A single clown.

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The costume I wore to my first Halloween party was carefully considered.  I spent close to an hour trying to decide.  The way I saw it, this was one night a year, and in the four hours that I could possibly be seen, I had to make a good impression.  Especially if Skyler or Max or Josh, or any of the boys of the week who caught my hormonal eyes were going to be there.  I knew that this would be the costume that would make me stand out.  It was just flashy enough without creating a scene. All the other girls were going to be jealous when all the boys were looking at me.

I was a clown for Halloween that year.

 A sexy clown? You might ask.  Well, no.  Not a sexy clown – unless the blue pom-poms on the front of the costume had an innuendo attached to them that I wasn’t aware of – No, I wasn’t a sexy clown.  I was just a run-of-the-mill clown with full make-up and wig (a wig that I made sure matched the blues in my costume, so that I wouldn’t clash).

Sadly, this was the same year that most other girls caught on to the sexy costume trend.  Or, at least, the earliest version of that. This means, mainly, that one or two girls wore fishnets, and another few had something leather on their person – we were far from the costumes that strippers consider appropriate workwear.

Still, my clown outfit hardly got me noticed by the boys. If it got me noticed, it was hardly for the reasons I wanted to be noticed for – such as tripping some boy with my giant, blue-rubber shoes.  And as the night wore on, I felt worse about myself.  I wanted to grab a pair of scissors and make this suit into a mini-skirt at the very least.  But, the thing is, even if I had the crafting abilities to fulfill those mini-skirt urges, I  would never have followed through.  A part of me knew that I didn’t want to be that sort of girl, even if it was pretend.

A small part of me, even if I didn’t know it then, didn’t want to be noticed by boys because of a lack of clothing.  It’s like a self-preservation instinct helped me from ever allowing myself to venture down that skanky, Halloween road.

I cried that night in the bathroom.  I watched as my makeup mixed with my tears in the sink of the bathroom before disappearing down the drain taking whatever hopes I had with it.  But, looking back, I’m proud of myself for not giving in to those societal pressures to moonlight once a year as a sexy nurse – not even in the next few years, when so many of my classmates were, in fact, sexy nurses.

And though my actions might have kept me single, I can still proudly state, that I have never once been confused as a prostitute on Halloween night.

Oh, and don’t forget to have a
H A P P Y  H A L L O W E E N!

5 Couples Costumes to Wear Alone

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Halloween is coming up soon ,Kids, and with it comes 5-pound bags of snickers, the right to scare small children, and a slew of Halloween parties to be invited to.  What to wear, what to wear? You could be a slutty nurse/pirate/bar wench/fairy/fighter pilot or you could hound Pinterest for something that doesn’t make it look like you have a corner you work every night.  But finding the right costume could take hours, days even.  In this social media world, who has time for that kind of costume hunt when someone could be posting a picture of their sonogram, or something else just as revolting, for you to spend your time judging?

That was my problem at least.

So I pulled myself away from Facebook for a few minutes a few hours and searched for random words followed by “costume” on Google (“blanket costume,” “hat costume,” ” when I found a picture of a couple wearing a costume that made them look like either side of a PB&J sandwich.  And that’s when it hit me – wouldn’t it be great if someone went as half a couple costume?  So, with that, I give you 5 couples costumes to wear alone.

  1. Peanut Butter and Jelly: There may be no other half to your PBJ but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a delicious time.  Pick a side, any side, and perhaps you’ll run into your other half at this party.  At the very least, you can casually watch others try to find the person you came with.
  2. Horse Costume: Yeah, what’s not to love about this? It has an immediate statement

    Add a cigar and it’s less creepy. Add a martini and everything is just right.

    of “I’m single but look at all the fucks I give.” You could go the pseudo-“American Horror Story” route and just wear the horse head or you could go with the more aerated route by just wearing the suspenders attached to the back-end of the horse (just be aware of all the jokes that may come with this end).

