Accomplishing the dream, or becoming the Cat Lady...

Most people understand that I'm a little different. I'm a little stuck in the middle. The "middle" being my religion, and my desire to live life and have many experiences. For those of you unaware of my religion, being a latter-day saint is not just a Sunday thing like some other religions, it's a lifestyle. Basically everyday is Sunday for us.

There is no break.

This puts a certain amount of pressure on us members. The main thing we are told to accomplish is to have a temple marriage, without this we are basically screwed. This puts a certain amount of pressure on us.

The men have it easy. All they have to do is go on that damn mission and they can come home and pretty much, as a return missionary they have a pick between at the least 2 or 3 girls that they can marry and start a family with, therefore completing the ultimate task at hand for us. It doesn't matter what they look like either. They could be short or tall, fat or skinny, handsome or ugly. It's sort of like the movie Field of Dreams when the voice tells Kevin Costner, "if you build it, they will come" It's the same thing. IF YOU COMPLETE YOUR MISSION, YOU WILL GET MARRIED. If you come home and are not married after 5 years, I would bet money that you are actually homosexual, which I would prefer, it would make church a lot more interesting since I love the gays. But that is niether here nor there, my point is that the men have it easy. Just round up $10,000, take a two year break from the world where you have a gazillion people praying for you every day, and share the teachings of the gospel with strangeres. Then, come home, pick a girl and give her a crappy diamond and your set. Scudoosh, you're done.

The women on the other hand...oh the women. Where do I even start? I'm entering into the latter years of my twenties, and I have been an old maid since I was 25. At least to the Mormon standards I am. In fact, the theme for my 25th birthday party was my becoming an old maid. I even wore a kiss me, I'm a Mormon t-shirt to the bar. Remember, I'm stuck in the middle, bars are included in the middle. When I state the fact that I am an old maid people look at me like I'm nuts. It doesn't help that I still look like I'm 20 years old. But they're right, it's crazy that I feel that way! Just because the fact of the matter is that most female members get married between the ages of 19-22 does not justify that I am destined to a life filled with cats and eating frosting straight out of the can.

The women have to hope that a return missionary will come back and look at them and say, "I want you to be my eternal partner" and then 3 months later they are getting married in the temple. It is a rare occasion where a non-member makes the dreams come true of a girl that was raised with the hopes of being married in the temple. I did see it happen once, and I have to give props to my girl for making that happen. (She knows who she is.) But for the most part, a return missionary is what a young lady is looking for.

I was never looking for that. I fell in love in high school, he was a real catch. Handsome, kind and a loving boyfriend, if all that is the definition of a douche bag. Because that is exactly what he was, a douche bag. I don't like to get into too many details of the ups and downs of our relationship, but he basically broke me. I had to make the decision between him and my faith, and I picked him. I gave up everything for him. I ended up empty handed when it was over. He also set the stage for the rest of the men I would pick to have relationships with, all another version of him, meaning all were non-members and all were douche bags.

It was partially my fault. When people would ask me if I wanted to marry another Mormon I would tell them I wasn't sure. I wasn't lying. I always laughed, and told people that the reason I never dated a Mormon guy was because they never asked me out. This is also a fact. I'm like reverse kitty litter to Mormon guys. They pretty much just stay away from me. This was fine to me, I never was your cookie cutter Mormon girl, I have this edge to me, and a sense of humor that a lot of members don't get. I'm loud, and opinionated, and my mother isn't friends with any Mormon mother's of single men, so they don't ask me on dates out of obligation either. It is what it is.

Until Mr. Perfect I had never dated a member. And so when he came around I fell down the rabbit hole. I was sucked into the whole thing.

I need to back up, let me explain something. I'm not a big traditional person. Yes, I want to get married, but to someone as independent as myself. In describing the perfect guy I would always say, "I want to marry someone who WANTS me around, not someone who NEEDS me around." I also did not have a strong desire to push children through my vagina. I don't really like kids. They have dirty fingers and I wear a lot of dry clean only. This is where I was in my life when Mr. Perfect entered it.

