C-o-o-l R-i-d-e-r

I have this strange propensity to trust people with my personal safety. I say it’s strange because my mother is probably the most paranoid person I’ve ever met in my entire life. Which means I was raised in a house of
For the Love of God, Don’t Get on an Airplane, Keep the Door Deadbolted if You Don’t Recognize the Face in the Peephole, and You Can’t Go Hiking Alone—a Mountain Lion Will Eat You! (Okay now that I read those, I realize each scenario involves me doing something solo, so maybe it’s not such a surprise that I blindly follow others and just believe they’re going to lay down their lives to save me from danger.)

Yesterday, Mr. Wonderful and I were browsing through the newspaper over breakfast burritos when he said, “Do you want to go for a ride up to Lake Hollywood today?” I nodded lazily, picturing a relaxing drive with the sunroof open.

But Mr. W wasn’t talking about a car trip. He was talking motorcycle.

I grew up in a family that rode ATVs, and my college boyfriend had a dirt bike. But I had never been on a street bike in my life. And although the thought of passengering one scared me a bit, I didn’t hesitate in the slightest to hop on the back of Mr. W’s Suzuki DRZ 400. I had absolute faith that he would do everything in his power to keep me from becoming helmet-clad roadkill.

It was about eleven o’clock when we accelerated down his street, winding through the Hollywood hills. The sky was baby blue, people in convertibles were taking Sunday cruises, walkers and joggers were out in their spandexy finest. I couldn’t help but smile at it all.

I had never seen Lake Hollywood before—heck, until a few years ago, I didn’t even know Hollywood had a lake—so it was quite a treat to look out over the deep blue-green water with sagebrush and eucalyptus scents wafting into my helmet and Mr. W’s abs clenched tightly under my palms.

We passed a grassy dog park filled with prancing people and smiling canines, then Mr. W took me down to a secluded little spot where the deer tend to hang out. We did not see any…I think they’re all in his backyard eating his strawberry bushes.

When Batman, err Mr. W, asked if I was up for going the long way home through Griffith Park, I said, “of course!” Because even though I was wearing only a tank top and jeans, and my giant helmet was knocking against my tiny pea head, I had no doubt that Mr. W would keep the pristine beauty of the day intact and return me unscathed to his garage. And he did. And I’ll probably ride with him again. Even if my mom tells me not to.

Miss Schmindependent

Yesterday I took this quiz on Oprah’s website to determine what my excuses were for not dealing with my money and securing my financial future. It’s not that I am a bad money manager by any means—I pay my bills, almost own my Prius outright, have a nest egg for a condo—it’s just that beyond knowing how to open a savings account and use online banking, I’m kind of inept. I don’t really dabble in the stock market. I don’t pay attention to how my 401(k) funds are performing. Why? Because I don’t want to deal.

But after taking Jean Chatzky’s test, and assessing my answers, I felt a bit panicky about not having a smarter handle on my money. So, of course, I IMed Mr. Wonderful and asked him if he would help me look at my fund allocations and change things up to make more sense.

See, even though I’ve lived on my own (sans roommates) for the last 10 years… And I bought my car (without anyone guiding me) last year… And I’m not afraid to go walking solo at night… And I’m capable of functioning as a whole, single person in society… I really want to hand certain things off to a man in my life.

For a long time (and even sometimes now) I would turn to my dad for assistance with those things I consider men’s bidniz. But Mr. Wonderful is such a brilliant (hot), accessible (precious) and valuable (megawatt sexy) resource, I can’t help but want to run to him for help now.

After we looked over my Vanguard account online last night, he handed me a book about investing. I don’t wanna read the book. I want him to say, “Oh, here’s what you need to do. No scratch that, just let me do it for you.”

I wanted him to say that when he offered me a spare wireless Internet thingee, too. I don’t even know what it is exactly. It’s not a modem. It’s a plug. And I want him to install it. Just like I want him to take my garbage cans out to the curb. And get the oil changed in my car. And water my plants. And change lightbulbs that are too high for me to reach. And figure out my new cell phone. And man the BBQ. And carry in the groceries. And manage my freaking retirement funds.

Yes, I am an independent woman of the 21st century, and it makes me very whiney.

