Valentine's Day, Bah Humbug!

I don't know why I have a this aversion to Valentine's Day, but I've never been one to get excited about it. I can remember when I was in elementary school giving out those little tear-away cards decorated with the cartoon du jour. I think my problem is that even at a young age I was a hopeless romantic. I always fantasized that the boy I had a huge crush on was going to bring me flowers, or even just an extra special Valentine. But alas, the real men in the world can never measure up to the fantasy men in my head. So over the years I learned to just set the bar low (ground level), so I'd never be disappointed.

I know when most women say they don't want anything for Valentine's Day they're lying. Sorry ladies, but you know it's true. But, honestly and for truly, when I'm dating someone I really don't care about celebrating Valentine's Day. I have a man -I've won the battle, ya know? That's all I need. But, when I'm single like I am this Valentine's Day, I just loathe Valentine's Day with all my being. I hate it for the simple fact that I'm alone.

I had already resigned myself to being alone for Valentine's Day. It was no big deal. I've been alone before. Then in steps my best friend Katie. She's been dating this guy for going on 3 years now, and I guess they had discussed previously how sad it was that I was going to be alone, so they decided to include me in on their plans. Bless their hearts. I appreciate it, I really do, but being the third wheel on somebody's date is bad enough, but being their third wheel on their Valentine's Day date??

The day started off at a local spa where Katie's boyfriend had arranged for she and I to get Swedish massages. I love Katie to death, she's my oldest and dearest friend, but for all her positive qualities, she lacks a little tack when it comes to events like these. I'm the first of us to get to the spa, and it's just lovely. It's located in a beautifully old, restored house downtown, and it had all the ambiance you'd expect: soft violin music, running water in the background, hot tea, snacks, you get the picture. I sit on the overstuffed couch when my phone rings. It's Katie. She is late because she is gas station hopping trying to find a razor. Apparently she didn't think about getting a full body massage when she was getting ready, and forgot to shave her legs. So, she arrives 10 minutes late with razor in hand. The ambiance is shattered when she booms out, "Hey, Sarah!" The poor old lady behind the counter looked mortified. It only got better from there. They presented us both with a face sheet about ourselves, preferences, and health profile. Katie read down the column and verbally stated that she was the victim of gout, AIDS, and incontinence. After she completed her survey she retired to the bathroom to shave her legs.

Meanwhile my masseuse enters stage right. It's a guy. I've never had a male masseuse before, and I think I'm comfortable with it, but I was distracted the whole time. Lord forgive me, but all during the massage I was worried about exactly what (if you get my drift) was close to my head, how close his hands were getting to, ah, certain places... But he gave a wonderful massage. I almost thoroughly enjoyed it.

Next came the movies. Katie's boyfriend paid for our tickets, and of course we just had to watch "Valentine's Day." The movie was actually good, but it was as if someone opened the "Singleness" wound and first poured peroxide in it followed by a good salt rubbed down. I would have preferred to see "Wolfman" just so maybe I could lie to myself during the movie that it was just any ole day. But no, the universe wanted to remind me that I'm alone and surrounded by seemingly happy couples. Rub the salt in a little deeper, universe. I was ever so thankful for the bit of comedic relief provided by Katie. She won the coveted Best Line of the Night award when while standing in line to get into the movie she asked, "So, what's this about?"

A big thank you to Katie and Eddie. I appreciate everything you did, and I'm only griping about the events because of the day they fell on. Thank you for going out of your way to make sure I wasn't alone on Valentine's Day. I'm know that I'm sounding like a bitter, ungrateful butthole, but it's 5:00 p.m. on Valentine's Day, and, please don't be offended when I say this, but the most productive/least painful thing I did was snake my bathtub drain. I'm entitled.

Signed,

The Valentine Scrooge (BAH HUMBUG!)



