Note: This blog is pretty much me reminiscing about my first love.  Not sure there's a point so much as a reflection, and sharing a bit of my history with you, readers :)

Ah, my first love...

I met him back in the...probably fourth grade.  Maybe before, but if so, I can't recall.  Frankly, I didn't even really take notice of him until seventh grade.

We were doing this stupid play that was a cross between Grease and fifties/sixties music.  We weren't allowed to actually do Grease because of...I don't know, something about the sexuality in it?  Anyway, I played Cher (with a little fifth grader as Sonny--barf), and he was...one of the Duke of Earls.  And I remember we were doing a dress rehearsal, and it was the first time I ever saw him in a suit.  I just remember thinking, "Damn."  He looked like a man to me.

And on top of that...maybe this was around eighth grade, but somehow, I got introduced to the WWF, and The Rock, and I don't know if my crush on him perpetuated my crush on The Rock or the other way around, but either way, it was very much working for me.  He was immature and childish, but looks wise?  He was most definitely it.  I mean, we were both the same age (and frankly, I'm like six months older than him), but that whole manly look just appealed to me.  In fact, at one point he had a full grown were-man beard going on.  Made him look like he was thirty.  And though I was just thirteen myself, I guess I've had a thing for older guys (or older looking guys as it were with him), for quite some time.  Hell, maybe he kicked that off for me.

So... he ended up being my first boyfriend after eighth grade graduation.  I swear it was only like a week, but it was a most interesting week.  First guy to ever go to second base for one.  And for another..he told me loved me.  Even sang me a little song about it.  It was lovely.

He ended up being the first guy I ever wrote a love letter to, and...we were in each others lives off and on throughout the duration of high school.

And then there was prom.  He was my date, and...that felt right.  I tried to get him take my virginity that night, but for reasons I won't get into, that didn't exactly happen.  But, it was then I knew that he'd be in my life in some capacity more than likely forever.  And it's nice to have that particular thought under my cap.

We still love each other very much, and I'm sure one day we'll have a kid or something...the timing just never seems to be right.

I suppose that's what this particular post is about: timing.  Timing can make or break you, that's for sure.  And now, what, twelve years later, we're still solid.  Even though he has a girlfriend and I fairly recently got out of my own shitty relationship, it's not really going to stop the two of us from moving forward.

I don't know what our future entails, but I do know that it will have the two of us together at some point.  It's nice to think about.

Having your cake and eating it too...

The thing about cake is that...it's meant to be eaten.  And if one gives you cake, they may insist that you should be happy that you even have it, and therefore have no reason to complain EVER cause not everyone is fortunate enough to even get cake...

So, suppose somone makes you a fabulous, three tiered, seven layer cake that is moist and topped with knee knocking cream cheese icing.  This cake even has the most intricate of decorations, and is just simply gorgeous.  But then you come to find out what the secret ingredient is:

Shit.

But hey--you have cake, and it's damn near perfect!  It's exquisite and expensive, and again--not everyone even gets to have cake. So what if there's a little shit in there--you can't even taste it.

*crickets*

Uh, yeah, go ahead and get the fuck outta here.  I have every fucking right to complain about the lump of shit distributed throughout my cake.

Honestly?

I'd rather have someone bust out a box of Duncan Hines then to have the "specialty" cake tainted with shit.

I DO NOT WANT TO EAT SHIT.

And I don't give a flying fuck that it's all dressed up.

Yada, yada, yada, my ex is a gigantic douche.  Not a news flash.

Sometimes I wonder if I give off some kind of asshole pheromone.  No, really.  If I were to give a guesstimate, I'd say that about only ten percent of the guys I've come across romantically did not end up being total douche bags.  If I give it a bit more thought, I'd say that number is actually closer to 7-8%.

So, I decided to put out good vibes for myself and conjure up my "perfect man."  Not ideal, but perfect, for I think I have to aim way high to get anything close to what I want (i.e. my ideal man, or ballpark range thereof).  I'm not going to state obvious things like intelligence or being financially secure or stuff like that--it's a given (or so I'd hope, dear readers).  Instead, I'm going to take pieces of characters and a few real men alike, and present you with a list!  So, here it goes, in no particular order.

ETA: I realize that for a lot of women, George Clooney comes to mind because...he's friggin' George Clooney, but he didn't make my list.  I did, however, want to give him an honorable mention, because he seems like an awesome dude with an even greater sense of humor.

