Are you there God? It's me, Jess...

I was raised Catholic. As such, I became accustomed early on to feeling guilty on a daily basis, for doing pretty much anything. Those of you who were raised within the boundaries of Catholicism can relate. I remember when I was around 13, my girlfriends and I decided to experiment with a Ouija board during a slumber party at my house. We also thought it would be fun to watch The Exorcist afterwards. Traumatized does not begin to describe what we were after this ill-conceived night. I, being a terrified adolescent who was certain I had summoned a demon into my suburban bedroom, ran directly to confession the following day and proceeded to sob uncontrollably to my priest and swear on bibles, rosaries and whatever else was available, that I would never do anything so stupid or sinful ever again if he could just please promise me I wasn't going to hell.

Fast forward to my rebellious teen years, when waking me up for mass on Sunday mornings became such an epic struggle, my mom eventually gave up. I had already begun questioning religion in all its forms and was far more intrigued by Wiccan spells and Voodoo rituals than by Hail Marys and First Holy Communion. Around this time I was dating "T", someone who to this day I refer to as my "first love". He was raised Mennonite, which was not uncommon where I grew up, and although I was vaguely aware that he attended church and was active in youth group, he rarely discussed it. Plus, he had a mohawk and a leather jacket; he listened to punk rock and wrote amazing poetry and was just all around dreamy. He and I were friends, as well as off and on boyfriend/girlfriend for years. He was the 'Ross' to my 'Rachel' and I always assumed we would graduate high school and get married.

Graduation came and went and we embarked on separate cross-country road trips. His lasted significantly longer than mine, but when he finally returned home 6 months later, we found our way back to each other and it was as though no time had passed. We spent many a late winter evening making out on my couch and talking about everything we'd seen on our respective trips. "This is it." I thought. So imagine my surprise when he arrived on my doorstep one night looking anxious and acting strangely. He came inside and proceeded to tell me that he was a sinner and had been for quite sometime and he could no longer live his life as such. He had asked God for forgiveness and was ready to walk the righteous path toward his savior Jesus Christ. At first, I thought he was joking. This was a man who:

A.) Didn't drink or do drugs.

B.) Was a virgin.

C.) Had never said a mean word about anyone the entire time I'd known him.

If he was a sinner, then I was one of Satan's minions. I was speechless, so he continued. "As for our relationship...", he began. He didn't need to finish-I wasn't dense- but I had never felt so completely blind-sided.

I haven't voluntarily attended church since I was 16 years old, yet I feel like I am finally okay with God again. I'm sure there are times when he/she is less than thrilled with my decision making, but for the most part, I'm a good person who leads an honest life. To say that particular experience wasn't pivotal and traumatic, however, would be a lie. Years later, I found myself with a massive crush on a cute boy who worked at the convenience store near my house. Every night after work, I would stop there for cigarettes so I could gaze at his beautiful face. As is my way, I had concocted quite an elaborate fantasy world involving him, even though the only words I'd ever spoken to him were "pack of Marlboro lights please". One evening, I had just finished pumping gas, when I looked up to see him leaving the store and getting in his car. I could see from where I stood, he had a bumper sticker on his back window. "We are totally soulmates" I thought, since I was quite a fan of bumper art myself. He drove past me at the pump and smiled--his brilliant, white-toothed, supple-lipped smile. I turned to read his bumper sticker as he passed:

"No Jesus, No Peace."

"Know Jesus, Know Peace."

Son of a bitch.

WWGD?

When contemplating a new beau, most people get nervous wondering if their family and friends will accept them. Meeting the parents is always a stressful time and if there are protective siblings in the mix, that too can be sketchy. I wouldn't say I don't care what my immediate family thinks, though I do find myself continually choosing guys they dislike for one reason or another. I do, however, care a great deal whether or not my dead Grandma would feel the same way. For some reason, I have it in my head that her posthumous approval is worth far more than any living person's opinion. Maybe it's because she and my Grandpa (also dead) were happily married for 60+ years when they died. I don't know anyone living that has a track record like that.