It's as if bizarro me came out and took my place. He wanted six kids, he said he knew he would have six children. I said I wanted four. What? I haven't wanted four kids since I was 10 years old, where did that come from? We would have discussions about the number of our potential offspring until he finally wore me down to agreeing to have six children. I didn't want to change my last name, again, I found myself telling him that of course I would take his last name, nevermind that my last name has done just fine for 20-plus years. There is more, but I won't bore you. I was turning into that cookie cutter girl. I was finding myself changing opinions that I have held strong to for years, all for the dream. Part of me was in shock. I couldn't believe that I had snagged a great catch. He had everything a SMF (single Mormon female) was looking for. I couldn't wait to marry him so I could sort of throw it in all those people's faces. Sort of like, "SUCKER!!! I totally screwed around for ten years and did whatever I wanted, and I still got married to a return missionary, what now?!?" I almost had it in the bag too, I was willing to accept a crappy ring, move out of state and leave everything, including my last name and my childless vagina all for the dream that I have been programed to dream since I was a little girl.

I fell a little short though, we didn't work out, as you all know by previous posts.

So here I am, still an old maid, going back to my old ways. But this time I have that taste of the dream in my mouth. I don't know if I can go back. I don't know if when I get married it will be in the temple. I don't even know if I will ever get married. I guess like Tom Petty says, "the waiting is the hardest part..."

But to all those girls out there still dreaming the dream, if you want six kids, then I know of at least ONE single return missionary out there that is still single. Well, it's been like four months, so he actually might be married by now...

I love the Red Sox, even thought they suck this year

Because I am a crazy gypsy I sometimes do things that might seem a little odd to the average non-gypsy. One of those things being my red nail polish during the playoffs. Basically I paint my nails red at the beginning of the MLB playoffs and I do not remove that particular coat of paint until the Red Sox have either; A- won the World Series or B- let someone else have a shot at it (translation being they loose)

I prefer the former to the latter to happen.

So this year the Red Sox won the wild card. Playoffs began and I got my red polish manicure.

Today, I got to take it off.

What the hell? I am HELLA mad right now. The Angel's totally shut us out. This is the second year in a row that I am left disappointed. Last year, during game seven once I realized we weren't going to beat Tampa Bay I literally left my house to drive around until the game was over. When I came home and everyone confirmed that, yes Boston had lost, I sat on the ground and cried. That's how much I love the Red Sox.

All I want is two in a row. Two World Series championships back to back. It's not that hard, I know we can do it, and we get soooooo close is what upsets me.

To some of you I might sound a little greedy, since many Red Sox fans, including my dad had to wait a really, really, really REALLY long time just to have them win ONE World Series. 86 years to be exact.

My love for the BoSox started when I was a little girl. My dad took me to Baskin and Robbins. It was when you could get your scoop of icecream in a bowl the shape of your favorite baseball team's hat. I remember my dad made me get the Red Sox. I think I wanted the A's or something, but he simply looked at the cashier and said, "She'll have the Red Sox cup."  Damn you dad, you sucked me in.

The year that the Red Sox finally won the World Series was 2004. My mom, who is also a gypsy, but could care less about baseball, said that they would win it because the last time they had made it to the World Series was 1986, and it had been 86 years since they won a world series. It was a sign in our gypsy language, and I had high hopes for my team. So when we were 3 games down against the Yankees I felt a little down. But then game four, we won. And then we won game five, and six. The series was tied, it all came down to game 7, and we won that too. The poor Cardinal's didn't have a chance, the momentum was too strong. We shut them out. It was the best. I remember sitting there, watching the game with all of my friends, and I pointed at the TV and said, "I'M WATCHING THEM WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!" It was awesome.

