Killer Diller

Not entirely unrelated to my last post, I just found out that my favorite snack food has been discontinued.  So long, Mt. Olive Petite Snack Crunchers!  I hate it when stuff I love gets discontinued. Like when you find the best nail lacquer or the perfect lip stick only to return to the store and not find it waiting excitedly for you to take it home with you.  I know there are better pickles out there, but I don't like a big, whole dill pickle and the cut pickles get kind of soggy and I don't like the texture of the inside part of the pickled cucumber so the petite whole pickle was made for me.

Guess I'll have to move on to gherkins.

Single Gal's Menu du Jour

Ever wonder what grown-up single ladies eat in a given day?  Too exciting for words, I'll let the images tell the whole story.

Don't be jealous.

I promise to eat a salad tomorrow.

The (Almost) Forgotten Rejection

A short-but-sweet story of rejection and flesh-eating insects.  I met a guy about 10 years ago at a party somewhere in Atlanta in the dankest heat of the summer, so it must've been July or August.  The house was in the Virginia Highlands area and the owner had apparently never heard of citronella candles.  That was the moment I learned (even though I am a native and should know better anyway) to always carry some kind of bug repellent in my bag when I go out if I don't want to look like I've had an outbreak of chicken pox the next day or worse, expose myself to West Nile virus. Stupid mosquitoes.  He was kinda cute and I remember sitting on the host's porch, slapping mosquitoes on my arm and drinking sangria with him for a while.  We exchanged email addresses but not phone numbers for some reason.

He emailed me first thing the following Monday morning and we exchanged a few emails back-and-forth.  I kept waiting for him to ask for my number or something but he didn't.  The emails got progressively longer as we continued our chatting and I came home one day that week to an email that read "No thanks, I'm done.  You talk too much."  Rejection is a regular part of career dating but even I have only heard that line once.  Most guys just fade away when they aren't interested and, honestly, that's completely fine by me.  I don't need to have every personality flaw pointed out when a guy is telling me he won't be calling me again. No need to add insult to injury.  Of course I thought it was incredibly rude, I still do, but I have to give the man props for backing out the minute he recognized a vital compatibility error. I really do talk a lot.  Of course, now I think it's kind of funny and he hadn't even crossed my mind in years until the subject came up at a friend's house tonight.  I can't even remember his name.  I've always imagined he joined a monastery in Australia and took a vow of silence.

On Being Dorkish

The absolute BEST thing about working from home is the constant stream of old movies in the background.  Thank God for TCM and Robert Osborne.  I'm a self-professed dork so it should come as no surprise that my TV, when it is on, is tuned to TCM or The History Channel most of the time.  I'm convinced that today is a special treat just for me: all day (grown-up) Shirley Temple movies.  Yay!  The windows are open to natural air conditioning, singing birds, wind chimes and gorgeous sunshine to boot.  And there's not a soul around to bother me!

Rounding out the relaxing work/ movie day with a little Mexican fare and Margaritas with close friends in Midtown tonight might make it the perfect day.  I don't know a lot of people my age anymore who love old(er) movies and I certainly don't know any gals who love The History Channel and I don't really get it.  I always have something to talk about - especially with guys.  There isn't a fella alive who wants to listen to a girl talk about running errands or shopping and cooking or even work or their intuitive pet cat.  Honestly, there's not.  His interest in all that junk is only temporary and is relative to your attractiveness (Demetri Martin explains that here).  But I have kept so many conversations going with "oh, yeah, I think I saw something about that on Modern Marvels!"  Seriously.  But keep the Shirley Temple talk on the DL...that's a gals-only topic.

So, People DO Change?

I'm sure all women (at least my age and younger) have read He's Just Not That Into You and can unequivocally vouch for the truth in those pages.  I think Liz Tuccillo is hilarious (and didn't get enough credit for that book). I completely understand the basic concept.  If he doesn't call or commit or whatever it is that he isn't doing for you, with you or to you, he's just not that into you.  SO true.  And, likewise, fellas.

As a serial dater, I'm really not that hurt when he's not that interested and we part ways.  I'm usually not that interested in him, either.  I'm picky.  But when I have dated someone for a significant period of time (for me, three months is in that category) and we stop seeing each other, I'd like for him to move to another continent and never call me again.  That's what I really mean when I tell someone to "drop dead" - inside I'm saying "I hope you move to Antarctica", not "I hope you have angina."  I have to stop saying that to people.

