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Dear Dad,

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5 years and 2 days ago, the idea that you wouldn’t be here anymore was unfathomable.

5 years and 1 day ago, I kissed you goodnight and whispered that if you needed to, it was okay to let go.

5 years ago, you did.

Grief is not something that you just deal with, or cure, or resolve.

When you are not done loving, grief lives inside of you forever.

I was not done loving you.

After 5 months, grief is still expected. It shows. Your smile is forced. Your eyes are tired. Your face, older. Your posture, defeated.

After 5 years, grief – somehow feeling less justified – turns you into the master of restraint. Grief becomes soundless screams into pillows and silently crying yourself to sleep. Hiding tears behind sunglasses when certain songs come on. Deep, muted breaths while you stare at the ceiling during tough movie scenes. Using the shower as a disguise for the kind of emotion you can’t choke back.

But after 5 years I am still just as angry as I was the day you told me that this time, it was terminal.

Some things, you can’t ever accept. Some things, I don’t think we’re meant to.

Last year I walked down the aisle to the love of my life, without you – my first love – on my arm.

Instead of cracking corny jokes and sneaking appetizers before cocktail hour, you were framed in pictures on a table.

I had to write you a love letter on the back of our programs, instead of you writing us a toast.

Instead of sitting front row, grinning wide with teary-eyes, there was one empty seat and we all bowed our heads in a moment of silence.

And I was taken by complete surprise when after the first dance ended, your brothers stepped onto the floor and each took turns dancing with me in tribute to you.

This is not how it was supposed to go.

I was not done loving you.

But we did it anyways.

And it was magical.

We all laughed and we cried and we danced and we ate.

And you would’ve loved every second of it.

 

 

Love,

M.

 

 

 

 

@tennisonweddingfilms

www.tennisonweddings.com

The Feins Go (Mid)West

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Six months ago, I moved to Wisconsin.

Er, WE. We moved.

I moved with my husband.

HUS-BAND!

(I got married?!?)

Yea, I didn’t leave him 51 days after our wedding – we moved together.

There’s no way we could split up the kids.

Also I love him.

But Wisconsin. Who does that, right? Seattle to Wisconsin. Cheese, brats, humidity, Packers dontchaknow, Wisconsin.

You know who moves to Wisconsin from Seattle? Pretty much anyone who doesn’t have a job at Amazon or Microsoft, that’s who.

Thanks, Jeff Bezos.

But really, we headed east because Jon went to school in Madison, and it had been a goal of ours for a long time to end up there and be real-life season-ticket-holding Wisconsin Badgers fan’s.

We were ready to trade “Starbucks on every corner!!,” for “Starbucks on every other corner!!,” and after we got back from our honeymoon, I guess it just seemed like as good a time as any to keep making huge life changes, so we took the leap.

Or maybe the thought of going back to the exact same job and routine that we had pre-wedding and pre-honeymoon was just so unbearable that packing up our entire life and moving thousands of miles away seemed like the only logical thing to do.

Either way.

So we drove across the country with about 4 possessions because of course our SUV was on it’s last legs right on the cusp of our cross-country road-trip, forcing us to have no choice but to fit all of our necessities into a sedan. We packed the two of us and our two pups in the car with as much as we could fit in our little trunk which is, NEWSFLASH: not much. As we are now pro’s at this, let me tell you what you can pack on a road trip with 2 dogs and 2 humans in a small car: 1 air mattress, 2 pillows, 1 coffee maker, and 3 pairs of underwear.

4, if you wear two pairs at once.

It was SO tight that I didn’t even bring all my makeup. You guys. I entrusted the moving company with my entire (and fabulous) makeup collection. These guys, who probably have never even HEARD of Sephora, let alone step foot into that magical kingdom. These guys, who definitely don’t know how invaluable a beauty blender can be, or how long I waited for Charlotte Tilbury’s Pillow Talk lipstick to be restocked – THE AGONY!!

That’s right –  I only packed the very basics and you know what? I feel liberated. I am a bra-burning, liberated woman now. Honestly though can we have another bra-burning moment because I hate bras and I know you do, too. The only women who like them are 14 year old girls going bananas over getting a training bra.

Not that I have graduated out of a training bra yet but that’s neither here nor there.