Luther Vandross--I want my perfect man to be able to sing and have the awesome talent of arranging music just so.  And not just sing, but have just such a beautiful and melodious voice that I'd melt.  I want him to literally show up on my door and sing like, "A House is Not a Home" or something to me.  Ah yes, a foolish romantic am I.

Eliot Stabler--Eliot is passionate, stable and a family man.  He is a huge advocate for children, and nicely built.  I can't tell you how pissed I was that his character was removed from Law & Order: SVU, but I will always have the memories.  Additionally, Eliot is faithful, fearless, and willing to put his neck on the line for what he believes in.  He has balls, ladies and gents, and they're big.  But yeah, I mention him specifically because of his hardcore family values.  I plan on being a mom someday, and while I'm not holding my breath on it, it'd be nice to have a man not just present, but fully aware and accepting as his role in my family.  The character Eliot embodies that.

Zachary Levi--I never watched Chuck.  Had no desire to, and when I tried, I found I was just so terribly bored.  But last year, I went to San Diego Comic Con, and saw the Chuck panel.  Zachary Levi had to be the biggest sweetheart on the planet.  Not only is he insanely gorgeous (and dear God--that hair!) and tall to boot, he cried at the loss of his fandom experience.  He said that his fans--his band of nerds was what made him happiest.  He even created a company--The Nerd Machine--for nerds to unite.  And while they unite, he raises money for charity.  So he's not only a nerd, which  I love (being a self proclaimed geek), he also has a big heart.  I don't know Zachary on a personal level by any means, but just from what I do know, I could probably stop my list right then there.  But I'll plunge on through, for there are a few more names that I have....

Dr. Christian Troy--ah yes, from the no longer airing Nip/Tuck.  He's sexy.  He's successful.  He's confident.  And when he realized his own shortcomings, he aligned himself with the smartest kid in class.  So even though he wasn't the smartest, he had cunning to make up for it.  He also had a heart, and that wasn't too bad.  I do acknowledge he wasn't really boyfriend material and was a total douche at times, but I'm just extrapolating his good points, so keep that in mind.  Bonus--he's the kind of man who I'd never have to remind about ear hair maintenance.  Or really, any kind of maintenance.

Idris Elba--Another extremely good looking man who dresses well, but he has to have one of the sexiest walks on the planet.  The man literally has swag, people.  He has confidence, grace, and sex appeal when he moves.  And I say that as someone who's seem him in person.  Oh, and he's British.  I don't know what it is about British accents, but good grief, are they *PWs.  I realize I'm saying that as an American, but meh.  Additionally, Idris is a total PW on his very own, even without that voice.

Spike--Speaking of British accents (even though James Marsters is a California boy), I'm pretty sure Spike kicked off my...adoration of males with British accents.  He too also has an awesome walk, chock full of sex appeal.  But what Spike also has is a plethora of romantic values.  He writes and reads poetry.  His undead heart is worn proudly on his sleeve.  He has so much adoration and respect for the woman that he loves.  He also sings on occasion.  He's brave, with a strong sense of family values, and will stick by you no matter what to the bitter end.  He's the guy that won't run away when things get heavy.  So yeah, he's on my list too.

Michael Rosenbaum--Another nerd makes my list.  Well, to be more accurate, I think that Michael is more of a geek like me.  And for my ideal man?  That's always a HUGE plus.  In addition to that, he has a most magnificent sense of humor.  He's not only totally cool about poking fun at others, but he does a good job at poking fun at himself.  Michael is also a fabulous storyteller, and seems very secure with himself and his lot in life.  He doesn't put on airs, either, and is quick to have a beer or party with his fans.  I haven't had that particular pleasure, but I appreciate that that quality in particular is in him.  A lot of celebs can be huge douchers.  I'm happy to say he isn't one of them.

Ryan Gosling--Ah, Ryan Gosling...I don't know much about him other than the fact he's a fine actor (and no, I have not seen "The Notebook"...nor do I want to), but there was a huge internet meme surrounding him.  And let me just say that I'd love to be his "Hey Girl."

[PW is a term I came up with a few years ago, which means "panty wetter."  Graphic, I know, but sometimes, an apt description if the right guy crosses your path...]