  3. Plug and Socket: Wear the plug costume by itself just for the more phallic of the options.  Just remember: Phallic is Fun.  And imagine the pick-up lines: “Hey Guy, who is bigger? You or me?”
  4. Finn and Princess Bubblegum: This one might not be the most classic but I find it nice because you could potentially wear both costumes in one night.  Just bring clothes for a costume change.  If you are feeling especially cool you could also switch back and forth between the two characters – when you are Finn ask people if they have seen Princess Bubblegum and vice versa.  A lot of creativity could be had here, Folks.
  5. Jessica Rabbit and Roger Rabbit: Living up to the dressing sexy on Halloween, you can dress up as the voluptuous Jessica Rabbit looking to exact revenge on the scoundrel Mr. Rabbit that left her at that party alone (I love a good role-playing scenario).  Get into it.  You might find someone willing to “ease your pain.”

Single Throwback Sunday: Ten Things Nicholas Sparks Did Wrong

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The “Lucky One” came out recently.  And in honor of this cinematic failure I thought I would pay homage to the man behind why 13 year old girls are destined to have poor excuses for relationships: Nicholas Sparks*.  The man that gets a lady-boner whenever he hears the words “rain,” “marine,” or “Miley Cyrus.”

The man behind the magic, Sparky McSpark-Spark

10. A storm does not a relationship make. The man loves rain.  He loves kissing in the rain, he loves fortifying relationships in the rain through traumatic events, and he loves starting relationships in the rain. He likes things wet.  Oh, Mr. Sparks, you naughty man. . .

9.  War! What isn’t it good for? People just don’t get killed when they go off to war in Sparks’ world.  In fact, he doesn’t even want to waste his time with the mediocre soldier that is only doing it because he is fulfilling some sort of obligation to his country.  No, he actually does kill off those soldiers because who wants the mediocre ones around?  His characters are the man’s man.  John (of the Dear, John, variety) is the only one that comes close to saying no to re-enlisting.  But, soldier’s are Sparks’ wet dream.  And boy, you can’t have a passionate relationship unless that boy was the best soldier out there first.

8. Southern hospitality.   We get it Spark Plug: you love the south.  Sweet tea and mint juleps for everyone! But since love only happens in the south, it’s hard for the rest of us Yankees (mainly me) to feel like we are ever going to get a chance at all of the good times.  We just don’t have as many crab shacks to go to up here on our first dates.

7. Loner lover boys. Ever notice that these leading men have barely any friends or family? That’s not normal.  These men are more focused on getting a girl than maintaining healthy relationships.  It’s not okay to become so fixated on another person that you completely ignore all other aspects of your life.  Which leads us to….

6. Sexy fixation.  I don’t care how hot the guy is – it is not okay to become obsessed with a girl.  GET A LIFE.  It’s creepy.  Stop walking across the country, dangling from a ferris wheel, and, please, stop jumping off piers.

Uh-oh, Mandy seems to have lost her sweater….

5.  If you give a girl a sweater. If you give a girl a sweater, it is not like if you give a mouse a cookie.  She will not ask for more.

4.  Girls turned off/on.  Why do girls have absolutely no power in these movies? I mean, really now, why must they all be slightly wounded and waiting for a man to save them.  The only time a woman takes initiative is when she makes these men have sex with her.  Listen leading ladies, sex doesn’t create an emotional band-aid to cover all your wounds, try seeing a shrink or take up kick-boxing.

3. Miley Cyrus.  Why, Nick, why?

2. Nights in Rodanthe.  See number 3.

1. El grande finale-e.  It’s funny.  I’ve never had a boy fix my boat’s engine, build me a telescope or rebuild an entire home for us to live in.  But, Nicky (do you mind if I call you Nicky?), what happened to flowers or just really good sex? I don’t think the average man knows how to rebuild an entire house for me and if I waited for one that could, well, this blog might be around for a long ass time.

*Yes, I know, Nicholas Sparks only wrote the books.  But I blame him for even coming up with these ideas.  And no, I haven’t read all of his books, Dear John, was all I could bear to read and even that was like swallowing a wasp’s nest.

A single Pizza Guy.

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There aren’t too many moments when I have found myself swooning over a person that I’ve barely met.  That sudden rush, the flush of a cheek, the creaking and groaning of a heart getting back into the rhythm of an excited heartbeat – all of that has eluded me for sometime.  The first time that person smiles at you and you feel yourself inexplicably blush. It makes me feel giddy and like the sort of high school girl that I never acted like (I was the more sullen, introverted girl) It’s been forever since that feeling has hit me.