And besides, that’s what having babies is for right? I’m sure there are other reasons to have babies, but finally filling out your shirts is the main one, no???

I wish I had some hilarious road-trip stories of not being able to get to a rest area in time, or one of the dogs terrorizing a hotel room, but it was honestly pretty smooth-sailing. Of course we want our dogs to behave (and they do most of some of the time), but when a chance like this came along to really make some funny and lasting memories, they actually DID behave, and way too well. I mean, they really made us look like we knew what we were doing!

Ugh. Parenting is hard.

Taylor Swift’s album came out right before we left, and I’m still waiting for my ‘Wife Of The Year’ trophy to arrive since I listened to it non-stop BUT WITH MY EARBUDS ON, lest my dear spouse be tortured to death by nasally melodies about boys who done her wrong. (I love her and I hate her and I love to hate her). My husband, on the other hand, loves listening to sports radio, so even if I really hated Taylor Swift, I think listening to her album is still better than the alternative.

I feel like I know enough about sports to know that I don’t need to know anything sports radio is gonna tell me, you know what I mean?

I think the craziest thing that happened on our road-trip was having the epiphany in a Best Western that the best Indian food you’ll ever eat is found in the state of South Dakota. I don’t think this opinion has anything to do with us being near-death starving, pounding curry on a hotel futon and thanking any godly beings up there listening for making curry vegan.

We finally arrived at our new digs, but with zero things to furnish our house or cook with, and no real idea of when the movers would arrive. I was tasked with going to Target for “necessities.”  Naturally, I bought a giant cactus painting and a fake Christmas tree. Apparently necessities are more along the lines of “food,” and “toilet paper.”

I am nothing if not practical.

Thankfully my husband hasn’t fully caught on to the fact that I cannot be trusted alone in stores that sell home decor, clothing, animals, makeup – okay any store with any product really –  and so that is reason #379 that my husband is the best husband.

I can make a list later of all 379 reasons but for now I’ll just mention that they include his bacon-making skills (which we no longer put to use but it scored major points way back when) and also he picks up all the dog poop in the yard. Never did I think this would be such a turn-on, but having a husband who picks up the dog poop is a kind of sexy that I never knew I needed.

After several more trips to acquire the “actual” necessities, we stood in the middle of our empty house, with no real clue of what to do next.

For 14 days and 14 nights, we ate, drank, slept, played board games and watched Netflix on an air mattress, fantasizing about box springs and Tempurpedics.

You would think that on that 15th day, seeing that giant moving truck finally pull around the corner and onto our street would induce overwhelming emotion at the mere thought of sleeping on an actual bed that night.

The truth is that all I was really worried about was wether or not my makeup had survived the journey.

It survived.

1,989 miles, 6 states, 5 dog parks, 13 gas stations, 87 potty breaks and several tumbleweeds later:

We are midwesterners.

The Feins went (mid)west.

 

Love,

M

 

Almost Thirty: I’ll Never Be Homecoming Queen

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The other day I was walking downtown on my lunch break when out of nowhere the guy walking in front of me threw two huge handfuls of something into the air, proceeding to shower me in CONDOMS. He didn’t look back, didn’t miss a beat. Just kept walking.

What worried me about this was not that I might now be on some YouTube prank video, nor that he seemed really delighted to get rid of (arguably) essential sexy time gear, but that I also just kept walking. Aside from checking the lid of my caramel macchiato to make sure I wasn’t about to inhale a contraceptive, I really didn’t even bat an eye.

My guess is that after staring at twenty vagina’s a day for almost two years, impromptu condom showers just don’t phase me anymore.

Condom confetti.

Okay then.

 

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This is the year I turn thirty.

That magical, dreadful number that seemingly makes us all shit our pants and have a nervous breakdown because we’re not married yet/we ARE married holy shit/we’re afraid our eggs are drying up/we don’t want kids/we were supposed to be pregnant SIX MONTHS AGO WTF/Our metabolism is being a giant bitch/we still can’t do our own taxes/we’re forever alone/thelistgoesonforever.

Right? Right.

I haven’t really been thinking about turning thirty though, until I recently went home for the weekend and found a diary from ninth grade.

How precious.

In this little gem included lots of lists:

“People I’ve Dated.” That list was short.

“Stupid Dumb Bitches.” That list was longer.