I made my peace with my Grandma's death long ago, since I felt like we were able to say our goodbyes before she passed, yet I've always regretted not being older and more mature while she was alive so I could have tapped into her wisdom a bit more. She was an amazing woman. She and my Grandpa were both retired school teachers who lived simply and traveled whenever and wherever possible. She was an intelligent, funny and mild-mannered yet feisty old gal who wore pastel-colored pantsuits and fabulous jewelry, which she collected during her travels. I would not say she was judgmental, but she definitely had strong opinions about certain things. Nothing pissed her off more than seeing a professional sports player (particularly a baseball player) with long hair or a scruffy beard. "Oh! He's such a handsome young man, why in heaven's name is he hiding behind that silly beard and ponytail?" she would say. She only ever met one of my serious boyfriends, Robert, and liked him well enough, though she didn't care for his goatee or 8-inch long ponytail. I didn't care for his alcoholism and emotional abuse, so I dumped him shortly after, making it a moot point. I think she would have liked my most recent ex, if for no other reason than he was intelligent, caring and genuinely interested in people and their stories. My Grandma and Grandpa had a LOT of stories. More than anything, I think she would just want me to be happy. That's why I wish I could sit down with her just one more time and ask her the important questions:

What made you fall in love with Grandpa?

What qualities did he have that drew you to him?

Did he ever drive you crazy? If so, how did you deal with it?

How did you know he was "the one"?

There is a chance my hopes would be dashed by her answers since things were very different back in the 1930's when they got married. People wed for more practical reasons and weren't so self-important and spoiled as they are now, to demand "perfection" from a partner when they themselves are flawed. I wonder if finding "the one" was even a consideration back then, or if you just got to a certain age and married the first "good man" you came across.

I miss her a great deal, but I like to think I am keeping her spirit alive to some extent, by wearing her jewelry every day and quoting her "Kitty-isms" as my mom so reverently calls them. I also like being compared to her for various reasons, like when I cry at television commercials. It makes me feel that much closer to her and who knows, maybe someday she'll get a wild hair and decide to haunt me or come to me in a dream and I'll have the answers to my questions once and for all.

Thank God for chocolate...

One of my least favorite words in our current lexicon is "horny". It just sounds so crass and juvenile. However, there aren't many other words that can accurately convey the feeling I so often find myself overwhelmed by. Suffice it to say, it's been awhile and the more time that passes, the more wanton I become. There are days when a scent, an accidental glimpse of someone's mid-section as they reach for something on a high shelf, or the brief touch of someone's hand on my back as they pass by, practically incapacitates me with longing. 

Then there is music...I have some very specific memories attached to certain songs. Memories so vivid, that I have essentially become a sexual Pavlov's Dog. If I hear 'Machinehead' by Bush, I am suddenly 17-years old, dry-humping my high school boyfriend in the back of my Honda Civic after curfew. I had some of the best sex of my life while Kings of Leon played in the background and as a result, almost drove my car off the road the other day when one of their songs came on the radio. 

Now although I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as a human being that craves physical contact with other human beings, the feeling is not always easily or thoroughly satiated. The problem with seeking outside assistance, is that it too can be unfulfilling. 

So, what's a gal to do? Pursue a relationship -however temporary- with someone I know, in order to gain the intimacy I crave? That's bad news because the intent isn't pure and people tend to get attached for the wrong reasons and end up hurt. 
Hire a male escort? Sure, they know their way around a G-spot, but EWW. Besides, who has that kind of money? 
Pick up a stranger at a bar? This is scary on many levels, plus then you need to think up a fake name and figure out how to sneak out of their house the next morning without waking them up. That's a lot of work. 

Since I am trying to make better decisions these days, I am less than thrilled with these options. On the upside, my dreams have been trying their damnedest to make up for the void in my reality and I've had ample free time to focus on learning Spanish, perfecting my banana bread recipe and performing charity work. (Note: I have done none of these things because the only thing I'm capable of focusing on is my unrelenting libidinousness. Yes, it's a word.) 

All I know is the next guy I date better have a strong back, a high tolerance for dehydration and be comfortable dating a virgin, because I'm pretty sure I am one again.

I do wish I owned stock in Hallmark...

I'm not going to go off on some long rant about Valentines day. 'It's not a real holiday, it was made up by greeting card companies to make money', blah, blah, blah. It's all been said. The truth is, I don't have any strong opinions about it one way or the other. (Full disclosure: I say this as an Anti-Valentines Day cake bakes away in my oven.) In fact, I rather selfishly enjoy it for the wide variety of candy available.

I've had good Valentine's Days and bad. Single and coupled. One of the best VD's I ever experienced, was when I was a junior in high school. My fellow rebellious, anti-everything, goth-punk boyfriend at the time, who I'd been dating for a month or so, presented me with a beautiful black rose with a chain wrapped around the stem, after school that day. (We were so hardcore.) It was the most amazing gift I'd ever received from a boy, and I floated off to detention in a state of bliss. How simple things were back then... After high school, my girlfriends and I, who were perpetually single, took to holding annual Anti-VD parties. If memory serves, these soirees typically included condom balloons, cake, copious amounts of tequila and a whole lotta' bitchin' about not getting laid enough. Those were good times...