Then this guy walked into the Pizza Place and I started to swoon.

I’m going to begin this story by saying that I haven’t seen him since.  And I’ll probably never see him again but it was fun nonetheless.

He was homely, not someone who could walk into a Abercrombie shoot and be welcomed, but I tend to be attracted to someone I feel comfortable with and homely, in this scenario,

definitely coincides with comfortable. He reminded me of someone who would be portrayed in the movies as being an anime geek, trekky, or maybe A Big Bang Theory cast member.  That connection instantly had me thinking what dorky hobby he partook in and whether his walls had shelves lined with Totoro figurines.

He gave me his name, James or Jack or Jim or Jimmy, and I grabbed his pizza: A large buffalo chicken with bacon (and yes, I remember his order and not his name.  I have a weird way of remembering people by what they get at the Pizza Place).  I told him that I thought adding bacon to his order was genius.  He smiled.

I swooned.

Then he looked at my eyes and told me they were beautiful, touching my arm gently, before smiling again —

Swoon

— And walking out with the pizza. And I have no expectations from this slight flirtation in my day but it’s fun to think that it happened in the first place.  Do I wish that he’d come back, give me his number, take me out on a date, introduce me to his parents, propose, and marry me? I mean, sure, that’s an ideal situation right there.  But do I expect that to happen? No.  That would be crazy.  I might even be a little creeped out if it did happen at all.  That doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.

Especially a girl with beautiful eyes.

A single Gaggle of Old Men.

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All I wanted was a beer.

Well, a beer and a shot.  It might have turned into a drunken escapade for all I cared.  I just knew it needed to start with an ice-cold beer;  Something that could have acted like an ice pack for my soul after an especially long week.  And, thankfully, Pizza Place, is located directly across the street from a bar known as the Box.

So, after work, I did a telephone booth style change, and, boom, I was in the Box waiting for the bartender to help a sister out.  The Box isn’t the sort of bar you bring your parents to if, for whatever reason, you decided to go out drinking with your parents. It’s not really a classy joint.  It is the place that some get “White Girl Wasted” and other Salty Locals stoically drink from bottled beer.  It’s a weird mash-up but weird mash-ups are what the Box does best.

I finally got my Fireball and BudLight (King of Bros) and made my way outside to the patio to unwind and enjoy this awful beer.  And that’s when I made a grievous error: I sat down.

I became a sitting duck.

And I was spotted quickly, being one of two girls in the entire place (the other one being a bartender). The two men wanted to do nothing more than take turns hitting on me and I wanted nothing more than to take turns hitting them.  But they were relentless:

 “Need a smoke?”

“No, I don’t smoke.”

“Good girl. You shouldn’t smoke.”

“You should take your own advice.”

I sipped my beer, hoping the cold-shoulder would work.  It didn’t.

That’s something you should know: old men (older than your father and up) like to be provoked.  And that would be my rookie mistake, numeral dos.

So, instead of leaving me alone, taking that hint with a grain of salt and other clichés, they sandwiched themselves on either side of me, passing a cigarette between the two of them as if they were trying to hide us behind one singular wall of smoke.

The one on my right had a gauge in his ear which made him look like he wanted to work at Hot Topic while his age edged closer to that of my grandfather.  The other wore hipster jeans that unironically made him look older.  Both reeked of mid-life crisis and I, apparently, was the closest thing to a Harley in the room.

“Oh, look! My friends are here {they weren’t} Bye!” I yelled, a little louder than I intended, as I barreled for the patio door. So I walked into the Box, a half-finished beer warming in my hand, and moved to the other side of the bar where a new group of White Girl Wasted Bachelorettes were attempting provocative moves to “Soulja Boy,” figuring that I could finish my beer in contented judgement.

But Grandpa & Co. found me once again.

 “We should get out of here.”

“I’m good.”

“I could make you feel better.”

“You might break a hip.”

I slammed down my beer and walked out.  Fuming because a single girl couldn’t just go out and have a single beer in peace.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single knight.