So, I've been in contact with my ex.

I received some good news, and all of my hatred that was geared towards him kind of instantly washed away in that moment. And just for the record, we're talking about a man who lied and at the very least, attempted to cheat on me with a close associate at a place where I formerly worked. The fury had risen in me (and I won't can't go into details about the specifics of this situation), and I was so sure it was going to stick with me. It stayed with me for a solid three weeks. I'm not sure I've ever been so pissed off at one single thing or person for such an extended time. Usually the cool indifference of "fuck it" kicks in at about a week, and I go on with my life. But with this situation? It was like it had me in a choke hold. I simply could not let it go, and thought of horrible things that I would like to do or have happen to him.

Anyway.

So when I got this fantastic, life changing new, it was as if this...white light of joy suffused my body. No joke! I couldn't stop smiling, and literally jumped for joy. I hadn't planned on saying anything to him, but the hatred had been gone. He sent me a text, which I new had the sole purpose of seeing how I was...just a few days prior, I'd sent him the following email:

Thank you.

Thank you for lying to me all this time.

Thank you for pretending to love me.

Thank you for saying disparaging remarks about me behind my back.

Thank you for talking about our future together, while secretly not meaning a word of it.

Thank you for saying I wasn't good enough.

Thank you for continuing to not only embarrass me, but yourself.

Thank you for the knives in my back.

Thank you for cheating on me/attempting to cheat on me/whatever.

Thank you for disrespecting me.

Thank you for the emotional damage.

Thank you for this migraine.

And finally, thank you for putting the final nail in the coffin of my trust in men. It's bolted shut and buried now.

Good day.

So anyway, when I got that text, I was just filled with this happiness; my cup had over floweth. So, I answered his simple question, and added that I had forgave him and that everything was bygones. I meant it. I truly had forgiven him because...why not? Things are now going well for me in my professional life, and I am literally moving away to another state towards the end of the month/early next month.

That brings me to the fact that I spent last weekend with him. I'm still not sure what to make of that. No, I'm not angry anymore and no, I'm not in love with him anymore...that being said, I feel that I do still love him, and that this love has become an albatross around my neck. I think I've made my peace with this, but that's probably because the catalyst were all of these awesome great life changes. I feel like spending more time with him until it's time for me to go. And no, that does not mean that I now trust him, for he has burned every bit of currency there, and that does not mean that I want to be in another relationship with him ever. It really would be pointless. I don't know--maybe I'm just ironing out residual issues. At any rate, it felt nice to laugh again [with him] as opposed to being filled with so much venom and hatred.

This past weekend, he described us as "friends, who care very deeply for each other." I told him that I didn't know what the hell we were, but I definitely did not consider him a friend. The best thing I could come up for him is a question mark.

So, being a single woman, I've for a long while considered the probability/possibility of never getting married. Now, this isn't something that bothers me per se, having grown up in a single parent home. My mother was never married. I've seen a lot of marriages crack at the seems. And I feel, never having a set father figure in my life beyond a couple of uncles, that I've grown up fairly well rounded. Biased opinion, but I think my mother did a kick ass job raising me. Anyway, I know a lot of women in my age range have a ticking clock...for marriage. And whether or not they have kids is contingent upon said marriage.

The reality is this: marriage doesn't happen for everyone. But there are a few things in this life that I feel the need to do, and one of those is to be a mom. I don't want to believe that my biological clock is ticking...although I do admit that as each day passes, my God given eggs are dying. Anyway, I have a plan for my future, married or not. In two years, whether I find "the one" or one that is decent enough, I'm going to have children.

I was watching The View the other day, and there was actually a statistic about women my age (or age range as it were) are going out and simply getting donors. There's like a new breed of single mothers out there who don't give a damn about being single mothers. I personally never saw anything wrong with that, but apparently, there was this huge stigma boot strapped to being a single mom and/or a "bastard" child. Speaking as a bastard, I really could give a rat's ass about that.