Goose and Other Bumps

You know how sometimes when you’re sitting in an airplane, thumbing through a People magazine, drinking your ginger ale, listening to Zero 7 on your ipod, you forget you’re actually inside a metal tube that’s hurtling through the clouds? You get so lost in your own little world that you might as well be reclining in a movie theater, grounded, static. Maybe even stagnant. Until some turbulence rattles you awake and you realize you’re already halfway to Denver.

Or you’re driving your car down a tree-lined street at dusk, paying more attention to your mental list of To Dos for the night—laundry, dinner, yoga, Netflix—that you forget you’re operating 1500 lbs. of machinery. Then THUNK! You bounce over a speed bump and grip the steering wheel, suddenly conscious of the responsibility in your hands.

Sometimes the bumps wake us up. They pull us out of our own heads and remind us that we’re in motion. That we’re participating in something.

The little hurdles we hit in relationships have the same ability—to shake us awake and shove us forward. I guess if there’s not enough momentum, it’s possible to reach the crest and then slip backwards down the hill…but this post is about making it over the top. Because, thankfully, that can happen when you really want and need it to.

And maybe if you’re lucky, after you traverse the bump together, you’ll be saying goodnight on IM. And you’ll thank the other person for being so sweet, understanding and non-judgmental. And that person will tell you they like that you two are different. And that they love you just the way you are. They love you. Love. You. And even though it’s over IM, it will almost jolt you out of your seat. And you will get goosebumps. And you will feel more alive and wrapped in a moment than you’ve felt for quite some time.

Look: Pork Tenderloin

So as you may know, I went to Body Worlds 3 on Friday night. I thoroughly enjoyed the exhibit, although there were certain elements that disturbed me. The plasification process gives everything a sort of shiny, fabricated look, but if you move in closer, you can find little remnants of human imperfection and realism. Crooked teeth. Slightly dirty toenails. Nicotine-speckled lungs.

About fifteen minutes into the show, Mr. Wonderful and I came upon a hurdler. (They positioned all of the bodies in athletic stances.) We walked around to the back and Mr. W pointed to a small protrusion coming out of the tailbone area of the cadaver. “What is that? Is that…a...a butthole?” I couldn’t help myself. “Smell it,” I whispered to him and made both of us crack up.

Mr. W’s laughter stopped, however, when we noticed that the hurdler’s twig and berries were still attached. Well, sort of. See, the twig had been sliced down the middle. It seriously looked like a banana split. Mr. W got woozy and had to wander over to the hip and knee display to do some yoga breathing. But I, of course, had to examine it closely for a few more minutes. And let me tell you, I had no idea that the berries hung so close to the front and sides of the twig. Seriously, they’re not at all where they look like they should be when you remove someone’s skin. Not that I’ve ever seen a naked man before, Mom. Anyway…

There were some really interesting displays that showcased only the blood vessels. I was surprised at how few vessels you actually have on your shins and the top of your head. I guess because it’s mostly bone there? Not surprisingly, there were a hella lotta vessels on the naked man specimen….

The most interesting part of the exhibit, though, was the segment containing unborn babies. I was worried about this section—unsure if it would permanently scar me. But it was fascinating. There were embryos at 5, 6, 7 and 8 weeks, and fetuses ranging from I think 3 – 7 months. The embryos almost looked like little lizards or aliens. The fetuses, obviously, were perfect little babies. I think I mentally detached a bit and pretended they weren’t real. But I spent a lot of time looking at each one.

We saw human hearts and stretched out digestive tracts. The intestines looked like uncooked sausage, which may keep me from ever eating sausage again (yeah, I know its made with intestines, but it’s one of those things I just don’t like to think about…like where my hamburger is coming from). There were full-body slices of an obese man that made me want to curb my cheese consumption. And the lung samples made me never want to set foot near a smoker again.

The last room contained a full ostrich and enormous giraffe plastinate. Of course, I couldn’t resist looking to see whether the giraffe butt and bits were included…and let me tell you they were a great big (yikesies!) end to the show…

The Mood/Exercise Correlation

So up until this week, I’d been in a funk. Pretty much since Memorial Day. Chocolate wasn’t helping. Cuddling didn’t reverse it. Even the Xanadu soundtrack did nothing for me. It was baffling.

