Sunday, September 4, 2011

This is my confession

After much thought and introspection, and being that there has been a four-month lull in the 'ole love life, I have had a lot of time to do so, and have come to the following conclusion: nerds make much better lovers. Blame it on the fact that I just moved to Cambridge, Nerd Central USA. Blame it on the fact that I've always found verbal sparring as a much stronger aphrodisiac than a six-pack (I'm an arms and chest girl myself). Blame it on the fact that I think playing a game of Trivial Pursuit is far more fun than going out and getting my drink on, although the combination of the two: bonus! Hello, my name is Michelle, and I'm a nerdoholic.

So, How did I come to such a conclusion might you ask? And what kind of nerd are we talking about? What is my stance on pocket protectors and briefcases? All valid inquiries.

I've always been boy crazy and got an early start back in kindergarten (Beau Thompson, if you're reading this, a tip of the hat to you). This mental illness has been both a blessing and a curse. I like to thing that I have rather good taste when it comes the male sex and have been associated with some great guys, but sometimes the craziness kicks in and the closest (can't say what I really want to say because I'm sure my Mom is going to read this, so insert your own noun for a not so quality fella) will have to do. It's a phase really, or at least that's what I'm choosing to call New Year's Eve. That being said, I have had encounters with a wide variety of gents, and here are my thoughts on all of them (names have been protected to change the guilty).

The Average Joe: Eh. That's exactly what you get, average. Not bad, but not great either. The problem with Joe is that he doesn't know he's average. I know, I know, every person is special in their own way, his just happens to be like just about every other guy who thinks a great, creative date is dinner and a movie. I'm not knocking Joe, I'm just not endorsing him either.

The Athlete: Ugh. Sure, eye candy is always a plus, but at the end of the day, if you can't carry on a conversation without incorporating a sports analogy, game over. I've date a few jocks, and even had brief encounter with a professional athlete, and let me tell ya, just cause their good on the field doesn't mean their good everywhere else. Dear Jock, Just cause you're ripped does not mean that you're automatically an awesome kisser, cuddler, listener, etc, but before I break up with you, would you please first do a few push ups with your shirt off?

The Nice Guy: Aww. It's true, nice guys do finish last. Why? Because they're too busy being nice to notice that other guys are beating them to the goal line. Don't get me wrong, I love a man who treats others well and believes that chivalry is not dead, but as a woman, sometimes you want a guy who will fight for you, will stand up for himself, will be a bad a**. Speaking of which. . .

The Bad Boy: Yum. In the illustrious words of Michele Pfeiffer, sometimes a girl needs a c-o-o-l-r-i-d-e-r. Yes, a motorcycle riding/vintage American heavy metal driving, tattooed, leather-clad, dark, mysterious, need I go on? However, at the end of the day, the Bad Boy is really just another form of the Average Joe who is dealing with some repressed issues from childhood. Awesome for the rebound, not so great for a life partner.

Assorted Others: The Musician/Artist, The Frat Boy, The Hipster, The Workaholic/A-Type. All subdivisions of the aforementioned types of men.

And finally, The Nerd: Yay! Now, to clarify, I'm not talking about the nerd circa Saved by the Bell, or the guy who spends so much time playing Settlers that he truly believes he can build his own civilization, but the boy who feels just as manly finishing the Sunday NYT crossword as he would had he rebuilt an engine. Sure he probably has an unhealthy obsession with Star Wars, but at least he's busy refining his light saber skills instead of schtupping another woman. And even though he probably isn't spending his time pouring over great works of literature, at least you know he can read that Wired magazine and actually understand it enough to make sure he can provide you with all the tech support you'll ever need. Let's not skip over the fact that he reads. Reader equals thinker which equals can actually hold his own in a debate for the sum of HOT!

Here's the wonderful thing about nerds: they can't believe they're actually dating someone so they do their best not to screw it up. I know that sounds terrible, but it's true. Men who get a lot of action don't think they have to work for it, thus minimizing their ability to fulfill all of a woman's needs. Most nerds don't have a long rap sheet of exes and that all inexperience lends itself to being extra caring, extra romantic and extra listening which leads to excellent tending to.

So the next time you see a skinny guy wearing glasses and reading a graphic novel, just think, he may be your own personal Han Solo.




Thursday, July 7, 2011

Guilty Pleasure


After waiting over a year for season III and IV of The Tudors (please assume that is written with a staunch British accent) to be available through streaming on Netflix, I am proud to say that I have tore through the latter part of good ole’ H to the power of VIII’s life in no time. And by that I mean 5 days, potentially less. I found Showtime’s presentation of the King’s sordid affairs a bit anachronous, but that may be cause I skipped over most of the political, war torn country, establishing a new denomination, blah blah blah parts and went straight to the good stuff. I’m sure I missed some significant stuff that would explain why we burned through three wives in the series’ last instillation, but whateves, there’s always Wikipedia to fill in the gaps.