The next time the Red Sox won was 2007. This was a special year because this year represented when my gypsy powers became stronger than my mothers.
I called that they would win in February. 2007 was the year of the boar in the chinese new year. Not only was it the year of the boar, it was the year of the Golden Boar. This only happens every 600 years, and it is a lucky year for anyone born in the year of the boar. Well, I'm born in the year of the boar, so 2007 was my year, and since the BoSox are my team they were for sure going to win. Hands down.
Then later in the year I was at work and someone pointed out that I had blood on my ankle. I had cut my ankle and was bleeding and I didn't even know it. I was walking around with a bloody ankle. A bloody ankle! Someone else had a bloody ankle when he helped win the World Series in '04. It was the ultimate gypsy sign, and at that point I was convinced that the Red Sox would win that year.
 My mother decided that the Rockies would beat us since they had come back to win like 21 games or something to make it to the end. I looked at her when she said that and told her that she must be getting old, and that she wasn't allowed to even glance at the TV during the games.
I of course was correct, and that's when I got wrapped around the idea that I really want 2 in a row. But when we didn't win last year we had to start all over. It's very stressful on me, and I get a little emotional. I taught Gilda how to cheer properly for the BoSox this year. It is adorable. She sings, "let's go Red Sox" and does the little clap. She is so born into it.

So my nails won't look like a hot mess the entire month, I guess that's the silver lining in the situation. Until next year, here's to anyone but the Yankees winning it all! Nothing but love for my husband, Jason Varitek, my boyfriend Jonathan Papelbon, and my honey bunnhy bear Jacoby Ellsbury.

That pink ribbon affects us all in some way

Everyone loves my mom. My mother is nice and pretty and always pleasent to people. She can bake yummy delicious treats and always loves to give people gifts. She's also funny and can keep a secret. Everyone loves her, and wonders how she got stuck with a daughter like me.

The truth is, in my defense, my mother is a nag. If she's not yelling at me about one thing it's another. My favorite line to throw in her face when she is bitching at me about why I do this and that is, "I do it so you have something to nag at me about!" I say this because I honestly think that if she didn't have something to nag about she would die.

When I was younger, between the ages of 13-20 I couldn't stand my mom. I didn't like talking to her, listening to her, anything she said or did was retarded to me. I was your typical teenager that hated her mother. I felt like I had nothing in common with her, she knew NOTHING about my life and how I felt or what I was going through. My mom grew up a military brat and was constantly moving. She never went to the same school two years in a row, she went to 4 different high schools in 3 different states. My mom never had the time to make real friendships with anyone The moment she really started to bond with someone, her family moved away. She never had a real best friend. This made her very independent, and a little bit of an introvert. She doesn't really like social situations and having to mingle with large groups.
She also is very private. I know very little about her life before she married my dad. I don't know of any previous boyfriends, or what she did for fun, nothing. It isn't like I haven't asked her, I have...she simply tells me it's none of my concern. All I know is that she fell in love with my dad and they have been married for almost 30 years now.
My mother gives me everything, but the one thing she couldn't give me was being a member of my church. She has taken the discussions over a dozen times, but she just does not believe. She told me when I was younger that she would join if I wanted her to, but I knew she did not believe. I always stood by her with this decision. I agreed that for her to be a part of something she had no belief in would be disrespectful. I am only now starting to understand that I might have taken a different path had I might of had my mother sitting with me in church all those years....

I say these things in preface to the real story I want to tell.

October is breast cancer awarness month, and I was sitting watching an episode of LA Ink that was really focused around breat cancer, and survivors getting tattoos...yada, yada, yada.
As I was watching and listening to all the stories of people finding out they have cancer, or loved ones dying of cancer I thought, "gosh, I don't relate to these people at all..."
But then I really thought about it. Cancer has been in my life a few times. My grandfather died of lung cancer 10 years ago. It was horrible, but it was only a matter of a month from the time we found out to the time he died. One of my mom's closest friends passed away from breast cancer after battling it for years. I know a handful of my friends that have had a cancer scare as well.

And then I remembered my mother's experience.

When I was ten years old my mother had to have a lumpectomy on one of her breasts. It ended up being nothing, and I was young so I didn't understand.

But now that I am an adult the memory disturbed me.