Listen to some of my anti-Valentine's Day songs on Blip.fm @ http://blip.fm/SnuffyMcSheisterton

Things That Make Me Paranoid

I was picking up dinner tonight, and my stream of consciousness got me caught up in this whirlwind of paranoia that I couldn't resist following. I was getting back into my car and noticed that my tires seemed a little low. Then I reminded myself that I always think my tires are a little low, that my tires are always a focus of paranoia for me. And my appendix. My tire pressure, my appendix, and getting eaten by an alligator. Driving alone on a deserted road, my tire pressure, my appendix, and getting eaten by an alligator. You see where I'm going here...

Most of the things that I get so worked up over are really the stupidest things. How in the world do we develop phobias? It's conditioning, I know, but really...what is the likelihood that anything on my list is going to happen to me? Some are more likely that others, but I should be more scared of the everyday dangers I face (electricity, cars, strangers, etc.) than what I'm actually wary about. Regardless, I'm curious to see how many things really make me paranoid, so let's compile a list, shall we?

1. My tire pressure
2. My appendix
3. When I go to download a new app on my phone and it tells me it will have access
to my location
4. People sitting behind me in the movie theater when I go to watch a scary movie
5. People invading my space
6. Putting my shoes on after they've been left outside
7. Being eaten by an alligator
8. Being in open water
9. Heights!
10. Calls from an "unknown" number
11. Cats
12. Leaving my purse unattended
13. Driving alone on a road with no other drivers
14. Fog
15. Log trucks
16. Old men with beards
17. Old women with beards
18. Bearded babies
19. Carnies
20. Carnival rides
21. Public restrooms
22. Drain grates
23. Cloning
24. McDonald's hamburgers
25. Heavily tinted windows
26. Canned cheese
27. Cow eyes
28. Jehovah's Witnesses
29. "Haunted" establishments
30. Having to take my shoes off for security checks at the airport
31. Hitchhikers
32. People with gold teeth
33. The Georgia Composite Board!!!
34. Joaquin Phoenix
35. Video cameras
36. The thought of dying a slow, excuriating death
37. The thought that some sadist will get a hold of this blog, find out where I live, and make me face all of the above...
38. Aquariums
39. Ferries
40. People with red hair

OK, I'm going to stop there. You know, the things we have an innate fear of, such as snakes, are hard-wired in our brains due to evolution. I'm just going to blame my ancestors for all these weird neuroses. Maybe in their times there was a lot of red-headed Jehovah's Witnesses running rampent with gold teeth and canned cheese. I don't know, I'm not going to analyze it, I'm just going to avoid it. Death to all drainage grates!

The 7 Faces of a Big, Fat Faker

"Your 9:00 is here," the secretary said nonchalantly as she handed me a thickening chart, "and she's crazy as h-ll." Considering the woman was 5 hours late for her appointment, I didn't doubt the secretary's judgment.

I walk out to greet her, an older woman sitting calmly in the front lobby. She's in her early 50s and may have once been attractive in her younger days, but years of drugs, alcohol, and hard living have taken its toll. She's dressed as nicely as a woman on a fixed income can dress in a bland beige top and brown pants that coordinate perfectly with her manicured leopard print fingernails.

No sooner than I introduce myself as the counselor, this once calm woman flips her emotional switch. Her face crumples and rushingly says, "They've spent the electricity money! I don't know how I'm going to pay the bill!" I responded with my usual attempt to empathize and asked who had spent her money. "The girls!" she replies. "The girls spent it!"

Ahh the girls...her daughters? No. Sisters? No. Roommates? No. Her "multiple personalities." Now, many mental health professionals go years (if ever) without seeing a case of Dissociative Identity Disorder (AKA Multiple Personality Disorder), so as a neophyte counselor my interest has been peaked. She reveals she has 7 personalities - #1 her normal self who she describes as weak and sickly; #2 the strong protector; #3 motherly; #4 bisexual; #5-7 the partying rascals who spent all her money. On drugs, might I add.