We, Americans that is, remember King Henry VIII not for being responsible for establishing the Church of England, which in turn almost caused several wars, both civil and international, years of feuding, bloodshed and ultimately the overall decline of religion in the UK, and his fathering of Queen Elizabeth is merely a footnote in most of the Tudor’s family lore. Oh, and Bloody Mary is in there somewhere. Speaking of, I could go for one right about now. And I digress.

Henry’s the British version of Elizabeth Taylor, that is with more velour track suits and less eyeliner. Now I’m not knocking on Henry or his ability to be a good king; but I think Henry should have sought out professional help was for his taste in women. Henry, homeslice, have you seen those portraits? None of them are lookers. Did you just line up all the single Annes and Catherines and cast lots? And for that matter, why buy the cow if you’re getting the milk for free. . . and if you’re getting the milk that easily, someone probably else is getting some samplings too. I mean, some women may find 300+ lbs and malodorous abscesses sexy, but I’m guessing they are few and far between.

So, poor Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England for nearly 20 years was divorced so that her hubby could openly hook-up with Anne Boleyn and her sister from time to time. Gross, wait I mean, it was a Great Matter. Anne got the axe, literally, for adultery and witchcraft-apparently she weighed more than a duck. Next up was Jane Seymour who was quickly wedded, bedded and knocked-up before Anne’s body was laid to rest in an unmarked grave. Janie gave birth to Henri’s only legit male heir and then soon after gave up the ghost. Back on the Anne bandwagon, Henry el Ocho sends out for his protestant mail-order bride. He instantly declares his distaste with her and annuls the marriage. Over several games of poker and mulled wine later they become friends, probably with benefits. He then chamber’s-up with Catherine Howard, a cousin of wifey number two and a lady in waiting of Cleaves. She gets cut off, along with her two young male suitors (who also get a variety of things cut off) less than two years into their marriage.

Despite all his efforts, Hank's still just a dirty old man without an heir.  Henry dies with Catherine Parr by his side. 

Well kids, what is the moral of the story of Hal, Catherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Catherine and Catherine? Keep it in your pants. It always ends poorly.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Hot Mess


So, this week I added another layer to my already awkward sunburn by spending three days on sunny Catalina Island. For those of you have never ventured out to these celestial shores, be prepared to be awed . . . and ripped off. It's 80 clams to rent a golf cart for three hours, cash only, as is almost everything else on the isle. However, it is so beautiful and feels like you're crashing the set of LOST rather than walking around LA County. With 4,000 people residing in Avalon, land is scarce, so everything, including the cars, are miniature. For the first time in my life I felt like I belonged.

Any who, instead of staying in a local hotel, our group opted for the road less traveled (literally) and spent three days camping out. Now, I grew up camping and can build a fire with the best of them, but in my years as a grown up, I have somehow garnered a reputation for being, dare I say it, middle maintenance. Just because I like to wear dresses, drink Starbucks, and brush my teeth on a regular basis does not make me one of those girls, right?

My maintenance level recently became a topic of conversation at lunch with some of my colleagues, and I decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to prove them all wrong. All I packed for our three-day romp in the wilderness was a pair of shorts, tee shirts, socks, undies (or course) and a toothbrush and toothpaste. No make-up. No cell phone charger. No frills: au natural. Side note: the ironic thing is that those who made the most fun of me were the ones who brought the most stuff.

It was nice to be free of the burdens of this man's world, until around three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, about the same time that our tour bus pulled into the airport. . . which was full of LA County firemen. Around thirty, to be exact. And, bonus, there's apparently some sort of law that requires firemen to not only be brave souls, but very attractive ones at that.

Normally I would be thrilled to be surrounded by so many strapping young men who can wield an axe and rescue me from a tree (just in case), but my lack of showering and my outdoorsesque garb squelched my usual go-get-'em attitude. I was a mess, a hot mess. "Hot being the operative word," one of my lady RAs told me. Still, my timidity would not be overcome, and though I did a good amount of eye-flirting from underneath the brim of my baseball cap, I failed to let my womanly wilds take flight.

I guess it's one of life's cruel jokes, but at least I proved my point.

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Red Hot

As I sit on my couch examining my very awkward sunburn after sitting outside for four hours watching my students graduate, I find that I am not saddened by the end of an era nor excited about the things to come, but rather disappointed, nay upset by what just unfolded before my eyes. I understand that attending a graduation by the beach brings with it some sentiment of being laid-back, but that does not lend itself to being appropriate to mill around during the ceremony or being so loud that the names being read cannot be heard by the parents who paid $200,000 dollars and put in four years just to be there. What ever happened to good manners?