I remembered the day she went to the doctor and they told her she had to have the lumpectomy. She was wearing a white blouse and a blue and white checkered skirt. It was a sunny day and I remember my dad took me somewhere while she was at her appointment. I remember her standing on the sidewalk as we walked up to her. I don't remember what she said to me, but I remember being happy to see her. After that the only memory I have is her being in bed after the lumpectomy and seeing her bandages, and that's it. That was all there was to it. Because the lump ended up being benign, nothing was ever said about it again. I don't even think they really said anything to me about it at all.

I can't stop thinking about what would have happened had the lump been something? What if my mom did have cancer all those years ago? What if she had died? Who would have nagged me for all these years? Who would have been here as a constant reminder that I could be so much better if I was only like my mother?

Life might have been different for me had my mother joined the church along with my dad. I might be married and have a minivan full of snotty nosed children by now. I might not be in this no man's land of wondering where I belong or questioning every decision I make when it comes to certain aspects of my life.

But then I think of how life would be without my mom, and I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for reminding me of how blessed I really am to have her as my mother. I wouldn't trade her for anything. I know that I am lucky, and the older I get the more I try to be just like her. I know some girls would hate to hear, "you sound just like your mom" but I don't, because if someone thinks that I sound like my mom then I must sound like a really great person. I love my mom, she is the classiest, prettiest, funniest person I know.

I know that some people say that their mother's are their best friends, but mine isn't. She's so much more than that to me, she's my mom...nagging and all.

Now that you've read my story, if you're lucky enough to be able to, go tell your own mom how much you love her.

Mr. Roomie

Sometimes in life we take for granted the people we care about. Why do we do this? Isn't it odd that we treat complete strangers better than we sometimes treat the ones that really matter in our lives?

I have to give a shout out to Mr. Roomie today. Mr. Roomie, you're the bomb diggity.

Why you ask is Mr. Roomie the bomb diggity?

Answer-Any man who can live with 3 women and a little girl and not go crazy and stab us all in our sleep at night is a strong person.

Mr. Roomie is not perfect, he is loud and obnoxious at times. He always interupts when I am trying to watch something on TV. He always asks a question instead of just watching when they tell you the answer 5 seconds later. I've finally trained him to be silent during Big Love and Mad Men. He knows all questions are saved until the end of the program.
Mr. Roomie also throws things away. A lot. He is a uber clutter freak. I say clutter because he isn't so much a clean freak, he just doesn't like clutter. So we have one cupboard in the kitchen that is jam packed with anything he feels should not be left in eye sight. This cupboard is like the burmuda triangle of mail and paperwork, pens and anything else you can think of. He also throws away food. One morning I woke up and knew I had one bagel left, and was super excited to eat it. I open the fridge to see that he had pretty much thrown everything out. Including my cream cheese. Ugh.
Mr. Roomie also likes to think that he knows everything, and he doesn't. He listens to his co-workers and their retarded theories about the economy and politics and then spits that stuff out to us here. We always end up shutting him down.
I used to enjoy most sports, until Mr. Roomie and his crazy obsessivness with all sports. Take for example football season, we have to watch all day Sunday and Monday night. Why? Why can't you just watch your team and then tune into ESPN for the highlights from the other games? It drives me bonkers.

This hasn't been much of a shout out yet...but I'm glad you stuck through to the end to hear it.

Mr. Roomie is a good dad. He loves his daughter, even though she has him wrapped around her little finger and doesn't like to discipline her, he is still a great father.

He loves his wife. He works hard to be the man that she deserves to be with.

He is a wonderful friend. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, no questions asked.

He is forgiving. He believes the past is the past and all we can do is move forward.

He puts up with all the women in this house giving him crap, which like I said previously would usually drive a man crazy, becuase us women, we can be mean.

All in all I wouldn't trade Mr. Roomie in for anyone else. So here's to you Mr Roomie, I'm glad that you're around.

If you liked it than you should have put a ring on it...or at least asked them out...

***sigh***

Why is it that I only get hit on by gay men and gentlemen over the age of 65?
Why can't I get asked out by a guy my own age?

***heavy sigh***

It's really depressing. I mean let's look at the facts here.