I dated a guy in 2004 for three or four months.  He was so unbelievably difficult.  He hated crowds, he hated any corporation, he hated pop culture, hated chinese food, hated food with seasoning in general,  hated all of the music that I listened to. He was pleasant at parties and all my friends loved him.  (That was sarcasm.)  He hated sarcasm, hated going to the movies, hated going to concerts, hated "defined" relationships, hated pets, hated holidays, hated kids, hated couples, hated dining out, hated the internet.  It was like dating a good-looking unabomber. Wondering why we went out for three months?  One guess...the one thing he did like.

He had no job, no home, a beat up old car, no money and no direction in life.  (I feel like I need to stress here how handsome he was.)  I'd had my fill of his miserable company, so I broke up with him.  And over the years, he has resurfaced every now and then, usually for one thing.  Thanks to modern technology, he connected with me on facebook.  Thanks to consistent stupidity, I "friended" him.

It was great at first.  Same miserable guy, he moved to Texas.... not Antarctica but good enough for me.  And then he started to evolve.  And I did NOT like it.  He started his own company.  He bought a new car.  He bought a DOG!  WHAT!?  Three things that flew in the face of his annoying beliefs.  And in my ability to believe that I'd at least dodged a bullet when we didn't work out. Then, the worst thing happened.  He met a woman and fell in love. And it's all over facebook.  He loves everything.  They recently went on a few weekend trips together, they dance weekly at the salsa club (seriously!?!) where they met, he brought her home to meet his family, they take loads of "happy couple" pictures and now they have bought a house together and have announced an engagement.  So, the truth is, he's just that into her.

So many times I've wanted to comment "but you always hated that" but I can't do it.  I can't do it to the girl he does love and I can't do it because I really am the girl who loves everything and I am too nice.  I love everything that he hated and deep down inside, beneath the "drop dead" is a little kernel of gladness for his crummy evolution.  And beneath that kernel is another one that knows he's in love now, but in a few years, he'll probably be back to hating everything.  As a girl, though, no matter how sure I am that this guy is one miserable party-pooper, I can't help but wonder what it is that she has that I didn't?  I hope they'll be very happy together.  And I hope their new home is in Antarctica.

Image credit: Megan W Photography http://meganwblog.com   

Liberty

I put in my list all the busy, useful independent spinsters I know, for liberty is a better husband than love to many of us.

~Louisa May Alcott

Journals

I have a problem.  I buy journals like I'm preparing for an apocalyptic shut-in and I plan on coming out of the other side of it with the tome of the ages.  Wire-bound is my preference.  And, sadly, this isn't even all of them - just what was in my craftio (craft room/ studio).  I also love portmanteaus.  Meanwhile, I never have anything handy to write on so all of my grocery lists are written on the back of junk mail envelopes in eyeliner pencil.  I'm way too embarrassed to show you my pen and pencil collection.

Please don't submit me to Hoarders. I need another 30 years, a few more crazy boyfriends, a handful of pets and some sort of substance dependency problem first.  Not that there's anything wrong with that...

Lady Head Vases and Missing Hats

Sometimes I really feel blessed to be single.  Most of the time I don't, so I'll just relish the fleeting moment while it lasts.  I have an interview later this morning (just for something part time) and it's supposed to be another really beautiful Spring day in Atlanta so I'll enjoy spending the early afternoon hours in some of my favorite antiques shops and then home to make some super cute greeting cards for Mother's Day. 

I love antiquing alone because I'm not rushed, I don't have to explain or entertain and I can intimately examine every single salt cellar to try to find one I don't have. (My favorite are the pressed glass variety.)  I'm really on the hunt, though,  for Lady Head Vases which I think are the cutest.  I have one, but it's a vintage baby and not a cute retro lady.  I have never, ever seen one in person in a store.  Scads of them online but there's something about the excitement of seeing one in the flesh...er, ceramic.  There's just something so alluring about oodles of flowers bursting out of the top of your head.  Speaking of gals without crowns, I wish women still wore hats. But I guess we would look pretty silly with the tees, yoga pants and flip flops that seem to be standard attire in the burbs anymore.