And then I went running. Did upper-body weight-lifting. And one of my favorite step aerobics DVDs. Then lower body weight work and abs.

I’ve pretty much worked out in some capacity every day this week, and you know what? It has done wonders for my spirits. It’s so easy to forget the far-reaching benefits of exercise. But when you’re reminded of them—man!—what a difference they can make. I feel stronger, not just in body, but in mind, humor, and chilled outedness. And just in time for summer, when I have to get into a bikini (which could really spin me into a sour spell!).

Speaking of bodies, Mr. Wonderful and I are going to Body Worlds 3 tonight at the Science Center in LA. I’m not a fan of blood, guts, or anything dead, but I’ve been intrigued by this exhibit for years. I’m glad to finally be able to see it. Mr. Wonderful suggested we get a drink beforehand to loosen us up in case it’s grosser than we expect. I’m hoping the plastination process just makes everything look kinda fake. And if worse comes to worst, I’ll just put on my sunglasses, close my eyes and let him lead me around like a blind person.

On another note related to my mood, a dear childhood and blogger friend sent me the best gift ever this week. I didn’t have a chance to take a picture of it because I got home too late last night, but it’s a fantastic little New Kids on the Block babydoll t-shirt (do people still say babydoll to describe shirts?). She also enclosed a very sweet note about reading my posts recently. Anita Stylist, thank you. You’re the best and if I could, I’d take that win away from the Celtics and give it to the Lakers and you!

Have a great weekend everyone!

If I Were Almighty and Powerful…

Today I started thinking about all the things in life I’d like to change.

I’d like to make cheese and chocolate calorie-free. I’d like to build French doors and a balcony off the 5th-floor corner of my building, so I could let the afternoon breeze into my cubicle and sit outside, reading SELF magazine during lunch. I would make all junk mail out of seed paper, so I could plant it random places and grow flowers and trees instead of recycling. I would give everyone straight teeth (including myself). I would make George W. a public servant of the Coalition of Writers Against Poor Grammar. I would suck the Midwestern flood waters into a giant vacuum. I would round up all the Taliban members and make them do this in jail. I would put 2 hours of fun exercise activity into every day of school (maybe like this) and turn cafeteria lunches into healthy gourmet meals. I would have a chip implanted into my brain that enabled me to fly a helicopter, then I’d buy one and build landing pads on my roof and Mr. Wonderful’s. I would build synthetic icebergs for the polar bears to walk on so they didn’t have to swim so far.

I would fix ailing marriages. I would set up a nationwide program that offered (good) free counseling for anyone who wanted it. I would mend fractured friendships and make it possible for everyone to talk about their feelings without getting hurt. I would move all of my close friends onto my street—or to a destination like Rome, Paris or Dublin, with unlimited frequent flyer miles so we could travel back and forth for visits any time we wanted. I would give everyone a box to put their pain and heartache into if they needed a break from it. I would give everyone a mirror that enabled them to see how they really look and act towards the people around them.

I would make pimples something you only read about in history books. I would make every fast food chain, cigarette manufacturer, pharmaceutical company and SUV producer donate 50% of its profits to charity. I would have a tickle machine come standard with the purchase of every bed, so even if you were sleeping solo, you could get your back caressed until you fell asleep. I would make prisoners be soldiers and cut college costs in half. I’d pay teachers 10x more than lawyers. I’d turn animal shelters into farms. I’d give Bono the Nobel Peace Prize (finally). I’d make cat hair not stick to clothing. I’d hang a batsuit in Mr. W’s closet. I’d pay every blogger $1 per word they wrote. (This post alone would be worth $463.)

Just a Few Things I Felt Like Sharing

1. Friday night, Mr. Wonderful and I decided to go to Whole Foods to pick up dinner and various cheese goodies (because who can resist the cheese selection there, right?). We bought some delicious pumpkin tortellini that he prepared in a fantastic butter sage sauce, but that’s completely beside the point. The real highlight of the evening was that we bought a bacon-chocolate candy bar.

As soon as we got in the car, we busted it open and each ate a square. My mouth was very confused. It loved the bacon flavor. It adored the chocolate. But it wasn’t quite sure what to do with them together. Eat with eggs? Or melt over vanilla ice cream?