When you work in the restaurant industry, it's pretty much mandatory that you work holidays--understandably so. They are the busiest days of the year, particularly VD. Last February 14th, I was employed at a low-end, corporate Italian eatery, where I found myself scheduled for a double-shift. At any other restaurant, this would have meant big bucks, however in my experience, the cheaper the food, the cheaper the customers. Over the course of the night, at one of my tables, I actually had a guy propose to his girlfriend. Now, I don't know about anyone else, but if I were dating a fella and he chose to propose marriage to me in the middle of a loud, crowded, crappy restaurant, over $8.00 bowls of mediocre spaghetti and jug wine, I likely would have walked out the door and hitch-hiked home. But bless her heart, she said yes! (We comped their tirimisu.) I'm sure they'll have a wonderful life together and ultimately, they happily went home with each other that night, whereas I went home with sore feet and cold chicken cannelloni.

More than anything, I think the reason people (singles especially) tend to hate this holiday, is because it gets them thinking about whether or not the right person is out there. Lately, I feel as though I've been wasting so much time hung up on the wrong ones, I wouldn't know the right one if he smacked me upside the head with a box of chocolates. When you're single, this day does nothing except make you more aware of that fact. Everywhere you turn, there is a giant, heart-shaped something in your face and couples as far as the eye can see. It can be both overwhelming and nauseating. So, I will go to work tomorrow and face the inevitable. I can only hope the night goes by quickly and I make enough money to buy myself a decent bottle of wine with which to celebrate February 15th or "50% off candy day".

Plenty of stinking, rotten, emotionally stunted fish...

Ah, internet dating. Technology has brought us so far--we needn't even leave the comfort of our homes to find a date anymore. Though, isn't it really just a step up from arranged marriages? A modern version thereof? I personally have not delved into this realm, nor do I have any immediate plans to. I get enough stories from friends to both terrify me to my core and keep me laughing hysterically for days.

One of my main concerns involving internet dating is people misrepresenting themselves. Obviously that can be done in person too, but at least when you are face to face with someone, you can get a first impression or a gut feeling. Imagine what horrors can be hidden behind the safety and relative anonymity of a computer profile. My friend once met a guy online who seemed quite nice and appeared perfectly normal in his profile picture (Note: the picture was essentially a torso/head shot). She agreed to meet him for dinner and when he arrived at the restaurant, she was shocked to see he had one normal arm and one strange sort of stump with a mini-hand attached. (I swear this is true... you cannot make this shit up.) Now let's be honest, bodily deformities are going to be a deal-breaker for some people. If you had such a deformity, wouldn't you want to weed those people out from the beginning, rather than go on date after awkward date with horrified looking girls who spend two hours nervously trying not to stare? In my friend's case, she wouldn't have minded the gimpy arm if his personality had been anywhere above a 5, which unfortunately it was not. She gave the .coms a break for awhile after that. Only recently did she get back into it, though now when she looks at pictures, she is understandably suspicious. As we scanned through some potential guys' profiles at dinner the other night, we came across one who had taken a strange, side-view picture of himself so that only the right side of his face was visible. He was very attractive, but we had to assume the left side of his face was horribly disfigured. She will not be contacting him to find out.

Physical defects aside, my most recent favorite story has to be the guy who she messaged back and forth for a day or two--he seemed cool--they were going to get together for a drink sometime. Then, out of the blue, he asks if she is a Christian. Kind of a heavy question for a 2-day text relationship, but regardless, she answered "No, but I assume you are since you're asking?" Turns out he belonged to New Life Church (made famous by the Ted Haggard scandal a few years back). At this point, she stopped texting and assumed their short-lived "relationship" was over, which it was.... until the next night when he sent her one of those super-classy cell phone pictures taken while looking in the mirror, of himself wearing nothing but a towel. My friends and I agreed this was not very Christ-like.