I've Got Your Back

My back is killing me.  This morning I realized that it's been bothering me for a few days and I tried in earnest to get to the right spot.  I felt like a bear in a cartoon making friends with a tree trunk.  I can't afford a massage right now and I tried to remember the last time someone rubbed my back.  I'm embarrassed to admit, I think it was the last time I paid for a massage: late March 2008.  Over two years ago.

So, score one for the marrieds - someone is there to watch (and even rub) your back when it's sore.  Maybe I'll try to put some Icy-Hot on it or fire up the heating pad.

Au Naturel

One of the GREAT benefits of being a single gal is not shaving regularly.

Of course, that's also a great way to stay single... and anyway, it's time to start wearing shorts and sundresses again!!

Saving "Old Maids"

While scouring the interwebs for fun facts about Old Maids, I stumbled upon a popcorn site.  Apparently, Old Maids are also "kernels that fail to pop and are often found at the bottom of the popcorn bowl" and can be rejuvenated because "water in kernels is what causes popcorn to pop, so all you need to do is re-hydrate the dried kernels."

Thanks to David Woodside's book What Makes Popcorn Pop? for bringing to light another dimension of shame to the public image of an Old Maid, grainy or granny.  I'm gonna go re-hydrate myself with some gin and store myself in a cool place for a while.

Image credit: LIFE Magazine, February 1947

Bird-Watching and Birds-Who-Watch

My grandmother passed away 10 years ago.  I really can't believe it's been that long.  I loved her so much and my heart's been broken ever since she passed.  She was cool, beautiful, eccentric, a real neat gal. 

She was an ice cream scooper at Crescent Park in Rhode Island as a teen in the 1930s, she met my grandpa when he was on shore leave during WWII and won a jitterbug contest one time.  She had a laugh that would make your belly tickle on the inside until it gave in, no matter what sort of mood you were in.  She loved wearing silly hats and working in her garden, enhanced every holiday to the last detail and made clothing and all sorts of swell crafts.  She saved pencils and rubber bands until the former was sharpened down to the ferrule and the latter was petrified.  And she loved to watch birds. 

She wasn't a member of the audubon society or anything but she would bird-watch for hours by the pool in the backyard.  She had a thing for cardinals and there was a little stained glass one suctioned to the sliding glass door that overlooked the porch where we all napped in the summer heat, the pool where we swam until our skin pruned and the garden she tended.  After she passed on and the house was sold, the bird was left on the door.  I have no idea if the widow who bought the house kept it there but I hope she did.  It just didn't seem right to remove it. 

I'm sure I'm anthropomorphizing a little but every now and then I'll see a red cardinal - in a tree or perched on something or flying somewhere and I think of my grandmother.  All of her quirks and characteristics, every birthday, every Christmas, every Easter egg hunt, every single experience, her smell, her voice, her laugh, it all flashes in a matter of seconds.  And it's usually when I need to remember that there was once someone who I loved so unconditionally and who loved me back even more. 

This morning I went into the kitchen to make some coffee and caught a glimpse of red out of my big kitchen window.  There was a little, vibrantly-bright-red cardinal hopping up and down the path to my front door from the stairs that go up to the parking lot, along the edge of my kitchen garden.  I stood there and watched her hop up-and-down and back-and-forth for a few minutes and then she just hopped off into the woods to join some other birds, I presumed.  And I kinda felt like my grandmother was just dropping in to say hi.

The Story of Carl & Ellie

I might as well come out of the dork closet early on: I am a HUGE Disney and Pixar fan.  If I could move into the Magic Kingdom, I would.  I'm not a pin-trader or a figurine-collector and I don't attend conventions but I am a professional memory-collector. 

The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Mary Poppins with my mom.  The first time I got scared at a movie in the theater was during Night Crossing, resulting in an unfortunate spillage of an entire box of red hots, with my mom.  The first 3-D film I ever saw was a Chip & Dale/Donald Duck cartoon with my beloved, dearly missed grandparents.  The first drive-in movie I ever experienced was a double-feature of Snow White and something else that I fell asleep during, with my entire family.  (They still have drive-ins here in the South and they were rampant in the late 70's/early 80's.)  My first record was Mickey Mouse Disco.  I remember walking down Main Street USA for the first time in 1981, holding my little sister's hand.  I had my first panic attack in a bathroom stall in Fantasyland behind Peter Pan's Flight on my 30th birthday.  See the pattern?