And even if I were to get married...I wouldn't oh say, change my name. I think it must be the strong individuality streak in me. I remember when I was a little girl, about age eight or so, and my mom and dad asked me if I wanted to change my last name to his. I looked at both of them, quite confused, and said, "...but I already have a last name." I've had this name for over a quarter of a century; I just don't see the point in changing it. In fact, if I were to get married, not only would I not change my last name, but the first son that I have would carry my last name, and whatever man who is fortunate enough to be with me will just have to accept that. I've been criticized heavily for saying this amongst friends, but that truly is how I feel. I mean hey--if I'm carrying around a kid for nine months, I should be able to name him whatever I feel like naming him. Well obviously, not anything crazy (and I do feel for those kids out there who have absolutely horrid names...but let's not get into that). But hey--he'd get a crack at the next kid should we have another together.

So in conclusion--single motherhood? Ladies, if you really want a kid...don't wait for anyone but yourself. Hey, if I waited around for someone to do something that I wanted to do, I wouldn't have flown to the other side of the planet, and missed out on a ton of other things on the fear of being alone. Being alone is alright, sometimes. At any rate, it's not the end of the world.

So, the other day I was having a "date night" with my BFF. I'm single, she's not, but it's a nice way for us to have some quality time. Anywho, we decided to watch some old flicks, and one of the films was "Never Been Kissed"--the Drew Barrymore romantic comedy from about ten years ago?

I recall it being very funny, some awfully embarrassing moments, and the semi adorable Michael Vartan as the love interest (sorry, but...it's hard to beat the incredibly adorable Paul Rudd in "Clueless").

Upon rewatch, I noticed some...let's say, interesting things about his character--the teacher Mr. Colson.

I know that having a hot prof hits a lot of young women's kink meter, but watching this film as an adult, I realized that he is in fact, portraying the non romanticized version of the hot prof. He had a girlfriend, and he oftentimes talked to Josie/Drew Barrymore about his fear of commitment. Frankly, it was bizarre. He mentioned how they'd been together for five years, and that she wanted him to move with her to New York and start a new life together, all the while giving googly eyes to Josey. He was definitely flirting with her and pursuing her...while talking about distancing himself from his long time girlfriend. And then--when he realizes his awfully naughty feelings for his student (albeit, she was a senior, and presumably in the seventeen/eighteen year old range, so not totally illegal), he gets kind of pissed learning she is in fact of age. Now, that may not have been the writer and/or director's intent for the film...and while it's true, she lied, you'd think he'd be relieved to know that he had feelings for an adult, and not some teenage girl. At any rate, in my humble opinion, of course, it was an odd spin on the Filf/hot prof scenario.

And on the topic of hot professors...I will briefly share an experience with my own.

I was in college, and I remember when he first walked into the room. I promise you, it was as if he walked in slow motion, wearing a white button down, and just being utterly gorgeous as the sunlight kissed his faced through the window. I think it's possible my mouth went dry, and I couldn't help but stare before looking away, all ashamed for my school girl crush. I felt like such a kid...but he had just been so wonderful. In fact, he made me such a bundle of nerves that one time, during a one on one meeting about my writing, I broke out into a nervous sweat. No lie. God, I'd never felt so uncomfortable...well, actually I had with another hot prof a year and a half before, but this seemed to be amplified and more intense.

Anyway, long story short, about a year or so after I graduated, I ran into him again, and uh...I made out with him, I won't lie to you (and when I say "made out", I mean just that--no funny business...not that I regret that or nothing. Ahem). And it was the most wonderful kiss I ever had. Felt like I was in some sort of romance novel.

And yes, I liked it.

And male grooming.

But first--

Where I've Been, and Where I'm At...

So, excluding my movie review there, I've been away for roughly six months. That's how long I had been in my last relationship. I...didn't feel it fair to continue the blog, or to write about my current bf--it would have felt dishonest and sensationalized, so I stayed away. Since I'm writing again, I suppose it isn't hard to figure out we're no longer together.

It was strange, to be sure. He painted a very pretty picture, and I bought it. I thought we'd go the whole nine yards, but it wasn't meant to be. I think (eventually) he had problems with monogamy, suffered from depression, what I believe could have been being bipolar, and came up with superficial reasons to keep me at a distance (i.e., he thought I needed to lose weight, and he thought I needed to lose it now, in spite of the fact that I was the same size when we first met).

We broke up in October, roughly, then resumed..."something" in November. A strange, un-relationship thing. We spent the holidays together, but after New Years, it appears to have been the end. At any rate, I'm not sad about it (anymore), and I've rejoined the dating pool. It seems never ending at this point, but...

