Every day is my birthday

Today, Chris asked me what I'd like for my birthday. Honestly? I have no clue. The only possible gift idea I've come up with being a Patricia Field for Payless Shoe Source shamrock necklace. But I thought that wasn't the right gift suggestion for my honey. All I really want for my birthday is to spend it with family and friends and possibly a trip to the beach.

Perhaps this is what it means to be a grown-up; realizing that the material things aren't so important -- and that anything you want you can buy yourself -- and that time spent relaxing with loved ones is a precious commodity.

I didn't know what to ask of my parents for Christmas either. And my last birthday? Of the few material gifts I received, I think I knew of half of them beforehand.

But that doesn't solve my problem of what to tell Chris to get me. What is a girlfriend supposed to want? Maybe I could ask him to buy me a teddy bear. Or jewelry. Or lingerie.

I honestly don't want anything more than to spend time with him. And I get that quite often. So it's kind of like every day is my birthday.

Die, you stupid Xerox machine

I'm going to say the thing that everyone is thinking but maybe doesn't want to say, maybe won't even dare admit it to themselves. I hate being a working adult. It blows.

I only work two days a week and for five hours. It's nowhere near as bad as working five or six days a week, I know. But when you're doing work that a monkey could easily handle and being treated like you're incapable of doing said work, there's nothing to do but bite down the scream clawing at your throat.

Every morning I have work, I wake up ten, maybe 20, minutes before my 9:30 a.m. alarm, worried I've missed it. I am not even sure that I don't wish I would miss it. Then I get up when my alarm rings, go to the bathroom, and hop back in bed for 11 minutes (until 9:45 a.m.).

Then that alarm goes off and I've got no choice but to force myself to throw on some clothes -- I'm supposed to follow our strict and grammatically incorrect dress code -- and grab whichever purse I need that day and run out the door. Then of course, I have a tendency to miss the 3 bus that comes at 10:12 a.m. when it comes a few minutes early and I'm about 50 feet away from the bus stop.

Then I get to work a few minutes before 11 a.m. and yet, the computer I use to log on to record my time stamp, always takes a few minutes to load -- meaning I stamp in at 11:01 a.m. and, according to my supervisor, have to wait until exactly 4:01 p.m. to log off. Because that one minute will make a difference in my pay. Christ.

I try to get through each day by remembering that working here gives me money so that I can go out with friends and Chris after work and on the weekends, etc. It's a struggle but it helps a little.

Now.. it's 1:30 p.m. I get a half-hour break for lunch and then it's two more hours till I'm on my way to Chris'. I can't wait.

Grief and prayer

A friend I graduated with lost her 3-year-old daughter on Friday. I'm speechless. Losing someone you love is hard, whoever it is and whatever your relationship. Chris said today -- about a different situation -- that grieving is a process and eventually you get over the loss. I'm not sure that you do. Another friend of mine lost his dad and he and his mother have not and say they will never get over his death.

More than that however, I question the merit of prayer. My friend who lost her daughter asked for the prayers of her friends through Facebook. And while I will pray for her because she asked, I wonder what good it will do. I guess I could pray that she "gets over it" but will she? I doubt it.

After disaster struck Haiti in January, Christians in all places were holding prayer circles for the Haitians. After hearing about one such event, I asked "What the hell is prayer gonna do?" My grandmother said, with great disappointment in her voice, "It helps, honey, it really does."

This coming from the same woman who later that week took one look at a bumper sticker that read "I'm blessed," and said, "I wonder what makes her think she's so blessed."

Clearly, my Grammy's religious beliefs are as deeply rooted as my own.

Whether prayer works or not, I hope that my friend will find a way to get through this ordeal and even if she never gets over it.

(The above image is of Susan Sarandon.)

Amen, sister!

"Women are innately self-conscious. This is not a choice; it's a genderwide condition. On a bad day, I look in the mirror and see my ten-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Bertha. On a really bad day, Bertha sees her two-hundred-pound-heavier alter ego. Her name is Brian Dennehy." - Alyssa Milano

To read the other 74 things guys don't know about women, click here.

(The above picture was taken in 2008 when I interviewed Milano for a summer journalism workshop.)

Putting the 'merry' in 'go round'

Wednesday night I was talking with my friend Michele about life... I told her about taking my sister for a manicure and pedicure in preparation for her prom and Michele said that for all of the good I do, I don't deserve the shit that I've had to put up with. And that she thinks Chris, who is turning out to be everything I said I wanted in a guy, is just the beginning of my lucky streak. Sometimes my life feels like it circles back around to the same problems, the same crap. Here's hoping the go round gets even merrier.

(The above photo is from Le Blog de Betty.)

Learning curve

I can't hold my breath for very long underwater. This is unfortunate when your family insists on torturing you for all of your shortcomings. I can't serve a volleyball. I'm not athletic. As a kid, I was always chosen last for teams in gym. And I'm okay with this.