Another thing that bothers me about online dating is making a profile in the first place. I enjoy top-five lists as much as the next person, but there is nothing I hate more than having to list a bunch of my favorite: movies, books, bands, etc., so someone can form an opinion of me based on my taste in pop culture. Since no one likes being defined by any one trivial characteristic, a lot of thought tends to go into these lists. Girls always try to sound cool with their picks, like saying their favorite movie is Fight Club, when really it's Pretty Woman. Guys always try to sound smart and cultured... they might list the last 5 books they read, but they won't mention they read them over a 15-year span and that the only reading material currently in their possession is Maxim. Plus, I guarantee 90% of the population has at least one Britney Spears/Black-Eyed Peas/Taylor Swift song on their Ipod, but would never admit to it in a profile. I find it difficult to describe who I am, along with my hopes and dreams, in 3 paragraphs or fewer. Nor do I think I could choose someone who would be good for me, based on their 3 paragraphs. So I guess online dating is not the thing for me. I suppose if I ever figure out what it is I want, I can type it up and try my luck, but for right now, I just don't care. I come across enough disappointing weirdos in my daily life, I certainly don't need a computer program matching me up with any more.

It's been awhile since my last rant...

I don't think I will ever understand why guys stay in relationships with girls they claim to dislike/have nothing in common with/fight with constantly. My best guess is they stay for the sex. I know a few guys who give new meaning to the phrase "pussy-whipped"--"pussy-shackled to a wall and beaten to within an inch of their life on a daily basis" would be more accurate. But even this theory has been disproved by more than one guy I know who says because of all the fighting, they rarely even have sex anymore. So why stay? Because they're in love..... well that is ridiculous and stupid. I love (and have loved) plenty of people, but I don't go diving headfirst into a dysfunctional, co-dependent mess of a relationship with all of them. Love does not automatically equal compatibility and I think many people would be a lot happier if they would acknowledge this fact. Why do I care? If they weren't my friends, I wouldn't. But, the problem is, they involve me by using me as some sort of free therapist--constantly telling me about the myriad of problems they are experiencing with their girlfriends and how miserable they supposedly are. For example, the boy who broke my heart last summer and his girlfriend 'Bitchy McNotgoodenoughforhim' are always fighting and breaking up. Of course that's when I get to hear how mean she is, and how awesome I am. Well, guess what? I know I'm awesome, I don't need him to tell me that and I'm getting pretty damn tired of listening to all his crap one day, then seeing them make up and act all lovey-dovey the next. Fuck that. To him I say: if you aren't going to be honest with yourself about what you truly want, then I hope you enjoy your sex-filled, but otherwise unremarkable life with her.

Next month: A bake sale so I can go to Europe...

For years, I've been trying to simplify my life. I spent the majority of my teens and early 20's as a self-proclaimed pack-rat, but the more times I moved, the more annoyed I became with transporting all my cherished crap. I got pretty good at giving things away, and if I had any pack-rat tendencies remaining, living with my ex quickly cured me of them. 

In my eyes, he was a borderline hoarder, although I'm sure he would disagree. I remember when we moved into our house together, watching the seemingly endless parade of boxes being carried inside, filled with old magazine articles, newspaper clippings, knick-knacks and various thrift store finds he'd collected and held onto so dearly for so many years. I spent the majority of our relationship trying to get him to purge these things so I could organize what remained into tidy piles and decorative boxes and, in essence, stripping him entirely of who he was as reflected by what he possessed. I didn't see it that way at the time... I do now. 

See, the way I understood it, when you moved in with someone, you were supposed to discard your respective mish-mash of "single" junk and start spending your weekends at Pottery Barn buying wall sconces and matching sets of things. That's what couples do, right?

I've always been good at making a house into a home. I would have made a fantastic 50's housewife, what with my martini mixing skills and penchant for doing household chores in a dress. So during this time, I embraced my "nesting" instincts 100%. Every spare minute or dollar I had, went to decorating our space and making it cozy for us. 

Recently, I had an epiphany as I was unpacking my Christmas decorations. Amidst the strands of lights and boxes of ornaments, there were also serving trays, place mats and various other table-top accoutrements meant to embellish a beautiful dining room table I no longer own, in a home where I no longer reside. It occurred to me that I've been holding on to a lot of items from my "former life" which I no longer have any use for. 

Thus began my process of "reverse nesting". The last few weeks have been spent filling boxes with things I've decided never to move again. I want them out of my life. I'm tired of wrapping things in newspaper every few years. The plan is to get down to the bare minimum, so moving is a breeze and I can live in a small, efficient place and spend my time and money traveling extensively, because that is what the new Me wants. The current Me... the Me who barely recognizes the person who purchased all of those things just a few short years ago. This 'Me' is going to sell all of her furniture, buy a plane ticket to somewhere tropical and never look back.