That being said, the real reason why my melanin is so red is that I have spent a good portion of the day watching women, both young and old, trot around in heels that they have no business wearing. First of all, everyone knows that graduation is outside on Alumni. Since this is in regards to academia, let me break it down in a simple linear equation: graduation=outside, outside=grass, grass+heels=disaster, therefore graduation does not equal heels.

Now, I realize that this is coming from a woman who wore heels walking around a track for a philanthropy fund-raiser, but at least I knew I could hack it with the terrain in question. This morning I chose for a dressy flip-flop, appropriate for both the occasion and setting. Ladies, this is a graduation, not a time to bust out the six-inch, zipper in the back, peep-toed goin' to da club heels. And please, if you do choose to look like a lady who looks like she knows how to have a good time, at least please learn how to walk in them. Really, when you walk around with your shoulders slumped forward and your knees locked like a caveman, excuse me, cave lady, it's counteractive to the whole point of the stiletto. Did Audrey and Tim Gunn teach us nothing?

For those of you who chose to got the wedge route, I commend your efforts, but when the wedge itself is thinner than your foot, it defeats the purpose. Plus, wedges are just ridiculous anyway, but that's a whole other Oprah.

All I know is that Fashion 101 should be part of every Gen Ed curriculum.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Elite Status


I can't believe that it's taken me this long to get around to writing about this, but regardless (please note: irregardless is not a word and conceptually would be redundant anyway), I am proud to announce that I am a GOLD Member at Starbucks. That's right, I have gone to Starbucks so man times that they saw fit to reward me with a card named after a member of the periodic table. Ladies and gentlemen, I have arrived.

Okay, so I know that this is going to sound incredibly pretentious, but it's a pretty awesome feeling to stroll into the coffee shop and be greeted by name by the barista and then asked by the person behind the register, "The usual this morning? One pump or two?" Before I can even answer, the barista comments, "Don't worry about it, I've already got it." As I shuffle into the line full of agitated addicts waiting for their fix, I hear, "Hot coffee on the bar for Michelle." The employee behind the register looks at me, winks and with a smirk tells me to have a great day. I step out of the queue, garnering incredulous stares from those around me, grab my grande, non-fat one pump toffee nut misto from the bar, thank the barista and go about my day. It never gets old. However, this morning as I caught my reflection in the shining gold star on the front of my personally issued card, I thought to myself, "have I peaked too soon?"

Is this the apex of my life, to reach elite status at a international coffee house chain? What's next? What could possibly top this? Will I ever be able to reach such another high and lofty goal? Am I destined to become like one of those child stars whose 15 minutes of fame comes and goes before they have reached puberty and then spend the rest of their lives trying to regain their long-gone greatness?

I found myself in this existential tailspin for approximately three minutes, or at least until the traffic light turned green. While walking through my front door, I felt compelled to put my thoughts onto paper, and by that I mean playing on Facebook for a little bit and then typing on my keyboard. I have yet to come to a conclusion, but after searching for flights for a trip to Texas. . . Admiral's Club, here I come!

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Mother Knows Best

I've been know to say on occasion that you can tell a person's character by whether or not someone puts their cart in the away in the cart corral in the parking lot. Last week, my quasi adage came true. While pulling out of my spot at Target a soccer mom was closing the trunk on her overpriced luxury SUV and simply pushed her empty cart into a vacant parking spot, which just happened to be in front of my car. She quickly realized that the her gentle push must have been more of an adequate shove as the cart began to pick up a bit of speed, and momentum for that matter, and was headed to a collision course with the car parked next to the vacant spot.

She watched as the cart latched onto another rouge basket and continued on it's fiendish path towards metal mayhem. I turned to look at her as she climbed into her vehicle and with the flash of a blink made eye contact. I saw no remorse nor intent to rectify the situation. I threw my car into park and began to get out to rescue the already beat-up car from another battle wound, when she knew she had no choice but to intervene. Begrudgingly she crawled out and hastily walked over to the cart milliseconds before contact. She rolled the two carts to the middle of the spot and wedged them together so they could move on their own volition. She threw up a neighborly wave and went about her way knowing she did the right thing.

I got out of my car, pried the carts apart and rolled them to the corral three parking spots away. Proud of myself for taking the higher road and going above and beyond to help my fellow man, and vehicle, I realized that I put one of my pieces of merchandise back in the wrong location because I didn't want to go to the other side of the store to put it back where it belongs. I blame that pattern of behavior on my mother, which leads me to my next adage: do as I say, not as I do.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Ratios

So, I'm not going to lie, Monday was a rough day for me. I dreaded checking my email all weekend long as I knew that my inbox would be flooded with letters with people who would not be very happy with the news I sent to them Friday afternoon. I was not expecting, however, that around 100 of those emails and the like would be waiting for me. Ugh. By 9am I was officially on the struggle bus and by noon it was game over.