Except when my mother and sister take to teasing me for this inability to punch a white quilted ball at my boyfriend on the other side of the pool.

See, in celebration of Memorial Day, my family had a pool party on Sunday at my Aunt Cindy's and it was the first time I'd taken a boyfriend to meet my family. Chris held up better than I did, I'd say.

They didn't hassle him much. In fact, most of my family probably said less than 10 words to him. But everyone seemed content with belittling and teasing me in front of him. Some people -- not me -- can let this kind of thing roll off their backs. I've always held the opinions of my family members in high regard and hate that nothing ever seems good enough for them.

My Aunt Cindy and Grammy told me I need to work harder in college (I got one "C" and three "B"s this last semester) while they announced to everyone my two male cousins' very high GPAs. Not that I'm not proud of Danny and Eddie. I truly am. But there was a time when my family even questioned whether the boys would ever go to school (my cousin Danny is 26 and just concluded his first semester), so clearly their excellence in school is a delightful surprise. But for me, the girl who graduated seventeenth in her class, not only was it expected I go to college, now I'm expected to get straight A's. It's too much pressure for one person.

And this lecture from my elders on doing well in school came in front of Chris.

I've never had to worry about what my family thought of a guy -- at least not my extended family. Chris is the first guy I've ever dated to even meet my dad and now he's met the rest of my family. And all in one day he's seeing how they see me and the way I see myself in my family's funhouse mirror.

I can't even begin to imagine how bad I looked, ducking under the water to avoid the barrage of comments about my failed attempts at athleticism. I am simply embarrassed by myself. It's hard when you want to control how someone sees you because you just can't. You can only hope that they find your faults endearing and that they will appreciate you for everything you are -- and everything you aren't.

In the end, I tried following my sister's advice and sent that volleyball soaring over Chris' head at least once... But it didn't feel good as I hadn't done it on my own.

(The above picture is of Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.)

More time than he's worth? Look again.

I wrote in April of my increased ability to maybe not forgive but certainly quickly forget boys. I had taught myself to pick apart a young man with the skill and precision of the finest surgeons in the world. With my scalpel in hand -- or eye or ear -- I had the ability to quickly decide that a guy was not what he had appeared to be and that I would be better off not wasting my time or attention on him any longer. I also predicted that this would be a dangerous thing.

Turns out I was worried for nothing. Apparently I also have the ability to pinch myself and remember that people are more than they appear and they can certainly be more than just the sum of desirable (and undesirable) parts.

My new boyfriend Chris is proof that a guy can be more than you'd ever imagined. When he took those first steps up to my house, I got worried. He wore a fitted cap; something I considered, as the result of having two male cousins who purposefully bent their brims and adjusted size of the hat with Velcro strips, odd and possibly a sign that the wearer considered himself gangster (or gangsta as I've so disdainfully been reminded by peers). I don't do gangster/a.

Despite this, I reminded myself of his mastery of words so beautifully displayed in those OKCupid messages and texts. This was a guy worth taking a closer look at.

But isn't everyone? I guess one could argue that with as busy as our world is, as much as we juggle on a daily basis, it is uneconomical to spend an hour on someone we're pretty sure, five minutes in, is all wrong for us.

I don't know. I have always sort of given guys who seem all wrong for me more time than most girls probably would. And while, for instance, learning how O.U.A.T.B. rolled was by no means a waste of time, I have certainly spent more than a few hours on guys I wish I'd never bothered with.

This is how we learn, I suppose; the way we discover what's right and what's wrong -- at least for us in terms of relationships. And who would deny themselves an opportunity for growth?

And I have grown. I have learned from every botched relationship -- some of them lessons like: the pasture isn't always greener on the other side and some guys really just like to play games without concern for the heart attached to those strings they're pulling.

Best of all, I have seen hearts of gold in people who are a little -- forgive the overused expression -- rough around the edges. And I'm a lot different from the girl who loved Ben Swann, the kindergarten heartthrob who crushed on the thumb-sucker. Amen to that.

As it turns out, Chris is far from gangster/a. He's kind of a big softy while maintaining a knack for brutal honesty. He's even self-actualized enough that, had I not seen it with girlfriends, he would have sat through Sex and the City 2 with me.

I can only hope that my family will have a good first impression -- and that my cousins don't break his back over the fitted hat.


(The above photo is of Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big in Sex and the City 2. The photographer is Craig Blankenhorn. Source: allmoviephoto.com)

Good things do happen

It seems as though whenever I wonder how much more I can possibly complain about things (particularly romantic endeavors), something good happens.

Yes, I've got a new beau. And boy, did I have a lot of people demanding details when I changed my relationship status on Facebook. It seems every one of my friends thought they should have been the first to know. I know my sister was shocked and awed by it.