For starters I smell good. I use really nice laundry detergent, so my clothes are always nice and fresh smelling. I use liquid tide, not the cheap powder kind. I also always have some sort of delicious perfume on. Not just any perfume, I'm talking about Chanel. I smell expensive for goodness sake.

Secondly, I have really great hair. It's shiny and silky and long. I use yummy smelling products too (add it to the previous list of me smelling good)

C: I dress well. I buy pieces that can go the distance. I have a very classic style. Most of my clothes are 90% dry clean only, so that's telling you something. I am really good at accessorizing. I like to go by the "less is more" rule. I also wear at least 4inch heels everyday.

Which brings me to exhibit 2-B: I'm the perfect height. I'm 5'5 which makes me absolutely average. I'm right in the middle, not a dwarf and not so freakishly tall that I look like I belong in the Amazon. I can wear those 4inches and still be shorter than a lot of guys.

In closing I'm also smart, and keep up to date with current events. I know how to cook, even though I don't ever do it. I do bake, and am pretty good at that too. I also am funny and I can take a joke. If I trip or do something retarded I'm the first person to laugh at myself. I come from a nice family, and I have pleasent friends.

So what the funk? What's up? Why am I on the verge of the big 3-0 and I'm no where close to being married, let alone landing a date.

I get asked why I'm still single at least once a day. I'm running out of answers. I don't know.

People have started to feel pitty for me and are "breaking it down" for me and letting me know what's up.

So what's the big mystery?

Apparently I'm intimidating.

What the hell kind of answer is that?

Because I dress well, smell good, have nice hair, am smart and funny, and have a ton of great people around me this is the reason I am single. This is why guys don't ask me out.

***another heavy sigh***

Why are men so stupid. Do you know how many great girls are out there just waiting to be a good girlfriend to some stupid douche bag that doesn't even deserve her? Too many for me to even try and keep track of.
Why do I always see a pretty good looking dude with some really unattractive girl? I always wonder why she can get a guy and I can't. It makes me feel pretty pathetic. Don't judge me, you know you've all done it at least once in your life.

I did get asked out a few weeks back by some guy who is 22. First strike. I went to lunch the same day with the BFF and when she asked me what he was like I described him as the type that looks like he shoots rifles when he gets drunk with his buddies. Super redneck. Definatly not my type. Strike two, and I'm not eben giving him the chance to strike out. I also had an acquaintance today tell me that I should try a "party-line" What the hell? Do I look like the type to call a party line? hmmmm? I don't think so. Especially since she met her boyfriend there and he just got out of rehab. Again, not my type.

Basically my type is non-douche bag, but my problem is that I am surrounded by them.

Look, I'm not asking for much here. I just want a decent guy who can make me laugh and would be able to carry me out of a burning building if neccessary. Not drag me, but carry me out. If I'm going to make a wish list though I might as well go big or go home, right? Okay, I'm glad you agree!

My dream guy would be;
funny, smart, cute, and at least 5'10. I really would like to get married in the temple, so I would prefer a member, but only a really down to earth one like me. I'm not down for dating a crazy uber orthodox one again (I still miss you though Mr Perfect.) If he's not LDS I need him to be Jewish. I wouldn't even flinch at changing my last name to Goldstein or Rosenberg. Anything Jew-like and I'm good. I also really like guys with tatoos, I think that is super hot. I cannot be with a Yankees fan either. We bleed Boston in my family. I also need someone who has a good job. I know that sounds terrible, but I'm keeping it real. I'm a lot of things, but I am no sugar momma, and I never will be. My perfect guy would also love dogs, and allow me to name all dogs we bring into our home. He would also allow me to name all children that I push through my vagina as well. Basically all naming rights would belong to me.

This is pretty much all I'm asking for. It's not that much, I'm not that picky, so please guys don't be intimidated. Ask a pretty haired, yummy smelling average height girl out next time you see one. She might just be me...

Amazaholics

amaze vt.

amazed, amazing

1. to fill with great surprise or sudden wonder; astonish

2. to bewilder


Lately I've been hearing the word "amazing" being used loosly to describe a plethora of things.