So, I like to date older, and there are a few things I've noticed about older men that just....puzzle me just a bit. My ex was ten years older, and the gentleman I've gone out with lately is sixteen years older. It seems that older men don't particularly give a crap about trimming/plucking/just get rid of their ear hair. And I'm not talking about fine, golden hairs...but noticeable, old man hairs. I used to pluck my exes because frankly, it's not something I'd care to look at. That being said, there was one guy I dated who was roughly thirty, and he had the most awful, long gray things sprouting from his ears. It was such an eye sore that I didn't know what to do. Do you mention it? Say something? I told my ex, because we were actually in a relationship. We could talk about things. But if one is on a casual date, and let's just say you were casually dating, do you mention it?

And what about skin care and pedicures? Honestly, rusty toes creep me out, and drying, dead skin isn't terribly sexy either. I don't mean full out metro sexual, but what's so wrong about maintenance and looking one's best? I've also noticed that about older gentlemen I've seen as of late--they may [occasionally] let the ear hair go rampant, but they'll have neatly trimmed and buffed nails. That's not a bad thing, of course--frankly I love it. I have a thing about hands, and am mos def pro-hand maintenance.

Skin...since I am more likely to date older, I'd have to say that this is an important thing as well. Moisturizer, sun screen, vitamin C serums and microderms...It's a given in our society that women have to look good. I think it's good that men are not only taking notice, but notes. Or at least some of the men I've come across, anyway.

So, dear readers...what say you?

It's been a long while...but I think I'm [officially] back. As a celebration of my return, I bring you the review of a film about a man who was too damaged to find love from others, or himself.

“SHAME”

Rating: 4/4 stars
Worth the watch: Absolutely, yes.

Starring Michael Fassbender as Brandon
Directed by Steve McQueen

“Shame” is a film about a man in his mid thirties, who has peculiar sexual predilections. By “peculiar,” I mean that achieving orgasm doesn’t please him. Initially in the film, it seems that sex and masturbation are merely part of his routine—something he has to do. He goes to work at his normal job and comes home alone to his normal apartment, and indulges in various kinds of sexual activities—prostitutes, web cam sex, and mass amounts of porn. His routine of essentially feeling nothing, however, are interrupted by his (dare I say?) unruly, younger sister, and a crush on a coworker.

His sister rolls into his life like a punishing tide, making him face all of the things of his past which he longs to forget. Things that are not explicitly said, but it is made clear that both he and his sister endured extensive [sexual] abuse as children back home in Ireland, which is, however, clearly the root cause of his problem.

His coworker catches him off guard. She intrigues him, and they talk…they go out on a date. He tells her he doesn’t see the point of relationships, and she challenges him on it; makes him think. Unlike the other women he interacts with in the film, he notices her; considers her. She isn’t just a receptacle for having sex—he enjoys her company. He asks to see her again. He attempts to consummate their…something. Not a relationship (yet), but he was willing to try. He can’t perform. It’s not that he is impotent, which is what she is lead to believe, but it is due to his fear of feeling something more than…nothing. That starts his downward spiral of (allow me to be specific, here) self destructive shame. That isn’t to say his previous behavior wasn’t self destructive in some form or fashion, but he starts to put himself in harms way, taking risks he has yet to take in the film.

A confrontation with his sister is what pushes him over the edge. He picks a fight at a bar, goes to a gay club for anonymous sex, and then meets up with two female partners for a threesome. He cries during orgasm. Some may say that this last scene—the ménage et trios—was gratuitous. But considering we see a man here with two women having intense sex cry in agony as opposed to enjoy it, I think the juxtaposition of scenes (and musical score) were quite fitting.

And then there is a breakthrough—he nearly experiences a great loss. There’s a scene of him walking in the rain, and then he literally breaks down. He cries out as he collapses under the cleansing rain, getting the release he has yet to have ever achieved—an intense emotional release.

