Thursday, September 29, 2011

The Necessity of Socks.

I once thought you boys had it hard, you know, dealing with unexpected math class boners and physicals and all. I was convinced I'd give my left arm if I had to drop my pants, turn my head, and cough... but that was well before my 18th birthday and mandatory annual visits to a certain lady doctor.

So today I bought a journal.

Yes, a beautiful black leather bound journal from a Barnes and Noble an hour and a half away.

I've been meaning to purchase one of these since, well, since I read Bridget Jones' Diary and wanted to document my retarded life come my 23rd birthday. I definitely should have made this purchase before the morning of the 25th to record the prior night's events in utter detail. It really is a shame I waited so long.

But this morning called for drastic measures.

I forgot my socks. And socks, simple they may be, are an absolute necessity when visiting such a strange place.

My roommate and I once had a conversation about proper gynecological etiquette. To wear socks, or not to wear socks?! Considering, as women, we are asked not to simply 'drop our drawers,' but rather, to strip down to the skin God gave us, so our breasts can be palpated for potential tumors and our nether-regions examined for who knows what, socks prove to be the only logical comfort.

But however great the comfort, you can imagine the debate Kara and I had over whether or not wearing socks seemed silly as we lay spread eagle with our heels in stirrups attempting to carry on casual conversation regarding current boyfriends or 'partners' (as they prefer to say) and our recent engagement in sexual activities.

((Just so you know, it is practically impossible to lie to such doctors! Even when you are well aware that the patient anxiously waiting to be seen in the next room can hear EVERYTHING you tell your doctor because the walls are paper thin, and after all, 5 minutes before, you learned all about the sexual activity of the anonymous woman in room B.))

Same partner? New partner? What is it this time? No partner? Oh! Well, what have you been up to then? Blah blah blah blah.

Second to the socks in the security department is coming home to a roommate waiting to debrief your emotional state at the time of said visit.

Because of the summer weather Orange County possessed and a recent move, I had neither socks nor roommate to come home to. Hence, the purchase of my beautiful black leather bound journal for the bargain price of $29.95.

____

So boys, next time you start complaining, about anything really, remember that women shed their uterine walls once a month for approximately 5 days, become human incubators for a period of nine months, spread their legs so a nurse practitioner can scrape cells off their cervixes, and have their breasts smashed down by heavy machinery to detect potentially cancerous tumors.


Oh, and maybe buy your girlfriend a pair of cute socks when she's curled up in the fetal position screaming at you because you don't understand the pain of menstrual cramps.


Happy Day :)

Friday, September 16, 2011

What I Want.

I want to stand at the bow of a ship with my arms stretched wide as the sea scented wind blows viciously through my hair.

I want to sit with my knees to my chest and my head tilted to the right staring out an airplane window at the swiss alps thousands of miles below.

I want to run along the colorado river at the bottom of the Grand Canyon with drops of sweat trickling down my spine.

I want to dance to a silent soundtrack on the top of the tallest building in the darkest city with only the stars to light up the sky.

I want to lay flat on my back in a field of wildflowers listening to the love songs of feathered creatures.

I want to write a column and have readers country wide hear what is in my head and my heart.

I want to watch the sun rise and then set on the same day from exactly the same location.

I want to float without effort in the Dead Sea under the blistering Jordan sun.

I want to shout from the top of a mountain and hear the echo bounce through the peaks and valleys.

I want to mother a foster child and shower his magnificent soul with more love than he ever thought possible.

But first, I want to twirl around in a vintage dress in front of a full length mirror with flowers in my hair.

And I want to stand at the entrance of a beautiful church as Catch the Wind by Donavon plays softly in the background.

And I want to witness the expression on his face as I walk awkwardly towards him...

Because all I really want, despite how vivid my other dreams are, is to fall desperately in love and to stay that way for the rest of my life.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

Talking Boys with my Daddy.

I spent the latter part of the afternoon today with my father gawking at the unsightly residents of Pacific Beach. He snickered about everyone’s choice of inking unflattering tattoos in unfortunate places while I proceeded to name off every male I would classify as a douche bag.

My dad chuckled at my use of such a phrase… which was unusual, for had we not been sitting in public sipping diet cokes out of plastic 7/11 big gulps he would have scolded me for such class-less language.

“Taylor, who are you? Surely not the daughter I raised! Why do you talk like that?!”

Seeing how I avoided a stern lecture of appropriate language and etiquette I tested my luck and coughed up a few four letter words and then ventured as far as using ‘bone’ as a verb… and each occasion he simply put his head down, covered his brow with his left hand and hide the grin that spread across his face.

But back on track

… while I was proclaiming every boy a douche and denouncing the male species as a whole, he perked up and asked,

“Taylor, why don’t you date that nice looking young man who waited on us today?”

As if I had the pick of the litter and could date any boy I damn well pleased.

(I sincerely love my dad for this. Because he absolutely believes that anyone I am interested in would be crazy not to pursue me.)

I merely explained that I had already dated within the work community and look where that got me…

And that said waiter probably wasn’t interested, and although he is indeed quite attractive I’m not even sure that I am even interested in him. Among other things… he used to have a girlfriend, we work together, we are employed at the same location as my ex-boyfriend (can we even call him that?) Somewhere down my line of excuses my dad zoned out and then looked at me sternly and said,

“Taylor… what are the top 5 qualities you want in a boyfriend, fiancĂ©, husband? I’m serious. I want you to think hard.”

I’m sure my face contorted into a thoughtful grimace as I looked over my right shoulder at the gentleman who was clearly eavesdropping, before I turned back, smiled, and listed off the following:

  1. Compassion
  2. Intelligence
  3. Spontaneity
  4. Conversational
  5. Familial

Needless to say my dad was pleased with my response. We discussed in some length what each word entailed and how I imagined my future fella would follow through and meet my expectations.

Then he asked me more about said waiter. Silly daddy.

He bought me ice cream before we headed back to my house and said our goodbyes. He reassured me that I was exceptional. Not only am I intelligent and beautiful but I am kind and therefore I should never settle. I clung to him for dear life… because that is exactly the sort of positive reinforcement every 22-year-old girl needs to hear from time to time.

Before climbing back into his car he gave me another hug, patted me on the head and said,

“Maybe you should move back east. You’ll probably meet more attractive guys there than in this shit-hole."


God, I love my Dad. : )