My Deepest, Darkest Secret

When I graduated with my bachelor's degree, I was excited. I knew that I had achieved something great, and that with the knowledge I had gained that I would be able to make the world a better place. I also knew had a secret: I had failed. My failure did not occur in a classroom or determining future career prospects, but in my inability to snag a spouse. But, my secret didn't stop there. Three years later, I became the first woman in my family to earn a Master's degree. I had never felt so proud in my life, but that joy was far overshadowed by my shame. I may have had a diploma in my hand, but that hand still didn't have a ring on it.

In five months I will be turning 30 and my dirty little secret is beginning to feel like a noose around my neck.  I mean, I'm actively dating. I have zero-to-negative interest in having children. I have several comrades-in-arms who are in the singles war trench with me. My friends (who are mostly married) tell me, "You're young, enjoy it, this is one of the best times of you life!" But why doesn't it feel that way? Why do I feel a little embarrassed when I check both the "age 25-29" and "single, never married"boxes on a survey?

When I discuss this topic with my straight, single-lady friends, they often talk about meddling family member, biological clocks, career paths, Sex and the City, but I often find that I am along in this sentiment of failure. Upon comparison, my friends and I have had very similar experiences: dated in college, but nothing serious (mainly because there was no one to be serious about), a few good boyfriends, a few not-so-good boyfriends, and a whole lot of are-we-friends-or-are-we-more-than-friends-and-we-may-have-made-out-once-friends who are boys. So what gives? Why do I feel so alone in my loneliness? I'm the only Christian in this group of women. 


Growing up, my mom and dad told me the stories of  how they, my grandparents, and all of my aunts and uncles met at York College, ACU, Lipscomb, etc. (all small, private, Churches of Christ institutions) fell in love and lived happily ever. Though I know my parents' goal was to share with me my faith heritage and how we all became a family, what I inadvertently began to learn at a very young age was that the purpose of going to college was to find a husband and in order to be a member of the family, I was expected to do so.
This null-curriculum was reinforced in Sunday school as I learned how Ruth, one of the greatest heroines of the Bible, practically prostituted herself for the purpose of becoming Boaz's wife and how Sarah spent most of her life in mourning because she was barren and was only able to be joyful when she finally conceived a son in her 90s.  It continued as I transitioned into Youth Group in middle school and high school. I found myself participating in young ladies' Bible Studies complete with pink NIVs and countless lessons entitled, "How to be a Good Christian Woman: The Wife of Noble Character." So prevalent was Proverbs 31:10-31 in my youth group's curriculum that I began to think of it as a checklist. Once, as a Sophomore in college while knitting a red scarf I recalled, "When it snows, she has no fear for her household; for all of them are clothed in scarlet" (Proverbs 31:21), and thought to myself "I've got this verse down, I guess that means I'm one step closer to finding my husband."

And though my undergraduate years were spent as a Biblical Text major in which I spent my days writing papers on contextual criticism and social-histortial impacts on the modern-day church, I spent most of my evenings wondering what was wrong with me in that at the age of 19 I had not yet met my soul mate. No matter how much I prayed, no matter how much I read my Bible, no matter how many chapels I attended, my desire to become a wife was left unfulfilled.

Christmas and summer vacations were spent with extended family members asking me, "How are you supposed to find a Christian man if not a Christian College? Do you want me to introduce you our new youth pastor? He's single!" Filling out the FASFA involved the commentary, "You know, if you would just get married, I wouldn't have to pay for you anymore." Family friends would ask, "How do you expect to support yourself if you're not married? I mean, what will you do if you get a flat tire?" Though these genuinely concerned parties had good intentions, they simply reinforced that not only was I failing as a Christian woman, I was a becoming a burden.

Towards the end of my senior year, the amount of wedding invitations I received far outweighed the amount of graduation announcements.