I brought the remainder of the bar to Father’s Day Dinner at my parents’ house and the reaction was the same from everyone who tried it: Just not quite sure what to think. It wasn’t bad…but was it good? You’ll have to try one for yourself.

2. On Father’s Day night, my mom made us watch (seriously) a 720-picture digital slideshow of her and my dad’s cruise to Hawaii. Nearly bored to tears, we were all trying to find ways to entertain ourselves while we endured dirty Hawaiian music (something about Grandpa’s hangy banana or something) and image after image of the Lido deck. So finally my niece said—in front of Mr. Wonderful—“Mommy, pull my finger!” And my sister did it. And my niece totally ripped one in front of Mr. W. It was embarrassing and delightful all in the same.

3. I love Batman and the batsuit. LOVE. Would do anything to see Christian Bale in person in his costume. And today, Mr. W sent me a link to this site which has the suit pictured here available for rental for a mere $1200. If he really cared about me, he would get it for a night. Or twenty minutes.

When Necklaces Attack

When my 21-pound cat was a kitten, I had the brilliant idea of buying him a harness and leash so I could take him on walks. Though he resisted, I wrangled him into that harness and promptly got distracted by a phone call. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black flash flipping and bounding from the carpet to the couch to the coffee table. Poor little Monty had tried to get his evil walk-taking contraption off and got his tiny kitten teeth stuck in it. So naturally, he went into complete jumping, running, panicking spasms all over my apartment.

When I finally caught him (most likely in mid-air) he was panting and his little feline heart was thumping through 7 or 8 lives. I almost turned myself into the ASPCA.

Today, I felt Monty’s pain.

One of my coworkers often wears multiple necklaces—and she always looks so stylish and cute. Why can’t I wear more than one necklace? I thought this morning, as I stared at my naked clavicle.

I pulled a cute red and turquoise beaded wire wrap one off its hook. Then layered a long, plain silver chain (with no clasp), looping it over my head three times. I needed more color, so I grabbed this other little string-beaded turquoise number and double looped that one, too. The silver one didn’t look right. I stretched one loop over my head to take it off. Then another. Then discovered that my hair and all three necklaces were snarled up in an ugly jewelry traffic jam at the base of my skull.

I fumbled around for a clasp and discovered that the tangle of silver chain was mostly wrapped around the red necklace’s clasp, preventing me from unhooking it. I cursed. I was already running late for work. I found the blue stringy one’s clasp and unhooked that, but the beads were too big to pull through any of the other tangles. And my hair was still being pulled.

It was at this point that I wanted to race around my house, doing cartwheels like the cat, screaming GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF! GET IT OOOOOFFFFF!!!!!

I could feel my heart beating faster. And although I was becoming later and later for work, I was determined to clean up the metallic mess around me and wear the damn necklaces so I could be cute like my coworker. It took me about 10 minutes to sort everything out. And then I wasn’t even sure that it looked great, but there was no way I was taking anything off again.

I still haven’t forgiven that silver chain. Little bastard.

Recipe for "Stopping"

3 miles around the Rose Bowl
1 blog post
2 pages of journal writing, including a list of "positives"
23 minutes of Dr. Wayne Dyer on Oprah's Soul Series
6 amazing comments from readers
1 invitation to the Jack Johnson concert at the end of August

Mix thoroughly over 24 hours and watch spirits rise.

A Shot of Poison

I seem to have this tendency…at some point…in every relationship…of swinging the microscope lens around to the dark side. I fix it on any little hole I find and increase the magnification until I can identify every atom, proton, neutron, negativetron. (Okay fine, I made up that last one.)

But my point is, I get into these terrible grooves of focusing on the negative. Imperceptible negatives. Lacking elements that no one else would notice. Words that don’t get said. Invitations that aren’t extended. Kisses that may not have been doled out.

Once it starts, it’s hard for me to snap out of it. Which is irritating, because I’m usually a very sunny-side person. I have no problem finding the positives in lots of situations. I take on a zen attitude at work, with friends, heck—with life, most of the time.

But when it comes to matters of my heart, caution or fear of getting hurt or innate pessimism kick in and rear their ugly three heads every time. Sometimes writing helps. Sometimes running helps. Sometimes someone will say something to knock me into optimistic reality. But sometimes there’s nothing I can do.

