Charming, but single

Do you know what’s sad? 

Thinking to yourself, “When’s the last time I … had one of those evenings with a man.”

And you can’t remember. 

So you check your blog archive thinking that clearly it was this fall and then worrying that maybe it was this past summer and cringing that it could have been in the spring and realizing that – holy crap! – it was the very end of February.

No wonder I’m so grumpy all of the time. If I hit a year, I’m putting everyone on notice that things are going to get rough around here.

Well, y’all sure know how to make a girl feel special. Thanks for the kind words and praise. I’m blushing.

I did want to reply to one comment from reader Ally who notes that me mentioning that young women should perhaps wear slips under their so that everyone cannot see their thongs (and butts) through their dresses shows that I am kind of out of touch with “young” women.

Ally, my darling, if not wanting the entire world to see my Lady Parts through my clothes makes me old and out of touch, then so be it. You can call me Grandma. (Or Miss Granny if you’re nasty.)

If you’re going to go to the trouble of wearing cocktail dresses with sequins to a semi-formal or formal event, you should at least have the kind sense to cover up your rear. Maybe there is a way other than a slip to accomplish this (a lined dress?), but a slip seemed like a good option to me.

Maybe it is the Southern Belle in me, maybe it is just how my Momma raised me, but I stand firm on my stance that no one should be able to see your ass cheeks out in public ever. And you can quote me on that.

Also, leggings still suck. And young girls wear dresses that are actually shirts and it is awkward. (See above, re: exposed Lady Parts.) And they wear too much eye make-up.

I am all about being fashionable, but you’ll find that as you age, practicality sometimes trumps trendiness. I suspect that no one would take me seriously if I showed up to work (or anywhere) with my undergarments showing through my whisper thin dress. And that could possibly cause me to lose my steady paycheck. And Lord knows we don’t want THAT to happen.

And when I start to think about these things, suddenly turning 28 soon doesn’t seem so bad.

I, like most bloggers, watch my stats and referrers with a keen eye. I notice, for example, that yesterday I saw the most traffic I’ve seen since I moved to this here blog to WordPress and its own domain. (Thanks, y’all!)

I see that a lot of people get here by looking for information about being charming (I’m the seventh result you get when you Google the word “charming,” which I think means I’m somehow a Charming Expert. I should add that to my resume.) and about finding charming men or marrying off your daughters and about why he didn’t call you (or your daughters).

And, no, I don’t know why he didn’t call. He’s probably a moron. You’re better off without him, in my humble view.

People come here searching for information dating and getting married and being a bridesmaid and about seersucker. Or dating a seersucker-wearing man. Or what shoes to wear as a bridesmaid, say, maybe with your orange dress.

But yesterday, oh yesterday, I got two hits off of the search string “get pregnant via a turkey-baster.”

Wowser. I hope you figured out what you needed. Because, well, I have an idea about how that works, but I won’t get into details.

I stress about who’s linking here – I see that you get here via MySpace and Facebook profiles and I stress when these profiles are private. Please don’t be saying mean things about me. My little charming heart would just break.

So, indulge me if you will. Let me be meta and ask about myself. It is, in fact NaBloPoMo and I’m running low on inspiration and stories about men.

How did you get here? Why do you stay?

Self –

You’ve been flirting with disaster lately. And by “disaster,” I mean The Nurse.

Sure, the first IM seemed innocent enough. Just casually catching up with a friend and former fling, right?

Wrong!

He’s not your friend. He doesn’t care about you. He may say that he still cares, that he made a mistake, that you are awesome and wonderful and sexy. But his actions in the past – most notably the Dumping by Not Calling – prove otherwise. (See also: The Impregnating of Someone Else.)

Yes, it does bolster your confidence to have man who once spurned your affections say that he still wants you. But what he wants is not you. He wants an easy fall back girl for when he finds himself single and lonely – or just lonely and lustful.

He’s bad news. Stop the MySpace stalking. Stop comparing yourself to his girlfriend. Stop oooohing over pictures of his baby.

He doesn’t want you. And, more importantly, you don’t want him. Period. End of story. There are many many many better men out there. And even if there aren’t, being alone is far better than being strung along by an immature, manipulative jerk who admits that he knew you liked him and chose to run to another woman’s bed.

Stop IMing. Stop texting. Stop caring. Just stop.

Cheers,

Charming

The afternoon started with text messages:

Me: Movie you have in mind?

Guy Friend: August Rush or Enchanted?

Me: Saw August Rush with my family. Fred Claus or Enchanted?

Guy Friend: Enchanted has McDreamy …

Decision made. I love having my gay boyfriend back in town. It was the two of us, Diet Coke and movie popcorn at a PG movie, drooling over the same man. He will never judge me for wanting to see bad movies, as he probably wants to see them himself. Now, if we could just get him to share my love of Vince Vaughn, we’d be set.

I almost feel bad about complaining about Enchanted because, well, I knew it was going to suck. But it’s been raining all day and I really just figured I could leave the house and see a movie or stay in and watch one alone. (Or continue torturing myself by looking at the online baby photo album The Nurse’s girlfriend put online. And, well, yes it was my fault for finding the photo album. I shouldn’t have been MySpace spying. And as annoying as it may be to see pictures of your ex and his baby, the “family” pictures of them with the baby are seared into my mind so that I will never consider his advances. And yes, there have been some.) And I took two college classes that talked about fairy tales and gender roles, so I was mildly interested in this modern portrayal.

Fine, that last reason is kind of crap, though I did actually discuss those topics in my classes. Did I mention that McDreamy was in the movie?

For a fleeting moment, I thought they might take it in a satirical, princes aren’t real, get over your fairy tale, forget the happy ending, move on direction. Because I am a complete idealist, obviously.  But this is a Disney movie and Disney makes it billions off of selling an ideal of castles and white knights and glitter and doves in heart-shaped flower arrangements. I don’t feel as if I’m spoiling things by saying that the movie ends exactly how you think it will. (And Idina Menzel’s character, of course, gets screwed after putting in five years to a relationship with an issues-having, workaholic single father.) But as I slouched in my seat and my friend whispered, “I feel so sorry for him, did he not read the script before he signed the deal?” I couldn’t help but feel a touch outraged for the swarms of young girls watching the movie, hoping upon hope that someday their prince would come. Being sure that they’d have the fairy tale wedding and ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after forever (and ever).

But I decided against making a scene, against telling them all that one day after being groped by drunk guys at a bar or going on a string of bad dates or being ignored by a guy they’d gone out with, they will collapse on their couch, exasperated, kick off their heels and curse loudly about how they would like their happy ending now, please.

Because, really, yelling at six year olds is an ill-advised way to go through life. Truth be told, that’s a realization I wouldn’t want to keep them from having on their own – there is something oddly reassuring in sitting in your own apartment and realizing that Prince Charming maybe hasn’t shown up but you’re still okay on your own. It gives me hope that I’m looking for a companion and partner and not someone to save me from a life of my own making.

So, I kept my self-righteous feminist monologue to myself and did what us modern maidens do on a rainy Sunday evenings: let the gourmet market cook dinner, stretch out on my bed with my laptop to finish a last-minute project and watch a re-run of America’s Next Top Model.