Years have passed since those days and during that time I have been able to accomplish many a great thing, but at night, I as get ready for bed, in which I sleep alone, I often see that frightened 19-year old woman staring me in the mirror. She's not frightened because she's not found a spouse, she's frightened because she has failed to be come a good Christian woman, she has failed to become a wife.

10 Reasons Why I Love My New Haircut

10. Cosmo says that every woman should cut her hair super short before she turns. . . ahem. . . 30!
9. I just walked around town for three hours in the rain and new once did I have to worry about my hair getting wet.
8. It looks even better when it's wind-blown.
7. According to one friend, "I totally have the bone structure for it." So few women can pull it off, I mean, it would be selfish of me not to, right?
6. Cutting my hair means I lost weight. I mean, every little bit counts, right?
5. Winter no longer equals static cling and hat hair.
4. I finally look my age. . . no random parent that is asking me for directions, I'm not a student here.
3. I can sleep in 20 minutes longer because I no longer have to build in style-time in my morning routine.
2. I feel both sassy and classy. I'm sure Audrey and Jackie would approve.
1. I DID IT FOR ME!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

Domestication.

I'm sitting on the couch looking at my nephew rocking away in his stereo-phonic swing. The base for his car seat currently resides in the back of my MINI. To my right, a diaper bag, to my left, pacifiers and a burping cloth. I'm loving every minute of it.

I walk by a mirror and I no longer recognize the reflection. When did I start liking kids? Correction: when did I start wanting to hold, rock, soothe and dare I say it. . . change small children (in particular, my nephew)? For those of you who know me, which if you are reading this blog, I imagine you do, you know that I do not particularly care for miniature-sized humans. They lack the intellectual stimulation that I crave with those that I interact with on a regular basis. Even when I was a wee lass, I never cared for children. I was the weird, precocious kid who would rather go over to a friend's house and enjoy a cup of coffee with their mom than play barbies. In fact, I decided at the age of five that I was too old for barbies and by the age of eight I made a conscious decision to close the Disney animated movie chapter in the book of my life. And for a non-sequitur, I am also holy opposed to children who are sticky. Sticky children are those who have a permanent kool-aid stain around their mouths accompanied by fragments of encrusted animal crackers and Chips 'Ahoy. I'm fairly certain you can Google the term. I will always love my nephew, but as soon as that sucker becomes sticky, he is no longer welcome at my home. Don't scowl, my sister and I have had this understanding for years now.

Back to the new man in my life. My nephew is the coolest thing since the other side of the pillow. Basically, from the first moment I held the little stinker, I fell in love. All I want to do is hold him and buy him clothes, both of which things have proven to be problematic because I live 1500 miles away and my sister has complained that her son has more clothes than she does. What concerns me about all of this is that I am kind of a natural. Is it possible for the girl who doesn't want to have children to posses maternal instincts? Moreover, could I be changing my mind about having kids? Stay tuned.

Another reason why I love my nephew, he just spit-up all over my little sister.

Yule-Tide Exterior Illumination

As a child, nothing brought more joy to my heart than the gentle glow of Christmas lights outside my bedroom window. My dad would tuck me in, kiss me on the forehead and turn off the light leaving me snuggled in my blue blanket while the hues of red, green, blue and yellow filled my room. The cold wind would gust against the glass panes, but the shadows of the tree branches would dance across my wall keeping me entertained until I surrendered to the warmness of my bed. To me, this is Christmas.

In the Lessly household, Christmas lights are an important part of the holiday season. The house is lit before the tree goes up and is a month-long source of pride for my father (even if he chumps out and doesn't outline the roof like he did on the old house). Last night, the crew took the 'ole 4 wheel drive sled out for the annual Christmas light looking/my sisters doing everything we can in our power to annoy our parents trip. For the record, I could be 80 and this will never get old. We typically end up critiquing, and by that I mean criticizing, the lights we see in the neighborhoods around North Texas. It is from these trips that I have formed a rather strong opinion about Christmas lights: they should be white, straight, C7s that outline the roof and other defining characteristics of the house.