I’ll backtrack here—at the beginning of the film, he’s riding a subway train. There’s a woman sitting across from him, and they give one another flirtatious looks. It appears at one moment, the woman slyly touches herself…she stands for her stop, and looks “shamed” for her behavior—we see a wedding ring on her left hand. He gets up to follow her off, but loses her in the crowd. That same married woman reappears at the film’s close. She’s still married, but the shame is gone. She boldly smiles at him, giving him come hither looks, wanting to entice him to…follow her. He looks at her—his face blank. He’s not the same man anymore. The wounds on his face from the fight have begun to heal, and it is clear in this moment—his not acknowledging this married woman’s come ons—the audience should realize that he too is on the mend internally. The scene of him in the rain was almost like a baptismal. There’s a voiceover of his sister saying that they weren’t “Bad people—we just come from a bad place.” And I think the character, Brandon, realizes this. Because he can now face his past, he can now allow himself to feel. The tide of shame has begun to recede.

I think that whichever audience members who think that this movie has no hope, I think they missed these key points. Brandon found redemption. He had to spiral down to hell to get there, but he found it.

Michael Fassbender should win an award for his performance, and Steve McQueen should win an award for his wonderful directorial skills (and also his writing skills, since I believe he wrote the script). I loved this film. And I would gladly watch it again. I’m looking at you, Ebert.

So, a friend of mine linked me here.

[This post is my response to the reading, so please take a looksee at it so that this post will make some sense.]

Well, I have mixed feelings about this.  I can only take the reading half seriously.

I don't think it's fair to the victims mentioned in the piece to be correlated to the word slut, nor do I think that the word itself causes or induces violence.

One can dress inappropriately (and yes, there is such a thing), but that wouldn't make one a slut.  If I go to work tomorrow with thigh high boots, a mini skirt and a corset, I'm sure folks will wonder why it looks like I"m prepared to stand on a street corner.  Would that make me a slut?  No.  Would it appear as if I was dressed like one, or a step up from that, a prostitute?  Well, yes.  Have my actions given any indication of one or the other?  No.

Also, in this day and age, the word "slut" isn't limited to women anymore--there are plenty of male sluts or man whores to go around.  There's actually a reality show about the latter.

If I go to work tomorrow dressed in my standard attire of black slacks, black closed toe shoes, and a black button down, would I appear as if I were about to work a street corner or look like a "slut"?  No.  But if I invited several of my male or female coworkers (dressed in my standard work attire) one at a time to join me in the broom closet for some personal time (i.e. to fuck), would that make me a slut?  I'd have to say so.  But hell--slut or not/looks like a slut or not--it doesn't give anyone the right to rape me.  I don't understand the attempt to correlate the two.  There are unfortunately plenty of women who have been rape victims, or hell *children* who have been molested or raped, and it has nothing to do with how they dressed or how they acted.

Is there a set definition for the word "slut"?  Perhaps not.  I think it's more along the lines of knowing it when you see it, like porn.  A woman lying bare on a chaise lounge, legs closed, and eyes looking directly at you through a picture would not be considered porn.  But if oh say one hand was tweaking a nipple while the other is touching her nether region, eyes hooded, then clearly the image is meant to titillate, which would then make it porn.  Though that isn't to say that the former couldn't titillate one, but it is made clear the viewer that that isn't the intent.

I think one should be able to wear whatever they want to wear and do what they want to do.  But there is also a thing called common sense.  If I hear there's been several robberies in my neighborhood, and I continue to leave my front door unlocked every night, am I increasing the risk that I too will be robbed or worse?  Yes.  Am I contributing to the risk of my own welfare and/or the welfare of my possessions?  Yes.

This also reminds me of my old school, and the Cash Money Millionaires, or at least, a good deal of the rap songs back in the 90s.  There were plenty of songs about hoes, project bitches, and so forth, and many people danced to the music.  I too danced and sang with the songs.  Did I ever stop and think they meant me?  Hell no.  Did I ever feel offended by those terms?  *Hell* no.  Have I ever personally been called any of those things?  Again, no.  I do not personally feel affected by it, and I don't feel inclined to stand with a bunch of women (as the blog suggests) who embrace their slutdom or whatever.  I feel as if the author is attempting to make women embrace the word slut as some black people embrace the word "nigga."  I am neither, and have never given a reason for anyone to call me either of those words either.

In short, the word "slut" neither bothers or offends me.  In order for one to be a slut. it  has to do with personal choice.  If one chooses to engage in slut behavior, be they male or female, then one should be prepared to be called one at some point.  And if one is proud of what and who they do and how they do it and chooses to share that bit of intel with others, then they should let their slut flag wave freely, and feel no shame for it whatsoever.

Because if one in fact does feel shamed, then one clearly has a problem with oneself.