My favorite, though, was one titled, “Goals to Be Accomplished Before the Age of 30.”

I got a chuckle out of it and kept going on with my life except that since then I’ve come across several articles whilst surfing the interwebs, with lists of where I should in my life by the time I reach this “magical” number. And I say several as in, almost everyday I am seeing essays on why I’m a sucky almost-thirty-year-old.

Is everyone turning thirty this year?

Okay universe. Thank you. I GET IT. Do your laundry.

These people are telling me that in order to be a proper adult, I should know how to fold a fitted sheet properly, read the news everyday, get enough sleep, and never run out of toilet paper. First of all, fitted sheets can just fuck right off. Reading the news everyday is like feeding yourself depression pills. Getting enough sleep is just a ridiculous term that some jerk coined in an attempt to make us believe that it IS actually possible to feel rested, and toilet paper is something you just never think about until it’s too late, which is what paper towels are for (or the napkins you get in your McDonalds bag as if you’d ever use them because obviously you will just lick the sauce off your fingers. Hello).

The list that my 14 year old self wrote though, is far more worthy of striving for, in my not-so-humble opinion.

So I figured I would share what I thought was most important to do in your first thirty years of life, and we can all have a pity party celebrating how much we (don’t?) have our shit together.

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This would be way more entertaining if I hadn’t accomplished any of these goals, but unfortunately I can tick off more than I thought I would (or at least a version of them).

Sorry ’bout that.

I didn’t make it to American Idol’s Top Ten, but I did get a golden ticket, only to be shot down by the show’s producers in the second round. Not devastated or traumatized by that at all.

Let’s all do a slow clap at the fact that I’m not raising two children at this point because remembering to give my cat his eye drops everyday is enough of a struggle. Also if you really can’t drink coffee while pregnant, I’m really going to have to rethink this entire process.

I never studied abroad but I did live abroad so I’ll go buy myself a donut for that, later.

Skydiving is really fucking fun and everyone should do it unless you really really don’t want to. Then you should probably not do it, lest you have PTSD for all of eternity.

Shopping sprees are something I apparently took a little too seriously because I now work in a building that’s only a three minute walk from Zara, Anthropologie, Sephora, Nordstrom, yougetmydrift. It’s a BIG issue, people. A big issue. But, as a 14 year old I found this to be really important to do in my life so I really don’t feel that bad about it.

Bungee jumping is a sore subject to say the least, since I was literally standing on the ledge of a bungee tower and couldn’t seem to find my balls that day. I’d like to blame it on being hungover but the truth is that I was just a giant weenie. Instead, I got to take the walk of shame alllll the way down the tallest spiral staircase you could possibly imagine, and then go crawl into a hole and try to disappear forever.

I don’t wanna get all mushy here because that’s stupid and I’m not trying to make you guys puke, but let’s just say I’m pretty happy with the fact that I’m not dating a guy with a southern accent right now.

As for the REALLY important things on this list, I only have 8 months to buy a Navigator and be Homecoming Queen.

(Pray for me)

My conclusion to this whole “turning thirty” mumbo jumbo is that according to most lists, I’m kind of sucking at life. But according to MY list, I’m doing okay.

I have to say, I’d take skydiving and traveling and owning horses over being an expert fitted sheet folder any day of the week.

So I say to you, my lovelies: Make your own goddamn list.

Oh, and by the way, my contour IS on point.

Love,

M.

Date Fails

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Do you think the reason I’m single right now has anything to do with me belting out The Proclaimer’s “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” at 7:30 in the morning while marching up and down my hallway with no pants on and using my giant bottle of Coconut Creme coffee creamer as a microphone?

Yea, me neither.

So, I’ve been on way more dates than I care to remember. At one point (years ago) I had eleven first dates in one month, and that is not including any second or third dates I went on. What in the holy hell was I smoking, you ask? I’d really like to know the answer to that, too. Shouldn’t I get an award for that or something? I got zero STD’s because nobody got laid and so I guess that’s my award. No chlamydia. Lots of free sushi. Win.

I think Larry David says it best.

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Now I’m not quite as cynical as Larry (yet) and I can’t say all the dates I’ve been on have been bad. I’ve had some pretty great ones. Some really great ones. Some, “OMG you’re going to DIE when you hear this” ones. Some, “I’m 96% sure I’m living out a very popular book series, right now,” ones.