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The ice coffee was sure to be the highlight of my day.  It was beautiful.  It was dark and caffeinated and held slight sweet undertones of hazelnut.  It was exactly what I needed after a slumber-less night; a treat before rehearsal.  I probably admired this coffee way to much. But I wanted to make this special vacation from my day as special as a Celine Dion concert would be to any heartbroken girl who had listened to “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” on repeat in a parked car.

I was so worked up about the prospects of a caffeine fix that I didn’t pay attention to the stairs that came up before me.  Fail.  I tripped and fell, hard, into the step with my knee.  That hurt.

But what hurt more was the sight of that beautiful coffee landing limply, its contents spilling out on the blue-tiled floor.

“Watch out for that step!” A guy, standing with a group of his bros, yelled at me and then laughed.

I managed to stand but had to hobble up the rest of the stairs, leaving my coffee for dead as I did,  heart-broken over the coffee and a sudden realization: Chivalry is dead.

What happened to the white knight?

What’s that? A damsel has dropped her coffee! Quick! To her rescue!

We’ve been told, since childhood, that there will be a Prince Eric, a Prince Charming, a Prince Phillip or Prince Adam coming around eventually.  And I’m not talking a prince to come and save me from my wretched life.  I don’t want to be saved in that way.  I’m enough of a feminist to want some dignity when it comes to dealing with men.

I’m talking about having a guy offer to help you up when you fall, pick up your book and cell phone and maybe (in the ideal world) offer to buy you another coffee.  At the very least I’m talking about the guy who asks if you are okay.

That last one is a common courtesy sort of thing, but that’s almost as dead as chivalry, I’m pretty sure.

So now I’m stuck, in bed, with an ice pack on my knee and a bruised faith in both men and the general population.  So what do I have to say about that to you, dear reader? Just listen to this Celine Classic and this song about Schadenfreude from Avenue Q (yeah, I didn’t forget that I said I would post a song every time I blogged this week).  Oh, and maybe buy me an ice coffee the next time you see me.

A single Misconception.

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Romantic Jesus definitely didn’t help a sister out when it came to Josh.  That’s for sure.

 And there was no indication from Josh that he wanted anything bigger than casualness in the back of his cab.  And the further I get from the situation, the more I realize that there was never any sign that RJ was trying to give me a sign in the first place – he was never trying to point me towards love. I just wanted to be in love or in like so I decided that I was being given signs.  Isn’t that how it always happens, though? There’s always the case of our fantasies taking over the reality of the situation.  I wanted something so badly that I was willing to look past things

Let’s look at a scenario and see how I might have misconstrued what was actually taking place right in front of me.

 Scenario: Josh and I are enjoying a nice moonlit stroll around the playground on the beach after he bought me a  fancy dinner.  

 My view: Wow, he must actually like me! He just paid for everything.  He bought an entire bottle of proseco and espresso martinis! He’s such a gentleman.  And now he  is enjoying my presence so much that he wants to keep this date going by taking  a walk out in the moonlight.

 What actually happened: He plastered me with liquor, made me vulnerable to the slightest romantic inclination (i.e. full moon and the beach), and essentially took me some place where we could be alone and I could, in as few vulgar terms possible, pay for my dinner.

Now I see that if I hadn’t been blinded by the moonlight and proseco that romance truly wasn’t in the air.  Romantic Jesus didn’t have a hand in this.  My blood alcohol levels and horniness did.  But, again, my view of how things happened definitely led me down the wrong path too.  It’s not Josh’s fault. It’s not Romantic Jesus’. It’s all my fault.  If I had viewed what had happened clearly, then I would never even have allowed myself to continue seeing Josh.  But who can view something clearly when you’re that close to the situation? Hind sight is 20/20 for a reason. I mean, it doesn’t take a genius to see that what we had was purely physical.

I just want to know where the hell Romantic Jesus was to tell me to snap out of it sooner.

A single Romantic Jesus

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First off, I know that a lot of people will find offense to the whole “using the Lord’s name in vain” bullshit.  But let’s just set the record straight: I’m referring to an idea of Jesus, a sub-Jesus if you will, and Romantic Jesus refers to some higher power that is like the third cousin that lives three states over that Real Jesus only saw that one time at a wedding and they barely spoke.