Within the span of a few days, I went from no real romantic possibilities to having a cute guy text me first thing in the morning just to start my day off on the right foot. I too am still in disbelief. Just a little.

But I'm happy. Chris is slightly older and he's mature. He's a total cutie. He holds doors and smothers me in playful kisses. I like the way his hand hovers at my back as we walk together and how he sends me less-than-3 hearts over AIM. And I can wear high heels and don't tower over him!

Oh, and he too is a writer. He uses proper grammar. Hallelujah.

Despite outward appearances and my mother's initial reaction ("Who's that?" she whispered to me as Chris stood in the other room. "My boyfriend," I answered. "Oh boy," she said), I think I may have found a really good match for once. He's someone who wants to make time for me and I am really comfortable in his presence.

I always thought that relationships with boys are like a driver's relationship with cars. There's the car you learn to drive in -- the male equivalent lasts you a lifetime only if you're super lucky. Then there's your next car, the one you own when your parents still want to know where you're going and when. Then you get a fairly nice car that you worked for and bought and with which you're pretty much free to do what you want. You might even get to take it on a road trip.

Of course there are the cars you admire -- the ones in your neighbors' driveways and which you see only through the dealership's glass doors (think Porsche or Lamborghini). For the male equivalent, think Gerard Butler or Bradley Cooper. You can drool over him all you want but sometimes all your hard work won't even afford you a pen with which to sign on the dotted line.

Whichever kind of car I'm in now, I'm not sure. But I'm going to enjoy it before I have to make my first payment.

(The above picture is from 2004's The Notebook.)

Decoding Mr. Nice Guy

All signs point to yes. He's nice to you. You text all the time. You hang out and watch Glee together. But he hasn't tried to kiss you since the first night you met when both of you were really... let's just say: out of it. He backed off when he found out his roommate liked you. And despite the fact that his roommate claims he told this guy that he no longer likes you, that it's cool, Mr. Nice Guy won't do a damn thing.

If any of this sounds familiar, you and my friend Jamie would get along well. You'd certainly have a lot to talk about.

What about he talks to you fervently in English class? Smiles real big when he sees ya? Gives the best hugs you've ever gotten in your life? And yet he ignores your handful of attempts to contact him about hanging out before summer break? You're nervous and confused because he's got a lot of female friends. Or at least that seems to be the case. And you really think you might just be another friend. But your mom thought she saw something in the five minutes she stood in his presence.

Yeah, that's what's on my plate.

I fully understand that not every guy will be into me or my friends, no matter how fabulous we are. That's the way the world turns -- some people strike your fancy, others do not. And while you might be the fire that lights one guy's match, you're not burning down the city.

Yup, I get all that. But how can it be that no one is ever struck by you? Jamie and I have about the worst luck when it comes to guys. And we feel like idiots for being unable to read them better. After 18 (or 19) years of dealing with boys, you would imagine we would have picked up at least a trick or two.

Yet we constantly pose some version of one question: "Does he like me or not?"

It seems we're finally finding ourselves drawn to nice guys as opposed to the garden-variety loser. That seems to be a step in the right direction.

But still, we want to know. How do you tell Mr. Nice Guy from Mr. Totally Feeling You Guy? It's as if our lives were plucked straight from He's Just Not That Into You. Only we don't know if we'll ever be the exception.

False advertising

Sometimes I wish I had been born the petite, gorgeous cheerleader type. You know the one I mean. She catches the eye of every guy she passes. And she's got kissy pictures on her Facebook with the star athlete, the one every girl wishes she had.

She's not necessarily the nicest person and she's very likely not the smartest person you've ever met. She probably can't hold a conversation about anything of consequence. But she's happy. She's got a big, hunky man at her beck-and-call, one who normal girls convince themselves could see them the way they are but who'll never notice them because he'll probably marry the cheerleader. And maybe in a few years, when they've got kids and she's put on weight, maybe then they'll be a little less happy but don't bank on it. They're the golden couple.

I have a theory that god doesn't hand out a beautiful face and good physique to the same people he grants intelligence. It just doesn't happen.

But then again it does. I know girls who are naturally... just gorgeous and built and they're smart. Why them?

Why do I sit here pining after the star athlete who has already found his cheerleader?

Because I'm pathetic. Because that's the way it's designed. It's naturally good advertising. It's nature's way of convincing us that the world can be happy and beautiful and that we can find someone.

Well, bull-fucking-shit. It's false advertising. Because the non-cheerleader girls will always pine after the star athlete even when there's a perfectly adorable band geek standing by. I'm not sure if regular Joes generally pine after the cheerleader girl, but certainly the "beautiful" athletic boys do.

(The above picture is of Dianna Agron as Quinn Fabray from FOX's hit TV show Glee.)