When a date goes sour, though, it’s bad. Sometimes my encounters make me think that this cannot be real life. It’s appalling, some of the things men think will be impressive to do or say. I’m not 100% sure yet that my love life isn’t being Punk’d. I’m just waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind my bathroom door with a camera. Except I hope it’s Andrew Garfield instead, and that he decides that he’s single and then also has no pants on.

I digress.

So, without further adieu, I want to share some of the Red Flags I’ve encountered on dates. This was originally going to be exclusive to first dates, but I didn’t want to discriminate and leave out all of the awesomely fucked-up things that guys have done at any point in my knowing them.

All of these things have actually happened to me.

Laugh it up.

The amount of FAIL that I’m giving these situations is obviously only my opinion…

But seriously, guys, stop it.

– If your date discloses that both his father and brother were admitted to the psychiatric hospital that you are currently working at. Okay well I guess I’ll be seeing your admission papers soon enough. Thanks for the pizza, okay BYE NOW. 

– If a guy tells you his favorite past time is working out, you might want to start lunging your way out of the juice bar you’re probably in. If I hear one more guy say how working out his his religion, I am literally going to throw up in my mouth, swallow it, and throw it up again. I am 150% sure that there are a billion exercise-obsessed men that are fucking cool as hell, but I can’t say I’ve ever had a good experience with a workout whore. I can’t listen to you talk about your “WOD” because it makes me want to “FKM.” And also because I can’t hear anything over the sound of myself chewing handfuls of Cheez-its.

– If a guy sends you a dick pic. Okay. Can we just chat for a second about dick pics? GUYS. A picture of your PENIS. really? Do you realllly think those things are that attractive? Besides the fact that it’s probably going to make us jump out of our skin when we open the picture, and then drop our phones into a puddle out of sheer terror, can you please tell me your thought process on sending me a picture of a giant worm attached to your body? It’s not sexy. You should know that 99% of the time, we are laughing at it. It’s a PENIS. We are laughing. And showing our friends.

– If your date says this: “I’m not a major stoner, just a mild stoner. At my worst, it was 10 to 20 bowls a day. Now it’s only like 1-3.” Do you remember what your last name is? Can you please recite the alphabet for me, sir? I’m going to need you to step out of the booth, and start walking in a straight line…and then just keep walking. Yep, right out of the restaurant.

– If a guy you haven’t gone out with gets your number and the FIRST thing he texts you is “Whattup?,” or “I ain’t got shit on Friday if you wanna hang,” or “You free tonight?,” we are probably not going to be on the same page with much of anything. I may swear like a sailor, but I actually AM a lady, and I’m most definitely not your homie or your booty call. Unless we’re role-playing.

– If a guy bails/reschedules on you three times in a row. You’re an idiot for giving him a third chance, and he’s an idiot for being so goddamn immature. Cut your losses and move on (but not before eating a giant Kit Kat).

– If he looks like he’s aged 20 years from the picture you were shown of him. Can someone please tell me why guys (or girls) think that their dates aren’t going to notice that their grandparent has replaced them at dinner?

– If this conversation happens: “I’m pretty apathetic, in general.” …Do you mean empathetic? No, I mean apathetic. Sooo, you have complete disinterest in everything? Yea, pretty much.” Oh..okay. That’s good to know. Shoot me.

-If your date says he doesn’t eat sweets. At all. Oh…okay, well, fuck you then. Anyone who hates sweets is either the devil, or wants to be.

– If your date ends the night by saying, “Good luck on your next date!” …*slow blink*

-If he proceeds to tell you about the two really hot girls at a wedding the previous weekend that he and his buddy tried to hook up with, and then immediately realizes that he totally just said that out loud and tries to back track. Um no, my friend. You can’t back track that. Goodbye.

– If he still lives with his parents, at an age where you do NOT live with your parents.

-If, after your date, he sends you a bathroom mirror selfie of him wet, naked, and holding only a very small white hand towel over his manhood boyhood which includes the caption “Night night, sweetheart.” FIRST OF ALL, do not call me sweetheart. I just met you, dickhole. Secondly, the only thing your little white towel picture is doing for me is making me want to stick a butter knife into my eyes. 