Back to what we were discussing.

So who is Romantic Jesus?

Always ready with roses and a lamb to make your date the best!  Photo credit: Bryan (Sir Sexy Himself) http://suburban-freeflow.smackjeeves.com/

Always ready with roses and a lamb to make your date the best!
Photo credit: Bryan (Sir Sexy Himself) http://suburban-freeflow.smackjeeves.com/

Romantic Jesus is there to look out for all those people romantically involved.  In some instances, he’s the guy that we are calling out when we say things like “Oh God” during sex.  Other times, he’s the guy we’re talking to when we’re hoping that a blind-date doesn’t result in us having to sit across the table from a recently divorced man with a poorly maintained comb-over (but, let’s be real, there is no such thing a properly maintained comb-over).

He’s as real as Kim Kardashian’s ass.

Romantic Jesus is all about the love.  He’s all about the good times.  In essence, Romantic Jesus, is the same thing as having the 60’s throw up tie-dye and free-love on Jesus himself.  And, if you didn’t know, much like zombie spit, hippie throw-up has transformative powers. So, tada! We get  Romantic Jesus.  The suave, fella with a heart of gold, looking out for all of us trying to find a little lovin’ in this world.

He listens and pulls off dangerous-looking headwear - impressive! Photo credit: Bryan "Sir Sexy" of the Westford Sexys - http://suburban-freeflow.smackjeeves.com/

He listens and pulls off dangerous-looking headwear – impressive!
Photo credit: Bryan “Sir Sexy” of the Westford Sexys – http://suburban-freeflow.smackjeeves.com/

Romantic Jesus and Religious Jesus would have been friends.  They are cut from the same Shroud of Turin, they have similar beliefs.  They want people to be happy and in a good place in their lives.  It’s just, Romantic Jesus is a little more liberal.

Now, you may be wondering, why should I care? I’m not religious, you might say.  Or, I’m too religious.  But, bear with me, because I’m not saying this has to be truly religious in nature.  It’s just an entity that we can blame our problems on (again, it doesn’t have to be religious, even if this is the foundation of all religions).   If anything, Romantic Jesus, is just there when your friends or your cats get tired of listening to you complain about being single or dating or boyfriends or what-have-you..  He’s a vessel to put your daily complaints in.  He can be blamed, thanked, hated, and loved for his work and, here’s the best part, he will never care because he doesn’t truly exist.  Just like a functioning schizophrenic, you will be interacting with something that doesn’t really exist.

So use Romantic Jesus or don’t.  The choice is up to you.  I just know that when I get in a pickle or want a pickle, I have someone I can think of for guidance or just of someone to think of when I’m bored.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single hero.

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Nintendo 64 has recently graced my living room again and with it has come all the wonderful memories of childhood accomplishments: saving Zelda, getting all the stars, dodging green shells…  
J-Biebs saves the princess.
photo from: http://images.elfwood.com/f
anq/a/n/andamay2/link_and_zelda.jpg
And with those memories also came the realization that all I had learned to believe as a child was just a gimmick thought up by little men in business suits who were trying to make other pathetic people think their lives could actually be meaningful.  Are you a short, chunky plumber? Then of course you would be able to jump, fight, and fly your way to the princess and save the day!
But apparently short, chunky plumbers didn’t take the hint because they are definitely not trying to jump, fight and fly in order to impress the ladies.
I want a boy, whose only friend is a fairy, to learn how to ride a horse, make some significant wardrobe changes, get a cool sword and warp ahead seven years just so he can fight an angry ginger and save me (for some, we would have to call him “Justin Bieber”).  Does this boy has flaws? Sure, ever boy does but maybe his journey will improve him and, if not, then I can just focus on the fact that he did just drop everything to save me.
In short, to quote a wise woman named Bonnie Tyler, “I’m holding out for a hero.”  I’m not asking for anything crazy to happen to me, although I have always wondered what Bowser is like in person (I feel like he would have a good sense of humor), but it would be nice to feel protected by someone.  
All you guys out there, go pick up your N64 controller and get some lessons on how to impress the ladies.  It just takes some stars and some determination.