I didn't really intend this to be a love letter to Disney but, honestly, it's been my longest commitment next to my little family.  I have even refused to continue dating men who take a political stance against Disney.  (To be honest, I generally don't date men who boycott stuff just to be "cool" or controversial.)  And you don't want to get me going on what a visionary Walt was and how thorough the Imagineers are or how detailed Pixar is.

So as I was putting my blog together this morning, I had UP playing in the background and just hearing it playing brought back the flood of emotions I felt when I first saw it.  Only five minutes into the movie and I'm bawling, my throat is killing me and my heart is at once breaking for Carl & Ellie and in love with Carl & Ellie.  I'm not giving anything away but this movie fully captures the essence of life and love in just a few minutes of frames.  The most artful and tender way to tell a love story I think I have ever seen.  Ever.  More impactful than a two hour movie.  No dialogue, just the unspoken narrative of beautifully animated character development.  I. Was. On. The. Floor.

It amazes me how affected I am by this scene every single time.  It's just so expressive that I can't help but turn to mush.  The love Carl & Ellie have for each other and the love the animators must have had for these characters just shines through.  I need to remember to put this movie in when I wonder what it's all about, what the meaning of life is.  It's the story of Carl & Ellie.

Shabby Blogs

I have to give a shout-out from one Meg to another: Shabby Blogs made my blog so pretty that it's almost worth checking in to read my whinings, n'est-ce pas?

If you have an affinity for Megs, follow both of us on Twitter: Shabby Blogs Twitter (you can find the Twitter button for yours truly to the right). If you only have an affinity for cute, free and user-friendly blog spiffer-uppers, that's fine, too. My feelings won't be hurt. Well, only a little, anyway.

Spinstery Things

I became a spinster almost 9 years ago when I surpassed the accepted "marriageable" age of 26. I became aware of my spinsterhood when I turned 30. I became acutely aware of it last year when my girlfriends started some sort of fertility pandemic and all became pregnant with their thirds. Uh, not to imply that babies are an infectious disease.

I'm unofficially in my mid-thirties. In fact, I filled out an online form earlier this week for something-or-other and it truncated my selected age to the "late thirties" category. I think that's really harsh - I'm two months away from 35 and I hardly think it's fair to apply "34" to "late-thirties" but whatever.

Last week I visited one of my married girlfriends for the day. Actually, all but two of my girlfriends are married. And all but one of the marrieds have kids; the one that doesn't has two dogs, three cats, a bird and a very immature husband so we can really lump her in with the rest. So my girlfriend (who lives in a beautiful house on the lake) said she really envies how free I am. I keep hearing this. I don't get it. I saw no dungeon there. No chains. No gates keeping her in. What's the deal?

She misses being single. She misses taking off for the weekend with friends. Misses not having to make arrangements with babysitters, dog sitters, house sitters, etc. to be free and 'experience life' and stuff. But the thing is...I don't do that, either. My last spontaneous weekend road trip was in 2007. My last FUN weekend road trip was in 2006.

It got me thinking about how little marrieds know about singles. Or, at least how little my friends know about me. If she only knew how monotonous yet stressful my life is, she'd be thankful for her ball-and-chain (plus, her husband is adorable and super-sweet to her). And then it hit me: I realized she's not at all envious, she's "reverse-sour-graping" me! My spinstery life, my situation, makes her uncomfortable and she doesn't want to make me feel bad, so she makes her situation pale in comparison to my {{allegedly}} vibrant, swinging single life.

I thought if I actually detailed to my friends what my day-to-day routine (or rut, really) looks like, I'd lose 'em all! They'd be so disenchanted. Tuesday I watched 8 consecutive episodes of Law & Order SVU, then I baked a potato, made a cocktail and watched MORE TV. Not because I'm "free" or because I'm "so lucky" to have "so much time" but because I'm lazy, I'm in-between jobs and it was so much more appealing than sending out more résumés. There isn't anyone around (not even family) to keep me in check and it's not like my phone is ringing off the hook with potential employers or suitors these days.

But, yes, I am free to hop in the car and take a road trip this weekend. All by myself. With little money and no destination.