– If your date gets legitimately mad at you for not wanting to drink as much as he is (even though he might be, say, over a FOOT taller, and have at least 100 pounds on you), you should take that as a cue to bail. Any man who actually tries to make you feel bad for not drinking, wants you to drink more so that he doesn’t feel bad about how much HE is drinking. Oh, I’m sorry that I’m not an angry alcohol-abuser like you are, and that I actually like to be able to go to work the next day without wanting to give myself a lobotomy. Find a meeting, love. 

– If, on a date, a guy decides it’s a good idea to say, “I watch a lot of porn. What can I say? I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years!,”  A) How the fuck did we get on the subject of porn and B) Were you done with your glass full of beer because I need to chug it and then puke into the glass. 

– If, after enthusiastically explaining what you do in your career as a Recreation Therapist, your date LAUGHS AT YOU and says, “Isn’t that kind of a joke? You’re actually getting paid for that?” Lord give me the strength not to ruin this man’s chance of ever having offspring.

– If your date shows up late. ESPECIALLY without calling. Either way, it’s super inconsiderate. Unless your dog died right before you left the house, your ass should be at the restaurant before mine.

-If your date pays the bill and then says, “You should feel really special right now.” You should feel really special that your face doesn’t have my handprint on it right now. 

– If your date says, “So I guess I should probably mention that I’m in a cult.” I don’t even know what to say about that.

– If within the first 15 minutes, you feel like you’re on a date with a clone of your super narcissistic/borderline-sociopathic ex-boyfriend, you should probs just stick a fork in that bitch because he’s done.

– If your date says, “I don’t think I have much empathy. Things happen to people, but it doesn’t really bother me…I only really call my friends or family if I need something from them. Yea, I’m not really a good friend.” Are you hearing yourself right now? You are? Okay, just confirming that my ears aren’t full of all of the starving children in the world that you give zero fucks about. 

– If a guy acts completely smitten by you on a first date, and never calls you again. A four hour conversation, sharing personal stories, holding your hand across the table, acting like he’s so moved by what you say, saying over and over how much he’s going to have to thank our friend for setting you two up…and then nothing. No call. No text. No nothing. Don’t be that guy. But thank you for not wasting anymore of my life than you already did. 

-If a guy tells you on a FIRST DATE, “I have $350,000 over in Europe that I’m sitting on.” First of all, no you don’t. Secondly, who the fuck says something like that, and especially the very first time you go out? Hi, I’m super insecure. Can you please believe my blatant lies so that I feel like I’m something other than the cold, empty shell of a person that I actually am? Also, would I really believe that you’re sitting on 350,000 bones when you’ve taken me to a restaurant that makes Applebees look gourmet? I should’ve known that going to a place called Rock Bottom on a first date was a bad omen.

-If your date talks an absurd amount about how attractive other women are (except I really think that talking about it any amount is pretty fucking unnecessary).

-If your date says, “So…do you hook up a lot?” Well, yea! Obviously I’m a slutbag, I thought you’d never ask!

-If your date tells you that all of his friends think that he’s really arrogant, but he doesn’t see it. DUDE.

-If, on your second date, he tells you that you guys will work out just fine because he’s planning on having interracial children, you should probably just start running and not stop running.

Well, that’s probably just part 1, unfortunately. Or fortunately?

—

Happy Monday, lovers!

Love,

M.

(Not) A Crazy Cat Lady.

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It’s okay dude, I’m not trying to blog right now or anything. Take your time. 

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World, meet my one-eyed fluffy snuggle monster (also known as my Maine Coon rescue kitty). You really only need one eye anyways, is what I always say. I mean, unless you want to have any depth perception.

Glaucoma took one of his eyes and will hopefully not take the other but don’t worry, I’d obviously get him a service dog. Feel free to assume that he’s just permanently winking at you, though, if it boosts your ego. I do that sometimes.

His name is yet to be determined, so for now I just say whatever ridiculous babble comes out of my mouth…like Mr. Magoo, or Pickles, or Stitch McGiggles, or Puffywittlebabylionsnugglebunnyboobear.

Because that’s normal.

One of my girlfriend’s thinks I should name him a slang term for penis, since they also only have one eye (you’re welcome for the anatomy lesson). This is an incredibly inappropriate and offensive suggestion.