After working a week straight of 18-hour days (and a good portion of the weekend), I decided I needed a little break from the daily grind and my usual jaunt to Starbucks just wouldn't cut it. So I took a little trip to a bridal salon to pick-out my bridesmaid dress for my little sister's wedding. Let's just say that this dress will be lucky number seven for me.

I slunked into the salon already feeling a little defeated and was greeted by a 19-year old bridezilla trying to find dresses for her eight (yes, you read correctly) bridesmaids who range in sizes 2 to 22 for her wedding in three months and a rather exhausted consultant. The consultant looked at me and I looked at her. "I just need long and black," I said. "Rack's there, knock yourself out," she sighed. I began the hunt, but my search for a red carpet rather than "bam. . . bridesmaid" dress was looking dreary. Then I made a decision: if I get to pick my dress and I have to wear it to my baby sister's nuptials, then by God, I'm spending the money and I'm going to look good.

The consultant came back to check on me and I explained my situation to here. "I knew you looked like a pro. I think I have a few things hidden away that may be what you are looking for." Feverishly she took to the overcrowded clothing racks and pulled three dresses that fit my description beautifully, except for their $300 and up price tags. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I crept into the dressing room and slipped into gown number one. Eh, not bad. Dress number two, not worth what they were asking for it. Dress number three deserved to be observed in the 3-way mirror- that's right next to the brides, and I gave them a run for their money. Two consultants came over to me and began pinning and tucking the dress to make it fit even better. . . and. . . bam. . . booty. . . wham. . . hips . . . shazam. . . waist. . . Done.

I went back into the dressing room, took one last, long look at the price tag. After a five-second stent of soul searching, I choked down a deep breath and handed the gown to the consultant. She whipped out a tape measure and starting maneuvering around my body. "36-24-36." "What?" I said, a bit perplexed, but very excited. "Yes, you're the perfect size 4. Is that an okay size to order you?" "I'm still stuck on the measurements, are you positive you did that right? Bust, waist, hips?" "Yep, own it, sweetheart. And I'm going to cut you a deal."

I walked out of there in 30 minutes flat, and I was walking on air.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

One Foot in the Grave

For Christmas last year, my family saw it fit to bestow upon me one of the greatest gifts ever given: the monolithic hardback "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die." This is unfortunate because upon my count today, I have seen close to 400 of these films. What does this mean? Have I lived 40 percent of my life thus far? Say it isn't so! However, dying before I hit 70 doesn't sound all bad. 70 is the new 50 these days, so kicking the bucket before I get senile and wrinkly sounds like a pretty good deal.

Back to the list: I've decided that it's bunk. Don't get me wrong, it is because of the book that I was introduced to incredible films such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and The Red Shoes, but I find that it leaves me wanting. Seriously, who can publish a book with such a brazen title and leave off such masterpieces as Wayne's World- a film that shaped a generation, or Empire Records- a movie that has one of the greatest collection of 90's music in history? Zoolander is nowhere to be seen and Dumb and Dumber fails to even earn a honorable mention. For shame, dear publishers, for shame.

Now I realize that my taste in movies may not be as sophisticated as those who took a film-critic correspondence course, but I think that I know a good movie when I see one. Which begs the question- what makes a good movie? Some would argue that it the story, art direction or even the dialogue that makes a flick worth watching, but I contend that it is the feeling, nay the emotional investment the viewer experiences while taking in a reel. Though I probably can't come up with over a thousand films, I humbly offer my list of the top 20 films everyone must see that can't be found in a publication.

20. An Affair to Remember (not as scandalous as it sounds)
19. Grease 2 (it involves motorcycles and the lively tune Reproduction. . . you'll thank me later)
18. Stranger Than Fiction (you'll want to write a novel after taking in this one)
17. Sixteen Candles (Jake Ryan is to blame for my taste in men)
16. O Brother, Where At Thou (I still don't know why it is entitled that)
15. Christmas Vacation (You'll never look at cats the same way)
14. A League of Their Own (chick version of Band of Brothers)
13. The Three Amigos (plays a big role in my family's lore)
12. Top Gun (I take that back, Maverick is to blame for my taste in men)
11. Big Fish (Tim Burton's best work, in humble opinion)
10. The Dark Night (if you haven't seen this film, where have you been living for the past three years?)
9. Donnie Darko (hauntingly good, creepily executed)
8. The Princess Bride (how can any list about movies leave this one off?)
7. Tommy Boy (the highest quotable line/scene capita in film history)
6. Benny and Joon (Johnny Depp before he was Johnny Depp)
5. Pretty Woman (just. plain. good.)
4. The Prestige (Christopher Nolan strikes again)
3. Goodfellas (because I LOVE ganster movies)
2. Forrest Gump (the film that made me love films)
1. Almost Famous (a biopic with the perfect soundtrack)

Mazeltov!