Now I realize that this might be a bit extreme, but if you are going to display your holiday cheer to the whole neighborhood, why not do it with a little class and a hit if dignity? I've never understood why people think that crooked lights are socially acceptable, or moreover, why icicle lights are appropriate in places like Phoenix. It's 60 degrees outside, the jig is up, we know they are not real. And since when did icicles light up anyway?

Once upon a time, a friend of mine decided to put lights up on the residence hall we both worked and lived in. After a long, and unnecessarily intense discussion about what said lights would look like, I was under the impression that we had come to a compromise and though the lights would be multi-colored, they would at least be straight and function free. One evening while I was passing by his door, this friend of mine called me into his apartment. As soon as I walked in, he closed the door, grabbed my hand and turned off the lights. Being that this now friend was my boss at the time, I was a little confused and a bit nervous as to what he was up to. He led me into the kitchen and fiddled around until it was illuminated with a prism of colors. I was impressed by his selection. "Wait, there's more," he slyly said. Uh oh. Just the white lit up. Acceptable. Then the red, then blue, then they began to flash, then travel, then go in reverse. 24 functions later, the lights in the kitchen came on to reveal a very proud man and his disapproving employee.

Much to my dismay, the lights soon found their very caddiewomper way onto the roof. 24-hours a day for the next two weeks, the lights haunted and mocked me. When I would come home, I would readjust the lights so that they would look clean and crisp. The next morning, I would rise to the gentle flashing of green and red bulbs outside my window. Each day revealed a new function, each evening would provoke my animosity.

The morning after the students checked out, I headed out to do some last minute Christmas shopping. On my way out the door, I found myself sidestepping little pieces of colored glass on the sidewalk. I looked over to find my friend reaching up with his and and pulling the lights off of the gutter, allowing the twinkle lights shatter on the concrete. "What are you doing?!? We could have used those for next year," I exclaimed. "What," he relpied. "You never liked them anyway." And another strand hit the ground.

A Public Service Announcement

Dear Persons of the Feminine Persuasion:

Tights are not pants! Leggings are not pants! Stirrups should never be worn and only used when riding horses and going to the doctor. And you can quote me on that!

Today I was walking across main campus and noticed that a young lady and I were sporting the same tights, the only difference is that I was donning them as an accessory to my pencil skirt and sweater ensemble, she was substituting them as pants to complement her longish-flannel shirt. I imagine it was a bit breezy, especially since I could see where the patterned stopped and the control top began (guys I know that just went over your head, but trust me, it was not a pretty sight). Heading up the stairs and turning the corner, I see another female student wearing black leggings and blazer. And nothing else. I asked her why she was so dressed up and she sad, "Oh, I'm giving a presentation in class, we're supposed to dress professionally." I'm not an advocate of nylons and shin-length skirts as the standard of professional dress, but VPLs and an exposed lacy bra do exactly scream CEO material to me.

Com'on ladies! What are you thinking? I too once balked at the idea of stretching up a pair of lycra infused material up my leg as a grown woman, but tights today are a far cry from the white and pink heart number that my mom would make me wear as a 5-year old going to church. I now embrace them as an extension of my wardrobe and quite frequently rock the boots, tights and sweater dress combo (I call it the triple threat), that being said, it does not mean that tights can be used as a substitute. Use this good rule of thumb: if when even on your person and your unmentionables are still visible through said article of clothing, do not use as pants. You are a Glamour DON'T waiting to happen.

And, oh, 1993 called, they want their leggings back.

Boxing Gloves

I've spent the last week in the Motherland, aka Tejas to all of you out there who don't speak Texan, for the Thanksgiving holiday and waiting for my nephew Andrew to arrive. No baby yet, but I've been able to fill the time reconnecting with friends, both from my youth and college years. Meeting up with people has required me to go all over the place and has led me to two conclusions: 1) God has blessed me with a good sense of direction and 2)Dallas is much cooler than for which I gave it credit. I moved away from the Big D almost a decade ago and during that time, my hometown has changed just as much as I have. How is it possible that I spent 18 years of my life living the metroplex and know almost nothing about it? Needless to say, it's been a surreal week.