So clearly I said, YES obviously I will do that. Oh and also, our wine glasses are empty. 

He’s not quite sure about me yet, but I don’t really blame him. I’m kinda weird, but only if you consider weird to be things like having full-on conversations with yourself about which yogurt you’re going to eat for lunch, or vowing to only get around your apartment that day via sliding across the floors in your socks.

He spends most of his time being terrified and hiding behind the toilet, but if he really wants something from me he’ll sprawl out on my bed. Men. They’re all the same.

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…and if I stay on his right side, he can’t see my wrinkles or judge me when I’m elbow-deep in a bag of jalepeño chips, so it’s a really good match I think.

I know I’m not a crazy cat lady because I got to spend three hours with the foster-mom I adopted him from, and I am telling you what, folks. This woman needs her own reality show. I’m guessing she’s  the sole reason that the term crazy cat lady was coined, and since I do not currently have five cat trees, seven scratching posts, ten litter boxes, twenty-two food bowls, five million cat toys, or “MEOW” stickers on my car like she does, I am considering myself in the clear.

Except that I currently do own two scratching posts because I forgot that I already had one and so for the moment we’ll say I’m at 26% CCL.

The only thing that really changes when you have a feline is that now you wake up with a cat on your face.

And sometimes you unknowingly walk into a coffee shop with a giant gob of their hair on your bum….which is super cute, and helpful in attracting other slightly weird, pet-owning guys…?

No.

 

Happy Weekend, lovers!

Don’t end up in the hospital with an IV in your arm and being forced to eat an orange popsicle. Not that I’d know anything about that.

 

I promise to have my second Costa Rica blog post up really soon, if this fluff ball ever gets off of my keyboard.

 

Love,

M.

 

Cast Away’d

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When I told one of my really good friends about the time a guy went all “Cast Away” on me, he asked me if I got a bloody handprint to the face like Tom Hanks had given to that volleyball. I wish it would’ve been that harmless. Oh no, my friend. I didn’t get “Wilson-ed.” This was much worse. 

 

Normally after a date, the phrase “It felt like something straight out of a movie!” is cause for you and your BFF to momentarily turn into giddy 13 year olds again, jumping up and down with the squealing and the hugging and the, “Tell me eeeeverything. Now.,” which is promptly followed by spilling all the details about said date’s unit stamina O-face political stance.

I totally had a movie moment.

It was not cause for the aforementioned reaction.

Let’s call this guy “The Eager Pleaser,” shall we? Now, this man was a super sweet and kind-hearted human being. Super sweet. Bless him. We’d been on two dates and he’d pulled out all the stops. Fancy restaurants that I’d never been to – filet, lobster, top shelf alcohol, desserts that catch on fire; he picked me up, opened doors, walked on the street side of the sidewalk. Everything. AND, he didn’t for one millisecond have me feeling anxious over whether I should offer to split the bill. As in, I really think he would’ve laughed in my face if I asked. HELLO, men out there: put down the xbox controller and take notes. You don’t have to pay for EVERYTHING for the rest of your life, but for pete’s sake, maybe start trying to prove that chivalry isn’t dead. This guy even went so far as to surprise me with a stuffed teddy bear from his trip to Vegas after I had randomly told him the devastating story about how when I was 4, my family took a road trip there and I managed to lose my best friend and beloved stuffed teddy bear, “Bear” (I was a very creative child). Are you KIDDING me with this thoughtfulness right now, people.

So why am I not pregnant with his third child and driving a Range Rover that he bought me for Christmas, you ask?

Keep reading.

It’s our third date. He wants to cook me dinner at his apartment. I want to see how this man lives. He makes me my favorite drink that I apparently mentioned in passing and he LISTENED. It’s important to note that despite his incredibly sweet gestures, I’m still very much on the fence as to how I feel about this guy (hello, I’ve known him for two seconds). I also haven’t kissed him yet because well, because I can totally be a Nervous Nelly and also who doesn’t like a little tension build-up? (Don’t get me wrong, I have definitely kissed guys before the third date, and I have definitely  kissed guys because “Well, I’m never gonna be in this country again so I probably should just do this.” What I’m saying is that I’m not a saint and nobody needs to name a church after me. But those are stories for another day).