The longer the woman talked the more she revealed she was a big, fat faker...and she was in my office for 2 hours. I'm officially throwing her name in the ring for Best Actress in the upcoming Oscars, because she put on a show! She produced documents from over a decade ago from a "doctor" who conveniently has disappeared stating she had this disorder and it manifested itself with a vaginal discharge. Yes, you heard correctly. At one point during the session she closed her eyes and began moaning. She told me that someone was trying to come out, but she didn't know who. At this point she began shimmying and shaking, oohing and ahhing, and I quickly encouraged her to go outside and get some fresh air before she could "discharge" and become the bisexual personality or something.

After a few minutes she returned and got straight down to business. She'd heard that the company I work for gives money to it's consumers so they can pay any needed bills, and wanted us to pay her electric bill. I diagnosed her with a Delusional Disorder, referred her for a drug test, and booted her fake butt out of the office.

Southern Girls Need Love Too!

It's no secret that I have relationships on the brain. It's been two years since my last long-term relationship, and I think I'm ready to get back in the saddle again. Only problem is, it's slim pickin's around here. One study reported that the ratio of single girls to single guys on the east coast is 2:1. I'm imagining that includes males from the ages of 18 to way too old for me.

Strike 1: My acceptable age range of datable males is 25-35.

My ideal age range of datable males is 27-32, but beggars can't be choosers right? But still, most of these guys are already off the market. I live in a college town, so there are young college students and old professors...no middle men. The guys my age have already moved off to big cities to pursue their careers. Savannah is the next obvious choice.

So, for the sake of argument, let's assume there are plenty of single, sociably acceptable guys in Savannah. Where does one go to find said men? Dr. Phil suggested first identifying the type of man you're looking for and then going to places where he's likely to be. I've tried church, book stores, coffee shops, museums, city events, social clubs, even eHarmony...nada.

Strike 2: All the available men are not where they're supposed to be!

I want an intelligent, cultured, sensitive, successful man who is brimming with humor, wit, world experience...we could be here forever if I actually listed all the qualities I'm looking for in a man, so you get the picture. If that man does exist in southeast Georgia, then he will be in the places I've listed above. But alas, the closest most men in this area have come to culture is cultured milk.

So where, you may ask, are all the available men? After months, nay years, of searching, Abby and I have found them. They were in the most obvious place, but denial is a powerful thing my friends. Who knew that most single, Southern men would spending their time in a Bass Pro shop?

Strike 3: I don't think God created me to be a hunter's girlfriend.

Let's face it. I like to walk trails and be in nature, but at the end of the day getting up at the crack of dawn and spraying myself with deer urine doesn't sound appealing. Helping my boyfriend gut a deer or pluck a duck doesn't either.

So, what's a girl to do? I'm already breaking the Southern Cardinal sin of being unmarried at 26 (soon to be 27!! Gulp!)...I might have to break another Southern Cardinal sin of moving north and dating a Yankee!!! (Double gulp!)

So, here's my public appeal to socially acceptable, sensitive, educated, ready-to-settle men in the area...make yourself more available dang it!


-------------------------------------------------


Just as a FYI: The Southern Cardinal Sins

1. Bad manners
2. Drinking unsweetened tea
3. Incest (which is overlooked in some areas)
4. Being unmarried past the age of 25
5. Having no children past the age of 30
6. Being unpatriotic
7. Fraternizing with "the enemy" (Yankees) (which depends on how deep South you are...some say living above the Mason-Dixon line qualifies you as a Yankee, others say if you live past the Gnat Line)

Leave John Mayer Alone

You'll have to forgive me. I recently had exploratory surgery, and the pain pills have deadened the neurons responsible for wit and humor. I've become a bit more pensive in these Vicodin-laced hours, and have gotten a particular topic on my mind. Every morning I listen to a morning radio talk show, and they began discussing the latest John Mayer article in Rolling Stone magazine. There was no intellectual conversation about what his message in the article was, only a glorification of the handsomely packaged, ready for mass distribution, conceptualized "John Mayer." As they were postulating on his motives, insecurities, love life, etc., I couldn't help but to find myself a little disconcerted about the whole thing.