Over the past six months, I have had several people, important people to me, talk to me about moving back to Texas, to which my reply mimics that of a scoff, and after a brief moment of existential thinking, claim that I would only move back to Texas if it were to Austin (as it is the closest thing to LA that Texas has to offer). However, after this past week, the main thought that has been rolling around in my head is the question: can you ever really go home again?

Let's let them fight it out, shall we? In far right corner of the ring, we have the rough 'n tuff Lone Star State herself, Texas; and in the opposite corner we have the king of cool, California. In the department of economics, Texas throws a right cross at Cali and breaks his jaw. The killer combo of no state income tax and gas under 3 dollars a gallon brings round one to a quick close. Cali fires back with a sucker punch and upper jab when it comes to culture. Texas blocks with exponentially better food, but begins to lag at the end of round two after ingesting a lethal amount of butter and barbeque sauce. Round three ends a draw after California swings and misses when it comes to politics and Texas missteps in the category of climate. It all comes down to round four, sudden death. Will Texas pull it together to defeat Cali's fun in the sun? Can California must up enough strength to combat Tejas' Southern charm and hospitality? After a brief moment of silence and a tension so thick you can feel it in the air, Cali winks from across the ring and kicks Texas in the teeth: the Pacific Ocean, baby! TKO.

This probably won't be the last throw down for my two homes. . . but for right now, the PO is where it is at. Thoughts, anyone?

I'm Having an Affair

Well, being that it's the Lord's Day, I figured that now is as good a time as any to come clean. I'm cheating on Thanksgiving with Christmas. Yes, I, Michelle Heather, have broken the cardinal rule of my family and committed the mortal sin of indulging in the Christmas spirit before the carving of the turkey. For this, I may have my nickname status revoked, but this year, I just can't help myself.

What led to this blasphemy you ask? Well, a long series of events and influences culminated into my concession today by putting up the tree. It all started with seeing my first Christmas commercial on Halloween eve and it all went down hill from there. Starbucks busted out their holiday cups almost three weeks ago and stores have been blasting Jingle Bells since the Santa Annas started blowing. Even the Colony has trimmed the town with tinsel and garland. A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) is a November 1st kinda guy and has been talking about Yule Tide Cheer for quite sometime. He convinced me to start watching Christmas movies, so this week, I decided to kick the season off right with my annual viewing of my favorite, Miracle on 34th Street. Thursday night I made my famous fudge, a Christmas staple in my household, and yesterday my roommate busted out the carols. I even broke out my apple cider body wash this morning in the shower. But it didn't become official until this afternoon.

I was at the mall picking up some last minute items for my trip home (and by that I mean buying another sweater dress) and could sense that the pre-holiday rush tension was in the air. I managed to wiggle in and out of the dressing room unscathed and waited in line at the register while the crowd swelled around me. Finally I made it to the front of the line and cringed as the total began to rise, but my buyer's remorse was quickly interrupted by a yelp to my right. Nondescript words and hand gestures soon followed. Then I heard it, "Oh no you didn't." People actually say that? Who knew? Then a woman in line behind me began to yell at the sale associates behind the counter to do something. She then took it upon herself to intercede and try and stop the fight. . . that's when the punch was thrown. The gentleman behind the counter smiled and handed me my receipt. "Happy Thanksgiving and an early Merry Christmas," he said to me. "Thanks," I said, "and be sure to keep you scan gun handy."

Peace and joy to all mankind.

Chicks Dig Scars

Working with college students usually keeps me abreast as to what is now considered cool, that my daily dose of E! News. Though I do a pretty good job of keeping up to date on fashion, music, film, etcetera, I rely on them to give me the inside track on being hip. For this week, the word on the street was HP.