Over and over I hear, "these eggs are amazing!"

"you're hair looks amazing!" etc. I started to question when everything so mundane became so suddenly, well, amazing.

Then I happened to watch the Rock of Love Charm School finale, and these two ridiculously trashy girls must have said amazing at least 10 times. Girl 1 described Girl 2's speech as "amazing." What? I'm sorry, I could barely stand to listen to Girl 2 ramble on as she tried to stutter out what she classified as an exceptable speech. (the girl with the best speech would win $100,000)

After watching that, and hearing it from people around me, I've decided that people over-using this word might not have the correct definition of amazing. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to help those with this problem. I understand it might be difficult at first to purge yourself of misusing this word, but let's look at the silver lining, there are so many other descriptive words to use out there. You can say, "These eggs are delicious, scrumtious, appetizing, heavenly, tasty, or titillating." Or you can say, "You hair looks beautiful, dazzling, exqusite, foxy, classy, stunning, pretty, elegant, or supurb.


Amazing should be saved for something like, say I suddenly spit out fire, or my dog started talking in hebrew instead of barking, or Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie became BFF. These type of things would be defined as amazing.


I urge all amazaholics to take baby steps in helping themsleves become less dependant on this word. Thank you. Good night, and good luck.

Double Dilema

Have you ever just wanted something so bad that you couldn't stop thinking about it? Well that's how I was last week regarding a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. For five days it was all I could think about. I would wake up wanting one, and fight myself all day long on getting it until I went to bed. I'm sure the people I was working with this week were ready to stab me in the juggular, because it's really all I talked about. I would ask my co-workers where they were going to lunch, and ask them if they would eat one for me, then tell me how good it was. They didn't do it. Bastards.
I bet it seems strange to you why I couldn't just go ahead and eat one. I'll tell you why. Because McDonald's is THE DEVIL. I swear they add some sort of crack to their food, because I love it, and if I eat it once, I want it again, which isn't possible at this time.
See, my dad developed diabetes about 7 years ago, and lately has been having trouble sticking to the diet he should be on, which doesn't include breads or pasta or sugar, or carbs. Basically he's screwed when it comes to food. I love my dad. Yes he's a cranky mo-fo, but he's the only dad I have, so I want him to be around and healthy for as long as I can help it. Which is why, even though I see him like once a week I have cut out all the things he can't eat from my diet as well (only to a certain extent...hey, no judging, I'm not the diabetic here!) But really, I have been for the most part pretty dedicated to it. My dad says that just knowing that I'm doing it makes him feel better about it. That's my reasons, so now you know, but back to the double cheeseburger...
I finally got to Friday, and I think I was going a little insane. I thought about it every 5 seconds. I wanted the damn burger, I could seriously taste it in my mouth. I was starting to become a snatch too. The BFF called me and I totally snapped at her, literally giving her the excuse, "I'm sorry! I just really want a double cheeseburger!" She told me to just get the damn burger. Way to be supportive BFF...
I was getting sweaty and all worked up over this cheeseburger. It was like a battle against good and evil going on in my brain, I couldn't even see straight. The darkside was pulling me in like a vaccum sucking up a bad penny. I got in my car to run a few errands, trying to get my mind off the burger by chain smoking. It didn't help, it just made me smell like smoke. I felt like an addict that was trying to get off the meth, "This is what's it's like for druggies" is all I could say. I now have a greater respect for all drug addicts and their come-downs from highs. Stay strong my brothers (fist pounding to the chest as I say that...)
Finally I couldn't take it anymore.
I found myself in the drive-though.
I made the exchange for the "stuff"
I brought the bag home.
The Roomie saw it. Her reaction? "Oh boy! You caved!"
I didn't give a f@*k, I was one happy girl.
I sat there with that double cheeseburger in my hand for a good five minutes, just cherishing the moment.
And then I took a bite...
mmmmmmmmmm yummy is all I have to say.

I know some of you are thinking I'm weak, but I couldn't stand it! I needed to get on with my life and I couldn't until I had that damn burger. So screw you Velda!

I'll see you in line at the drive though.