It’s like that insecure sixteen-year-old steals the show and seeks out every possible indicator that she’s not worthy or that he’s not really interested. Instead of seeing all the ways he shows his feelings, I adjust my lens to look at the one time he held back. For ten kisses, I notice one missing. I weigh my adoration against his every move, checking the scales again and again.

My college boyfriend liked to tell me to relax. That’s like telling someone to stop hiccupping. It’s kind of beyond my control. Or is it? There has to be a way to put negativity back in its place. Make the sun shine a little brighter. Dip my toes back in the bliss and forget the weeds growing between my fingers. If anyone has a map of how to get there, please let me know.

My Number One

Plenty of girls think their dad is the greatest man in the world. I hate to break it to them, but my dad IS.

When I was a little girl, he used to let me put pink sponge rollers and multi-colored plastic barrettes in his hair. He would play “blanket monster” with us—hiding under our scratchy plaid throw and pretending to be a rock until one of us ventured near. Then he’d spring to life under the blanket and attack us in a fury of tickles. If we were ever changing into footie pajamas when he was getting us ready for bed, he would make it a point to lift us up by our pants.

I used to spend hours in the garage, rifling through a jar of odds and ends he kept out there for me to play with. He’d be building something at his workbench and I’d be sorting plastic wall anchors, various caps, colorful bolts and other random items he would probably never use for anything, but also wouldn’t throw away because he knew how much I enjoyed them.

He helped me with math in elementary school. Built an electric “conductors vs. non-conductors” experiment for me so I could participate in the science fair. He gave me the nickname “ducky” and bought me a set of vintage ceramic ducklings at a garage sale. He scooped dead fish out of my tank in junior high. He came to supervise the tow truck driver when I blew two tires on the freeway in college. He helped me move countless pieces of furniture into my apartment and loaned me his pipe wrench when I accidentally broke the catch in my bathroom and needed to install a new one.

More important than the things he did for me, though, were the things he taught me. Invaluable lessons and protocols such as:

Always dry your car with a chamois. The synthetic rags just don’t work as well, and the chamois is soft so it won’t scratch your paint.

Popcorn is better if you cook the kernels in oil, in a real pot. Air poppers are for sissies.

Just because you watch cooking shows doesn’t mean you actually have to cook. Unless it’s a weekend and no one is home. Then you should just make yourself chili size or wienies and beans.

Spiders are the scariest insects in the world, but they’re good for your tomato plants. They eat all the pests who try to dine on your fruit.

If you’re in a marina and you see the cops chasing someone, tackle him. It doesn’t matter if you’re only 5’7” and unarmed. It is your duty as a concerned citizen to intervene and help reprimand the criminal.

Try not to stay up later than 9:00 p.m. And if someone wakes you up at 10 p.m. you have every right to yell at them from underneath your pillow.

The key to your daughters’ hearts is humor. Puns, spastic dancing, overly dramatic stories, murmured remarks—they’ll do wonders to permanently endear you to your little girls.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You really are the best one in the world.

Go Ahead, Call Child Protective Services

Monday night I went to my sister’s house for dinner and a little Bachelorette viewing. Let’s discuss that show quickly before I get into the real story here…

First of all, is it just me or are like 90% of the guys on that show total tools?! Seriously. I feel for poor DeAnna. Her pickins are so slim. And that Robert she voted off—what a wenis! Nice shirt unbuttoned to your happy trail hair. Ugh. I wanted to throw rocks at the TV. The only good one on there is the guy with the kid.

Secondly, does anyone have any idea where to get an adorable gold top like the one she wore on her Robert/Fred date? It was so cute! If I were her, I would’ve just given all my roses to that top. And maybe bought it an engagement ring, too.

Okay now onto the real story from Monday.

My sister (who is 10 years my senior) has two daughters. Her youngest is in fourth grade and was going to be celebrating Frontier Day or Goldmining Day or some related made-up holiday at school this week, so my sister decided to dig out her Holly Hobbie costume from childhood for her to wear.

When my niece came downstairs to model the bright red getup my mom had made 30 years earlier, we all burst out laughing.

“Mooommm,” she whined, “Can’t I just wear jeans and a flannel shiiiirt?”

“Oh but you look so cute,” my sister said, adjusting her bonnet. “You look like…like…one of those polygamist wives from Texas.”