No offense to my students, but I don't understand how wizards are cool. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the artistry 0f a British pre-teen version of Friends that involves wands, but I'm not sure it constitutes patronizing a midnight showing. Under the recommendation of a few friends, I once cracked open a copy of the supposed monolithic children's book and three chapters in gave up the ghost. Boring. Everyone who hears the tale of my Harry Potter debacle tells me that I must push through the first few books in the series in order to get to the goods, but I have more important things to read, like this month's issue of Cosmo.

I get it, they (my students) grew up with our beloved HP, but what concerns me is how they know more about the Black family lineage than they do about pronouns and antecedents. Okay, no one gives a rip about the parts of speech, but my point still remains. Harry Potter and his epic tale of epicness/wonder-some wizardry/broomstick bodaciousness is not real. Owls haven't served as carriers for years as they were replaced by pigeons long ago, and according to Back to the Future, cars won't fly until 2015. The Jig is up J.K.R.(insert additional and superfluous initials here) Rowling, Hogwarts is merely a figment of your little English imagination.

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh, I mean, I truly believe that Zak Morris and I will meet and fall madly in love one day, but at least he drives a jeep and has a band. Harry Potter is the chosen one and only has two friends in his entire school. Lame. He has been chasing the same villain for 6 movies and still hasn't come close to catching him. Not impressed. HP's confidant and BFF is a sexually frustrated 186-year old man. Creepy. So, to all of you who love you some sorcerer 's stone, knock yourself out, but as for me I'm sticking with season three of Saved by the Bell.

I also suggest checking out the following link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u981JhkK46o. Let's just say it includes the quote, "And it was another tequila sunrise for our hero, HP."

Choc-a-vin

So, I'm experiencing a bit of buyer's remorse about my most recent posting. True, I did have an amazing week surrounded by friends, food and frivolities in my home, but I failed to include one of the most incredible experience I have had to date: chocolate wine. Yes, I know that sounds a bit dramatic, but you weren't there, you didn't experience the magic. Though I knew at the time I initially tasted said deliciousness that it would be important to me, but after three nights of dreaming about this cocoa goodness, I think it has seriously changed my life. To be more specific, this was no port with chocolate on the side, but rather bottled burgundy bliss that bursts with bouquets of hazelnut, milk and mahogany confections.

At first I spied the glass with suspicion, not sure of what would come. The woman behind the bar smiled and calmly stated, "Enjoy!" My friend turned to me and nodded her head in excited approval. I grasped the goblet and inserted my nose into the glass. The aroma was intoxicating. Sweet currants of cocoa coupled with the heavier notes of oak made my head spin. I lifted it to my lips, and saluted the potent potable with a wink and a smile. Sip. Ahhhhmazing. I literally went weak at the knees at soon as the wine rolled across my tongue. Mom, Dad, I know you are probably going to read this, so avert your eyes now. . . words cannot do justice to describe what tasting this wine was like, so I have no other choice than to say that I think my mouth had an orgasm. Seriously. Okay parental units, you can look again. It was deliciously delicate with smooth trickles of dark chocolate and amaretto while at the same time being robust with deep layers if aged port and old vine Zinfandel culminating in an explosion of sweet serenity. I think I saw God.

So yes, I realize that this was a bit of a melodramatic retelling of a simple wine tasting, but to sit idly by and not share with the masses what decadant d

Star Sightings, No Map Needed

Whoa! It's been almost a week since the World Series came to an end, and though I am still licking my wounds from the Ranger's demise, it's been full of friends, shenanigans and baking 34 dozen cookies for my students. I've discovered the key to surviving a loss in this post post-season life is to stay as busy as possible, and today was no exception. What started out as a trip to WeHo for a milkshake led to a spontaneous 4-hour excursion through the streets of L.A. While roaming down Rodeo Drive doing a little window shopping, something white and sparkly caught the corner of my eye. No, it wasn't the stunning diamond pendant drop earrings in the Cartier window, but rather the crowning glory of a one Jay Manuel. For those of you who don't know who that is, he is the stylish sidekick of Ms. Fierce herself, Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model. One of the girls I was with got a little star-struck and we ended up scoping out the store's windows so that she could catch a glimpse of the fashion "icon." While driving down PCH, I began to think about some of the more infamous star encounters I've had since moving to the 'Bu.