While there are many recording artists and movie stars who are truly improving the world (John Mayer included), there are three times as many artists who are more of a detriment to society. Unfortunately, we turn to both types of artist as role models. Why is it that so many of us automatically make the assumption that these stars are life gurus? Regardless of their nature, the rich and famous are not leading normal lives. They are leading an exceptional life; one that most of us will never have, yet we time and again place them on pedestals and judge our successes and failures on the unobtainable.

While we all share common archetypal themes, I dare say most artists are no longer in touch with the real world. They have become caught up in the excesses that come with fame, and forget the plight of the common man. Come to my mental health clinic one day and see the excesses of the common man... the excess of poverty, the excess of desperation, the excess of hopelessness. It definitely puts things into perspective, such as what's more important? Having a roof over your head, or theorizing why one millionaire broke up with his millionaire girlfriend?

I guess what I'm trying to say (very inarticulately) is no one life should be viewed as more important than another. We don't need to know the inner workings of John Mayer's conscience, or every detail of every move he makes. Leave the artists to create their art, and measure your failures and successes by your own abilities.

Adventures in Gynecologistland

I didn't go into my annual exam with the intention of blogging about the events that go on there. Trust me, a true Southern lady doesn't sweat - she glistens; she doesn't fart - she passes gas; and she sure as heck doesn't blog about her Who Ha, but this Who Ha saw some funny things today.

This was my first visit with this particular doctor. I'd heard good things about him, and he's in a newer office in the more affluent part of town, so I was expecting as pleasant an experience as going to that particular doctor as you can get. I walk into the lobby and the room is full of....forgive me, but it's the only way I can describe them....welfare rejects and social deviants. They've divided the room racially - Cracker Town was in the front with their dirty, Rebel Flag tattoos and racial slurs; the passive-aggressive Black Panthers were at the back, laughing at the Crackers and directing suggestions in their general direction. Then there was Little Mexico in the middle. Now, I don't think that my Lady Flower is better than their Lady Flowers...but I think my Lady Flower is better than their Lady Flowers. But, I guess all vaginas are created equal in the eyes of GynoMan. Red, yellow, black, or white they're all billable in his sight.

An hour had passed, and they'd called most of the Panthers and Little Mexicos back already, and I guess they finally decided it was time for a vag of a different color, so here I go...finally gaining entrance into Gynoland! As I'm walking through, the office is totally and completely washed in plaid...plaid carpet, plaid curtains, plain gowns...with the occasional accent of pregnant, redneck teenager. The first attraction: the pee room, where the nurse had acquired, and displaying, a myriad of urine samples on her desk. There was every hue of yellow imaginable...instead of "Roy G. Biv", it was "Lisa Did Piss."

Ahh time for the main attraction...the exam. Walking into the exam room, I half expected to see taxidermied animal vaginas prominently displayed on the walls, but alas... My doctor was a lovely man; a good ole country boy with a pleasant bedside manner with warm hands (which are needed in this field I believe). My only complaint is that he tried to talk while performing the exam. I guess there's nothing wrong with that, but come on! It's not the mouthpiece of a megaphone (although it would be a very ergonomic megaphone), and it's very difficult to make small talk in that awkward of a position. I have enough problem making small talk in a normal situation, so it's slightly amplified when a total stranger is touching my cervix.

The closing ceremony was an ultrasound. I won't speak of the horrors that happened there, but will say one word to give you a clear picture...probe. One plus - I watched a lovely romantic sitcom involving 2 ovaries, a uterus, and their grumpy next door neighbor, Mr. Bladder. Apparently one ovary is going to need rehab...the tech kept commenting on how high it was. I don't know how it smuggled the weed up there, but I see a rich, prosperous future ahead of us. I can just picture all of my internal organs with their own unique personalities living in their own soap opera..."One Egg to Ovulate." I, of course, have cysts on both my morning glories, which the tech explained that a lot of overweight girls with facial hair have (I'm not kidding!). If she was able to see my facial hair from the ultrasound of my lady bits, that must be one powerful probe! I wonder if that was how Sarah Palin was able to see Russia from her house...