And then, being the warped and brilliant sisters we are, we made my niece pose with her stomach popped out as far as it would go so that she looked like a pregnant teenage polygamist bride.

I think she makes a real purdy sister wife, don’t you?

Geek Tragedy

Last night I went to a book signing at Vroman's in Pasadena for the very radiant and hilarious Stephanie Klein.

In case some of you don't know this femme fatale wordsmith, her blog is Greek Tragedy and her first book is called Straight Up and Dirty. Both are fantastic reads. The signing last night was for her new book Moose, which is a memoir of her stints at fat camp.

The moment she walked into the room, I felt my geek switch flick on. I couldn't stop smiling at her, I think my pupils were dilated into little heart shapes, and as soon as I made it up to the table to get my book signed, I gushed, "Ireadyourblogeveryday! Can I take a picture with you?"

Then I realized that my geekometer was ticking at HIGH, which made me get embarrassed and blush profusely, which thankfully you can't see in the picture. But I'm sure she thought, "Oh that poor girl. She looks so normal but is such a spaz." Actually, she's probably too nice to think that. Anyway, it was a complete joy to meet her in person and I cannot wait to read Moose. I'll let ya know what I think when I finish it.

Better than Bacon Chocolate Bars

When I was in 7th grade, I had a near-death experience.

It was a warm, early summer evening at the Universal Amphitheater in LA. My friend Rachel and I were wearing scrunchies in our hair, denim shorts, and t-shirts under floral vests. (I believe Rachel’s vest was black with purple and blue flowers and mine was off-white with pink and yellow, because we had to assert our individuality like that.) I had retainers. She had braces. And we both had a light beading of sweat under our aquanetted bangs from dancing in our seats to Tiffany.

Finally, the lights went down. The music started up. And then Donnie, Danny, Jordan, Jonathan and Joey took the stage in a fury of teenage testosterone and musical prowess. It was breathtaking. I saw a bright light and felt angels’ wings flapping lightly around my head.

I leaned over to Rachel and gasped, “I think. I’m going. To faint.”

I didn’t really think I was going to faint, but it seemed like the right thing to say in the situation. After all, I’d been clipping NKOTB pictures out of Teen Beat and BOP magazine all year to compile my NKOTB scrapbook. Seeing them in person definitely felt like a valid reason to break into some sort of fit or at least an uncontrollable drooling spell.

Yesterday, a mere 20 years after that incident, I found myself on youtube, seeking out The Kids’ new video. I popped in my earbuds, turned up the sound, and then sat grinning like a 12-year-old through the entire Summertime video.

Donnie’s hair looks like it might be sprayed on. Danny is a bit roided out. I'm pretty sure Jonathan is gay. (Doesn't every boy band have one gay member? Haha I typed member...) Really only Joey looks like he belongs in the video, but oh what a joy it was to watch them back in action.

Back Street’s Back All Right. Pardon me, while I go beat myself over the head with a filing cabinet.

Pigs in a Chocolate Blanket

I was reading one of my favorite blogs last week, Just Run, Just Live, Just Be, and she wrote a hilarious post about these bacon-flavored mints someone sent her.

This reminded me of a candy bar I saw recently when Mr. Wonderful and I were at the Winehouse in West LA. I’ve had some weird chocolate combos in my day—including hot chili, pear and rosemary—but the chocolate bar I saw at Winehouse took the cake. Made the grade. Fried the pig.

Yes, it was a Vosges’ bacon bar. Bacon and milk chocolate. Who knew Reese’s didn’t nail it with peanut butter and chocolate—that the real key to cocoa bliss was a little pork?

I didn’t buy a bar, but given that I love bacon and chocolate (separately…and perhaps together, but that’s yet to be determined) I kind of wish I had purchased one. Maybe you daring readers will venture out and find yourself one.

Next thing you know, Bristol Farms will start carrying delicacies like donut-covered hotdogs and salami crème bruleé. Look out world, meat and sweets may be here to stay!

Oh the Awesomeness

I have no words for this book. Okay, maybe just Travolta.

It’s Not Just about the Sex

After years of anticipation, days of shielding myself from media coverage and blogger reactions, and a couple hours yesterday afternoon where I thought I might fake a seizure just to leave work early, I finally saw Sex and the City: The Movie. With 9 of my girlfriends.