My first legit celebrity citing was standing in line behind John Cusack at Malibu Yo. Let's just say I have a whole new appreciation for frozen yogurt. I also sat next to John Goodman at the movies a few weeks later. It's a very surreal experience sitting next to someone when you are watching them on the screen in front of you. Sitting one table down from Pierce Brosnan at Corral Beach Cantina was pretty awesome. Jason Statham even struck up a conversation with me while waiting in line at Starbucks after seeing each other there a few days in a row. In all of these situations, and even in the ones that haven't mentioned, I've been able to keep my cool. But the one time I couldn't contain myself was when Michael Keaton waddled into the coffee shop behind me.

I was with a group of friends at a local coffee shop when Mike, as I like to call him, sauntered in sporting his walking boot behind right behind us. In order to be compliant with the rules of celebrity encounters, we allowed him to cut in line in front of our crew. He ordered his drink and went to stand by the bar, leaving us with a look of wonderment in our eyes. A student of mine saw me from across the cafe and could tell that star power was among our midsts. "Who is it" he mouthed to me. I opened my mouth and felt my hands slowly rise to the level of my head. Unable to stop to stop myself, I extended my pointer finger and began to wiggle them about. "It's Batman," I silently retort. "Who?" Horrified and quite taken aback by my behavior, I repeat the same gesture, forming my digits into bat ears and moving them about. "It's Batman" I whisper more exuberantly. The inner monologue began to explode in my mind. What did I just do? How did I do that? And over Michael Keaton?

After Mike exited stage left, I walked over to my student to clarify any confusion. With a disturbed face, he inquires again, "Who was that?"

"Michael Keaton."

"Who?"

"Michael Keaton"

No response.

"Batman."

"Christian Bale was just here?!?"

"No, Michael Keaton, the original movie Batman, the dark knight of the silver screen."

Blank Stare.

"Beetlejuice."

Nothing.

"Mr. Mom. . . Multiplicity. . . Jackie Brown."

Apparently I am speaking a foreign language.

Out of desperation: "Jack Frost?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember that movie from when I was a kid. I didn't know he was a real actor."

"Yeah, I was in high school when that movie came out. I'll see you later."

Hanging my head low and shuffling my feet, I walked out clutching my latte a little defeated. The generation gap between me and my students just became a chasm.

It may have worked for Maverick, but. . .

The last weekend of October served as a suiting benchmark for a month filled with interesting interactions with members of the opposite sex. It kicked off with a bang when while at the airport headed home, I not only got hit on by a TSA agent (which proved to be advantageous as I got to cut through the security line), but also I encountered a gentleman whose winning pick up line was, "You've got to put that book down, it's keeping me from seeing those pretty eyes," and then proceeded to hold my hand until I conceded in joining him for a drink. Fortunately for him, that move led to date, but unfortunately for me, that was about the smoothest he'd ever be. I should have known then that it was going to be a rough few weeks.