I once heard Carol Burnette say that there's humor in everything. I now firmly believe that statement. There is humor in everything, even in vaginas. Although, it may depend on whether you're on the table or...you know.

Reasons Why My Life Sucks

I knew it would happen eventually...the inevitable point in January where the Resolution Train would start losing steam. I was eating healthy, exercising every day, bound and determined to have a positive energy all the time... and let me tell you, I'm exhausted! It's hard work having to be a positive person all the time.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not an innate grump, but being upbeat and all smiles all the time takes a lot out of a gal. I'm a big believer that if you put positive energy out into the universe you'll receive positive energy in return, but let's face it...sometimes the universe gives you crap in return. Which brings me to my next philosophy in life: be congruent with who you are and what you're feeling. Putting up a facade and trying to act like you're happy when you're not expends a lot of energy.

That's why I'm so exhausted. My quest to be little miss sunshine has left me incongruent with how I'm really feeling at times. So, I started my little book of complaints, which is just literally a book I use to vent all my feelings and frustrations. Just get all the bad stuff out, and get over it. My first entry was "Reasons Why My Life Sucks" - here is a small sampling, if you will:

3. I haven't been in a relationship for 2 years...
8. I look like I have a uni-boob...
13. I'm addicted to carbs, sweets, and approval...
15. I don't understand football...
19. I have no life experience...
25. Without Nair I look like a yeti...

While some things on my list are too personal to share with the world, for the most part these things I've just mentioned are trivial. I was going through a pity party when I wrote all those things, but now they're pretty funny. You have to allow yourself to feel the emotion, experience the healing, and create a plan of attack to overcome the slump. Now me, I just have to remember that eventually everything will come full circle and the reasons why my life sucks now will be erased and replaced with new reasons. I intend to keep the faith that one day I will meet a lovely gentleman full of compliments who loves uni-boobed, neurotic yetis, and will be content to spend the rest of his days feeding me biscuits. Oh yeah...he's out there!

Son of a Bee Sting!

So, my duplex is being repainted and the owners have hired quite the motley crew. They're all a little rough around the edges and made up of your stereotypical bad boys. I have no interest in dating bad boys, but there's one on the crew who if I ever were to have a bad boy fling, he'd be the one I'd have it with. Blond hair...gorgeous blue eyes...muscles...ohhhh the muscles! Yum! Mr. Yummy and I have had some small talk, made eyes at each other, and he's done the man thing and shown off a bit, and it's all been thrilling!

They've been working for a while and have practically set up shop in the neighborhood. They have a dumpster set up outside the duplex, which is doubling as a condo for bees. The bees were all over the place, and made themselves at home in my duplex after the door had been left open. I'd already knocked one bee off my shirt when I noticed 5 more swarming at the window. I, of course, asked Mr. Yummy to aid me in killing the bees, which he obliged. As he was killing said bees, I had moved over to my bookshelf and was attempting to dust when I accidentally knocked some of my things over. As I went to replace them, Mr. Yummy rushed to my side and began helping me. It was as our hands brushed that I felt something on my leg. I had the classical "What the..." moment, and realized in horror that a bee had traveled up my pants leg and was now canvassing the back of my thigh!

What was I to do?? I couldn't de-pants in front of Mr. Yummy! I couldn't allow the bee to sting me either... so, logic took over and I decided that the bee must die. It had to be quick and discrete. Mr. Yum-yum must never know that a bee was crawling up my leg. Mr. Yummy was arranging my minutia on the shelf, so I quickly located the bee and gave a quick squeeze. I was answered with angry buzzing and a resounding sting. I was able to maintain my composure despite being stung and dealt the final death squeeze...which left me with a lovely brown stain on my khaki pants.

Luckily, I was able to shoo Yum-yum away before he noticed the stain, but if this isn't a testament to my luck with guys I don't know what is! Lord help me if I ever meet a guy I would actually want to have a relationship with!