Sex and the City has this amazing quality of tapping the most common—and often frustrating—aspects of single (and now married) girl-life. I honestly feel like there is a piece of my soul that can only be nurtured by watching that show. I literally find myself hearkening back to its episodes on almost a daily basis.

Like last week when Mr. Wonderful bought me an extra head for his electric brush, I was like, “Ohmygosh this is totally like when Big gave Carrie the pink attachment to his electric toothbrush!”

The breakups and heartaches, dating disasters, silly sexcapades—they’re all so easy to relate to. But what I enjoyed most about the movie was that it wasn't all about the sex. Sure, there were some steamy scenes and a little full-frontal male (talk about getting your money’s worth!), but the main message was Love.

It was so touching to see what love meant—how it revealed itself—in each of the character’s lives. It made me cry (quite a bit) and made me thankful to be surrounded by friends. Three of whom I’ve known for 27 years, two cousins, two kickass marathon friends, and two friends I’ve just met in the last year. We’re all quite different from one another, but like Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, love has had a unique impact on all of our lives.

For those of you who’ve seen the movie, tell me the Poughkeepsie part wasn’t the funniest thing ever?! My other favorite was the opening of the Assistant’s email file.

If you saw it on the big screen, what were some of your favorite parts?

Eurekugh

Since being the third-, fifth-, and seventh-wheel over the weekend, and watching the nuptials of a long-ago ex, I’ve had this funny feeling shawled around my shoulders.

I thought it might’ve been the time change. Or the crummy hotel rooms I got stuck in. Maybe a lack of greens in my diet.

But something was just making me feel off.

Yesterday morning on the drive in to work, where I do some of my best pondering, I figured it out. What I was feeling was longing. Longing to have what so many of my friends have. A desire to do what The Boss and his Bride did. To stand up with the person of my dreams and gush on and on about how much I love him. Then, hold his hand and listen as he tells me, and everyone we care about, how he’d waited his whole life to find me. How he remembers the moment he knew I was the one for him. How he loved everything about me so much that he just had to spend the rest of his life with me.

I want to look into his eyes and see a hundred memories. A lifetime of little moments that only he and I understand. I want him to finish my sentences and dust lint off my coat. I want to run my fingers through his hair every night until he falls asleep. And snuggle against him every morning. Make breakfast in socks and a t-shirt.

After my last relationship, I buried this longing. There was just too much pain to let it see the light of day. But now all the dust of heartache has settled I can’t help but pull it out from its hiding place.

It feels so heavy right now. But maybe if I carry it around for awhile, I’ll get stronger and forget it’s even there.

Ira Strikes Again

Those of you who read regularly may remember when Ira Rubenstein* emailed me last month. He and I dated back in 2005…and after 3 dates I decided I was definitely not interested in a 4th.

I did not respond to his cheerful “wondering if we could pick up where we left off” message. I sort of meant to, but I wasn’t really sure what to say…and then so much time passed, it just seemed unnecessary.

Wrong.

This weekend, I got a request to become Ira’s Facebook friend. It had the same line as his email intro did—“heya there. long time. hope you’re well.”

I deleted it immediately. But then I realized that if I keep ignoring Ira, he might just keep trying to contact me for eternity. He might even be reading this blog. Or looking up where I work on my website. Or hiding in the bushes outside of Mr. Wonderful’s house in his Harry Potter invisibility cloak. He might come in through my window like Robert Downey Jr. and try to take a nap with my cats.

For these reasons, I’m wondering if I should reply to him. If I should just say, “Look, it’s really nice you want to be in contact with me, but I have too many friends to keep track of these days and I just don’t have room for another.” Or, “If you’re looking to reconnect, I’m sorry to say that I have the most wonderful boyfriend in the world and absolutely no need to talk to anyone from my online dating past.” Or maybe, “Remember when you lied and said you met Bono? You’re retarded and I want nothing to do with you. Stop emailing me.”

What is the proper protocol in a situation like this? Should I just let it lie and keep ignoring him if he continues to pop up in my inbox?


*Mr. Wonderful is a nicer person than I am and encouraged me to change people's names in my blogs...so Ira R. isn't his real name, but it's darn close.