devo", "AC/DC", the same tiny tees I had seen on the teens! The only thing missing was "Mr. Bubble". I remembered being a kid and yearning for a Mr. Bubble t-shirt. My older brother had one. I wanted one too. Then it dawned on me...These kids don't know who Devo and AC/DC are. They never experienced that wretched decade. They do not know the fashion horror that was the 1980's. They did not know about puff skirts, cone bras, and punk clothing. A sadness overwhelmed me. My only thought. "History has repeated itself, these children do not know what they are doing." I wasn't even 10 years old in the 1980's and had good enough sense to know that the fashion was horrendous. I wanted to cry. Can't designers find something new? Why do we have to revive old stuff? Perhaps this damage is limited here to the teens...

Mens Clothing

The horrorible nightmare continued and became more intense as I walked into the polo section. A neon orange sweater caught my eye, then a traditional polo shirt only the polo emblem was emblazoned with far more glory than in 1984. A shirt made out of "jammy" material. You know the almost Hawaiian but not quite style that we blamed on California. I thought for sure polo would have come out unscathed. I was wrong.

I turned the corner looking for a way out. It was like watching a car wreck. There on the manican in the middle of Famous Barr's Polo Section was a pair of blue and white striped seersucker pants, a light pink shirt, and a neon green tie. Atrocity. People were walking by and commenting on its ugliness. I immediately approached the mall worker.

"Who puts together your displays?" I inquired.

"Oh we have a staff that does it."

"Do they get to decide what goes on the manicans or is there a standard?" I inquired further, hoping this was just a misguided employee.

"well some designers have very strict rules and others do not. Polo has very strict rules."

"So, Polo designed that?" I pointed to the manican in the pink shirt.

"Well yes, I think so, probably."

"Do they know it looks like crap?"

At that the woman worker just walked away. I figured she would. After that, my friend and I did a lap around the men's department in an attempt to see what other damage there was. It was expansive. It was like a war zone between 2005 and 1980. Then as we were walking out of the men's department my friend suffered a fatal blow. There hanging on the rack amid the putrid geometric patterns was a $600 suede vest with fringe and beads. my friend began to hyperventilate. I rushed immediately to the women's section.

Women's Section

The women's section was filled with ruffled shirts, dull colors, lace and cotton, wierd throw back patterns. Horrid. The formal wear was fraught with tulle and big bows and tea length dresses. Awful. I ran...not walked, ran from the store.

A quick jog around the mall proved the worst. Some fashion designer has decided to bring back the 80's. Immediately my friend and I started searching for redemption. We hopped in the car and drove across town to another mall. To Neiman Marcus, Saks, Anne Taylor, Talbots. Surely the high dollar stores and European designers hadn't jumped in on the action. Surely, this was because Famous Barr was recently bought out my Macy's and those New Yorkers think us Midwesterners are still interested in 1980 fashions. Surely, this whole thing is just a big cultural mistake.

Neiman Marcus

Luckily, Neimans was a little calmer. At least in the mens suit section. Until the velor pants and Studded Jean pockets appeared. Bollero pants, gaudy prints. Things women couldn't make look good none the less men. We rushed to the women's. Fur fluffy collars, black leathers, those damned ruffled shirts. PUFF SLEEVES! Surely, my life was ending.

Anne Taylor as a Refuge

The rest of the mall looked the same. Except for Anne Taylor. Anne Taylor was unharmed by this fashion atrocity. Completely free from the crap on the shelves at the other places. The classic designs echoed amid the damage. Like a building left standing after all the bombs have dropped. Anne Taylor a refuge. Not a refugee. I walked in for peace and comfort. Wondering if it too would succumb to the death of fashion. Something in me felt a calm before a storm. I was content with the calm. Usually, I only buy suits at Anne Taylor. The store is the stuff of business casual, interviews, and exceptionally hot dates. But today Anne and I bonded. I began to see potential for casual wear. I was safe there from my fears of 1980's revival fashion. I stayed awhile. Soaking it in. Then left. Swearing to not buy into the trend.

It takes one person to strike a movement. It is starting with me. VIVA LA 2005!

Guy Requirements: Must be well dressed