There were a few gents who put themselves out there, including but not limited to the skeezy guy at Starbucks who in his words claims that "as long as [he] keeps me laughing, he's bound to score." Not likely. There was also the student who approached me from behind and as soon as I turned around and to look at him, his face turned bright red and became paralyzed upon the realization that he had just hit on his professor. And to the guy that I met a Drescher, I'm really bummed that you didn't ask for my number. But the one that takes the cake was from a man on the sidewalk in Santa Monica. A group of my girlfriends and I were enjoying a night out on Main Street and while on our way to our next activity were garnering a few glances from the men nearby. As we approached an intersection, a group of guys began to clear their throats and squeak out a few cat calls (which NEVER works, to all of the fellas who may be reading this). As we quickly strolled past them, one of the brave souls called out, "You ladies look like you've got some higher education. Junior college, maybe?" My friend turned and smiled at the man, more out of humor rather than flattery, and he responded with, "My girlfriend's home asleep, what do you think about that?" Needless to say we kept walking. His follow up line, "And I'm also a billionaire," simply caused caused us to expedite our journey. Little did we know that Creepy McCreeperson was awaiting us. As we breezed by him in the darkened room, he not so subtlety shined his phone in our faces to check-us out. Shocked by his brazenness, I questioned his actions. "Did you seriously just do that?" "Yeah, I've got to make sure you're worth talking to, and I've also taken your picture." Upon reflection, this one might just be the winner.

Splash from the Past: A lesson in Peer Pressure

Since I went home to Texas earlier this month, I have been living in a fit of nostalgia, not by my own choice, but by the people and everyday situations around me. Recently, I've been "be"friended by several of my childhood pals on Facebook, including a one Beau Thompson (my kindergarten boyfriend and first kiss), and even today when purchasing flowers upon seeing a bunch of tiger lilies was thrust into my seven year-old self and instantly remembered the scent of the lilies wafting from my neighbor's side yard just asking to be picked (to which I always obliged). But most recently, during my first trip to the beach in two weeks due to all of the rain, I was reminded of one of the favorite stories of my youth: the day Megan Owens fell into the creek.

It was beautiful day in the fall of my third-grade year. The air was crisp on cool, with the scent of the previous night's rainfall hanging in the air. Graciously, my teacher appealed to our requests and allowed us to run down the hill to the old playground, our favorite place for recess, complete with a fort, cannon, running tree and creek. The creek separated the men from the boys: those who could jump over it and those who could not. Today was Megan's day to prove to those far and wide that she was cool, but not under her own fruition. Though I would not admit it at the time and still hesitate to take full ownership for the events that were soon to follow, a few of my lackeys and, um, I may have provoked young Megan to take the plunge.

Looking into her reflection in the newly crested creek, Megan swallowed and turned to look at us. "You're sure about this?" "Yes," we said in unison, "if you want to prove that you're cool, you can do it." Her face white with fright, she started hiking up the hill to the tree-line to give herself plenty of room to pick-up speed. "Megan's gonna jump" someone exclaimed, and before I knew it my entire class congregated around the poor soul. Forming two lines for her to run through, we began chanting her name and sticking our hands out to make the already dramatic scene even more spectacular. Recognizing the stakes at hand, Megan had no choice but to go through with her attempt to launch herself over the three-foot wide body of water. A flash of courage flickered in her eyes and off she went, full throttle towards the creek. She jolted past us, and quickly reached the edge. Pressing her feet into the ground to propel herself, Megan quickly found herself sliding, not flying over the water as her feet slipped and glided in the mud below. Kerplunck.

The splash ebbed in and out of the water with ease, freezing the moment in silence. Megan's hand popped out the water and clawed its way to the opposite bank. My classmates and I looked at each other, realizing the desperation of the situation and immediately enacted the tried and true king rule of the playground: every man for himself. We all scattered to the winds (I swear I even saw some of my peers climb trees to flee the scene), leaving Megan to find her own way out of the creek. Slowly she emerged, her face as red as the pink and black polk-a-dot top she was wearing, her hair matted to her forehead, steam billowing out of her ears. He shoes squished with water and mud she mustered up her dignity and marched herself up our teacher. "I fell in the creek," she squeaked out. Without a word, my teacher look compassionately into her eyes, grabbed her hand and escorted her into the building. Before she walked through the door, I saw my teacher turn her head and release a smirk and a giggle hoping the Megan would be none the wise.

She did not come back to class that day, but she did secure herself a top spot in the Meadows Elementary recess lore. Moral of the story: peer pressure can make for a great story.