A single past. (An introduction of sorts)


Rafiki told a young-adult Simba: “The past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or learn from it.”

Now, as all 90’s babies can attest, I learned all substantial knowledge from Disney movies, the Lion King in particular. So, I took that with a grain of salt.  And, though there were other scenes that said you should learn to leave your past behind or whatever, I’ve found that going through my past and learning from my past mistakes has made me stronger (as long as I don’t dwell back there too long).

And in the next few weeks I’ll investigate my past relationships  in a series of posts.  You’ve only been with me for three years, Internet, you have about 20 years of catching up to do.  I think this will be a mental and emotional cleanse.  And once it’s out of me, I think that I’ll be more at peace with myself and my relationship status (i.e single).   Maybe  I’ll also be more open when a new relationship shows itself.

So this post is simply an introduction to Tommy, Chuckie, Phi, and Spike (all names changed – mainly for me because then I get to use the Rugrats characters in a post- to protect the person’s privacy).  You all know about my latest exploits with Josh so I feel it’s only fair that I air all of my dirty lingerie for the world to see.

Enjoy, Kiddies, it’s about to be story time.

A single alpaca.


This is a story about a girl who didn’t shave her legs when she had the chance in the shower.  And how that stopped her from getting any.

Trevor was the not the end goal.  Hell, he wasn’t even the goal.  I didn’t have one.  I just (surprise, surprise) wanted a beer.  So I went over to the Box and BOOM! I was seated next to Trevor, watching the Red Sox game, and drunk because, well, sometimes just walking into the Box gets you drunk – The eight shots of FireBall definitely had something to do with my drunkeness levels but they never would have been ingested if I hadn’t walked into the Box (see how I just went full circle?).

So there I am, having a great time just hanging out, when Travis turns to me:

“I just got my car fixed.  Got it back for the first time in three weeks today.”

Not the most intriguing first line in the conversation but, hell, it had been a while since Josh and I figured that it could be fun to see where this goes.  At the very least, I would get an interlude from my very plain life.  And I decided to let Trevor slide, despite that opening line.

“Great Patriots game earlier.”

God, he was really making this hard.  I smirked.  He tried again:

“Want to go for a drive?”

Yes, there it was, the question I had been waiting for – my magical evening taking a drive away from the mundane.

I had him drive me to the beach.  And we got there and got out of the car – the headlights illuminating the white pilings up ahead.  Further out on the beach, a group of high schoolers smoked pot, occasionally checking their phones – a blue flickering light created a mini-lighthouse, alerting us of their presence ahead.  Trevor leaned against the front of the car.  He grabbed hold of his baseball hat and tugged it further on to his head.  Somehow I managed to saunter over to him.  He grabbed my waist and pulled me in for a kiss.

The most surprising thing about Trevor was that he actually could kiss.

He continued to kiss me until I thought I would break all of my codes and just have fun with him in the back of his car.  Then he stepped back:

 “Want to go somewhere else?”

I wanted to say yes.  I wanted to go back to his place. I wanted to have a good time.  I wanted to until I realized that I was in desperate need of shaving.

It seriously felt like I had two alpacas attached to my legs.  I just couldn’t allow him to know that I had that situation down there.  I don’t have a lot of pride but, for whatever reason, I have shaven-leg pride.

 So I politely asked him if he would mind taking me home.  He had no problem with it, especially after I lied about having to be up for work wicked early.  So, with a short little make out in the car in between point A and point B, I was home, and my exciting night was over and I was back to the mundane life of watching TV, knitting, and filling out my spinster application with a cat on my lap.

And that, Children, is how my unshaved legs managed to ruin my night.

Always shave.  Always.

Single Throwback Sunday: A single symposium.


This past weekend was one of those roller coasters – you know the emotional sort.

And whenever I feel a little out of sorts, because of confused feelings or uncertain longings, I always find myself drawn to one book and one book only: The Symposium by Plato.

I lost you at, Plato, didn’t I? I know how it sounds – a little pretentious with a side of god awful and boring.

It’s none of those things.  Not even close.

It’s all the great minds of Plato’s time coming together to discuss the origins of love.  How can you hate that? Hm?

I’ve always been drawn to one particular speech within the text: Aristophanes’.  In which, Aristophanes looks at the history of the human race and how we came to need a partner in life.

Since some of you might still not go out to Barnes and Noble and buy this book to read – I’ve decided to give you the low down – consider this A Single Blog’s version of Spark Notes.

Here we go:

Basically the entire human race started out looking a little bit different than what we are used to seeing today.  Back then everyone was round and they had two sets of everything – arms, legs, heads.  Each body was made up of two genders: man & man, woman & woman, and woman & man.

They were madly in love with the other head they shared their body with.  And, since they shared a body and had so many legs and arms to spare,  these odd looking people would cartwheel around.  They were super powerful and super fast and super conceited  and the Gods became angry.  They wanted to remind the humans that they were, indeed, human.

So the Gods decided to split up the humans, making them more vulnerable.  Now, when they did this, the beings were scattered around the world, away from their mate, and the halves longed for each other. They didn’t know what do do without their partners.

Many of the beings died – they wouldn’t eat, sleep or move without their loved ones – but some were more fortunate than others.  Some found their other half and when they did they wrapped their arms around that person and never let go.

According to Aristophanes it is in our nature to constantly search for our other half – that person is male or female based on the original gender you are from.  

There is nothing in this world that gives me more hope than Aristophanes speech because, according to him, I’m doing the right thing – I’m doing what comes natural to me.  I’m searching for my other half.

A single clown.


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


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


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.


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 —


— 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.


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.


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.