Yep, Me Too I Guess

Yep, Me Too I Guess

Much like many of my fellow Americans, I found the build up to (and now the post-coverage of) the royal nuptials unnecessary, superfluous and just plain too much. I had no intention of waking up before what is a reasonable time for any human being who is not a baker to watch England’s heir marry his shining new princess. I understood the historical aspect of it and the 23 million Americans who did tune in thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but it wasn’t of great concern to me. In fact, I had completely forgotten about it on Friday morning until I flipped on the TV per my morning news routine. And there she was on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. A glowing young woman pretty in a way that is completely relatable. Beaming at her new husband in her Grace Kelly-esque wedding gown.

Home Again, Home Again Jiggity Jig

I traded unencumbered stars for city lights, cornfields for corner coffee shops, and never looked back, but there’s something to be said about going home again. I spent this past weekend at my childhood home, which lies on a storybook farm site seven miles outside a town straight out of  Beautiful Girls where the men drive pick-up trucks with misogynistic bumper stickers and the women start having babies right after high school (if not during). 

The Itch

The Itch

Our attention spans are getting shorter in every regard, including romantically. A study released last month made the observation that the one-time seven year itch has inched it’s way closer to three years. Granted this study came as an effort to promote Hall Pass, so it should be taken with a grain of salt (as any study should), but it’s still disconcerting. The article speaks more to the staling that naturally occurs rather than directly about the cheating that has become a symptom of the itch. This I understand. Relationships will ultimately become familiar and it will take a concerted effort to (for lack of a less cheesy phrase) maintain the spark. But I feel like it’s at this point where that real love stuff everyone is always babbling about comes in.

When Our Male “Must Haves” Become Our Personal “Must Bes”

Many moons ago, shortly after the inception of this blog, I wrote about the idea of becoming the men we want to marry. The idea was reintroduced to my musings in a Vogue excerpt by Anne Roiphe. She recently released “Art and Madness” in which she chronicles her destructive quest to love a man who embodied everything she loved about art and literature (and some of the things she hated). She longed to be a part of the fascinating world of authors and she thought the only way to gain access was by becoming the muse of a man. She would ultimately realize that by becoming the man she had hoped he was, she could be a part of this world on her own accord.

My Zombie Ex

My Zombie Ex

After three years I like to think that the ghost of my former fiancé would stay where he belongs, deeply buried in a past life I only revisit when I come across the aborted remnants of the wedding that never was in my parents’ closet. (Which is how chapter 13 of my biography would start if the tragic Zelda Fitzgerald were to write it.) Yet he seems to keep popping up as though he were a mole in a perennial arcade game. The most recent manifestation of this romantic apparition occurred a couple of weeks ago when I received an e-mail informing me that he would be in town and would like me to meet him for coffee. A response was not required. I simply had to show up so he could apologize (again). Oh and he left me with this loaded song to ruminate on in the interim (subtle no?).

Great Expectations of Movie Love

How many times have we tried to pin the blame for our romantic shortcomings on Hollywood and the preposterous, impossible ideals they instill in our hearts (earlier evidence). In reality we can blame that land of glitz and glam for James Franco’s ubiquity (full disclosure: I follow him on Twitter—have you seen those dimples?), Gigli, and Nicholas Cage’s career, but we cannot rebuke them for our naive hopes of riding off into the sunset with our ever-faithful, tall, dark, handsome, humanitarian doctor prince special agent.

Confessions From the Tragic Love Life of a 16-Year-Old Girl

One of my best friends from high school recently uncovered our note notebook from our junior year. Reading it ten years later is both hysterical and heartbreaking. Among the heart-dotted eyes, Stereomud lyrics and obnoxious spellings of “nite” there is some insight into what love and boys can do to the delicate psyche of a sensitive 16-year-old girl as she struggles to find her path and figure out who she is along the way. Before I chose to combat heartbreak with sarcastic cynicism, I handled each romantic let-down with raw, unadulterated (if not immature) emotion.

The Online Saga Part Two: The Christian Angle

So a few weeks ago I decided to plunge into the world of online dating. I signed up for a slew of sites in hopes of finding one that would squelch my internal judgy feelings toward online dating. After a very scientific decision process (by scientific I mean completely at random with special consideration given to sites that seemed the least skeevy), I chose to evaluate Christian Dating for Free, Love and Seek, Zoosk, and eHarmony.

“For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.”

“For this was Saint Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.”

For the past two weeks I’ve come across a barrage of survival guides designed to help singletons make it through the ever-so-challenging holiday that is Valentine’s Day. This is the day that is supposed to make you feel miserable because you lack that special pooh bear to send loverly flowers to your work (because it doesn’t count if others don’t see it, sort of an if a bear poops in the woods kind of thing) and recreate the perfect Zales moment just for you. Alas, whatever shall I do to make it through with no one to love?