Anyways. Eager Pleaser. He suggests watching a movie on the couch after dinner. Alright Slick, I’m onto you. I was genuinely mostly having a good time but something in my gut was literally giving me the Mckayla Maroney. Maybe because it was 9:30 on a work night which is obviously bedtime and I didn’t want to turn into a pumpkin (unless you are Hugh Jackman in which case, should I take my pants off now or later?). What I’m trying to get at is that my intuition already knew some important things and my brain was just being a little bitch. SO, naturally, my stupid mouth opened up and said “A movie? Okay, sounds great!”

Alright men, this is where you want to stop taking notes.

We make our way to the couch. There’s an exhausting exchange over what to watch because he’s just trying to be considerate and I’m just trying to survive the next two hours of my life. I took the initiative to implement my own “six inch rule” because, well, I didn’t know what to do with myself and basicallyimawkward. At this point I still could’ve pulled the “ohimsosorrybut___” and get the heckfire outta there. But, I didn’t. I sat. I watched. He inched closer. I prayed. I wanted so badly to like him the way I liked my high school crush, Jason. The one who asked me to the Homecoming dance my freshman year via the hip, new computer instant messaging program, and I jumped up and down on my bed giggling uncontrollably for ten minutes because I just KNEW we were going to get married. The one who, on Homecoming, I literally didn’t say a single word to the entire night because I was so utterly terrified and flustered that I forgot how to speak English altogether, let alone form a sentence.

What I’m saying is, ‘my penis wasn’t gettin’ off the couch,’ with this guy. The  Millionaire Matchmaker has taught me well.

It’s probably ten minutes into pretending like I’m watching something with some shooting and some swearing when my Eager Pleaser makes a comment about how cute my freckles are. This is weird since the room is pretty damn dark and I don’t know how he’d possibly even be able to see them. So I look over up at him (he is a very tall man) to say something really clever like “Huh?,” but before I can deliver my line he swoops down and his face is suddenly on my face. Well, it looks as though contact is being made, I note. It’s almost an upside down kiss, which would’ve been totally welcomed if he was in a Spider-Man costume and was also Andrew Garfield (sorry, Tobey). I decide to give this kiss a shot, though, and see if there’s chemistry, but I quickly come to the conclusion that he took kissing lessons from these poor souls. Or maybe a woodpecker. Anyway, just as I’m getting ready to pull a really clever exit move (that I swear I was about to come up with), I feel a sensation that I’m pretty sure only sticks and tinder are ever supposed to feel.

Out of nowhere this guy’s hand lands on the no-no zone of my jeans and starts Going. To. Town. His hand has turned into a scouring pad and my sacred promised land has become his cast-iron skillet. This man is trying to start a fire on me, people. He is literally attempting to create FIRE using his hand, AND MY VAGINA.

How did I get here???

My first thought is, “Well, it’s happened. I’m in Castaway. Tom Hanks is here and in his state of delirium and starvation he seems to have mistaken my body for a pile of kindling. Perfect.” My second thought is “Please don’t put a hole in my jeans with your furious and incessant rubbing because they actually make me look like I have an ass and also this denim is the only thing keeping my cookie from being pulverized right now.”

I should mention that I also took a moment to mentally high-five him on his efforts though, because let me tell you, the ferocity and diligence this guy was putting into this endeavor was something for the record books. What I’m saying is that if this guy was ever stranded on an island and needing a source of heat, he’d be golden.

As I awkwardly wriggled my lower half out of reach, I mumbled something that I don’t remember now, probably because I blacked out. What I DO remember is that I WANTED to laugh hysterically and maybe cry just a little bit and then ask him what kind of porn he’s been watching.

Suffice it to say, this “spark” did not go any further then my, now, “distressed” denim.

To this day, I’m still baffled by what exactly I did to make this guy think we should roast marshmallows over my vagina. Unfortunately, this may forever be an unsolved mystery. Either way, I guess I should just be thankful that no body parts were seriously harmed, but I do sincerely hope that I’m the last fire he’s tried to start.

 

And THAT, my friends, is how you go all “Cast Away” on somebody.

 

Oh, and the next time any of you men want to put your lady into some dreamy Tom Hanks movie reenactment, maybe try Sleepless in Seattle.

 

 

Love,

M.