Ok that title is unnecessarily dramatic. I’m sorry. I’m not really a mistress per se. But no one is going to read a post entitled: “Confessions of a Girl Who Maybe Flirted a Little Too Hard With Someone Who Was Unavailable.” Now that I got your attention by misleading you, let me explain my mistress-light circumstances.
Tales From Relationships of Yore: Not The One
So once upon a time, there was this boy—and, at four years my junior, “boy” described him perfectly. He was many things I wanted in a potential mate and many things I didn’t. I saw those deal-breaker sticking points and refused to give him a second thought for many months of his advances. He would flirt and I would dismiss. He would pursue and I would trot off in the other direction. “He’s not The One,” I told myself.
Hear No Evil See No Evil Post No Evil
Last week Cheaterville.com was in the “news” for a sketchy ad they had designed to apparently warn the celebrities of the Toronto Film Festival against stepping out on their significant others between indie screenings and Q and A sessions. The concept of the site is similar to the original intent of Dontdatehimgirl.com, before they gave over to pressure (and, seemingly, human decency). Basically when someone feels they’ve been wronged by a cheating spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/unusually close pet, they take to the site to rant in horrific detail about the transgressions of the trollop/whatever the male version of a trollop is. Best of all they get to include pictures and a detailed description of the cheater including height, weight, location, ethnicity and sign—the FBI doesn’t have files this extensive.
Oh The Folly of Young Love
Many moons ago I wronged a former boyfriend egregiously. It was a confusing time in my young life and I was making some selfish, ill-informed decisions that I wish I hadn’t if only for the fact that I was kind of a jerk to aforementioned boyfriend. I re-friended this former flame on Facebook today (our paths have virtually crossed due to mutual friends and we’ve ever-so-maturely decided to let bygones be bygones) and discovered that the always-vigilant social media powerhouse had kindly saved all the messages of our past life together five years earlier. And, man, love makes me moronic.
Hollywood, How Do I Loathe to Love Thee?
First One to the Next Wins!
A Critical Analysis of Romeo & Juliet
Feeling nostalgic, I settled in for a self-indulgent viewing of Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet (yes Leonardo DiCaprio movies were a major influence on my teen years), and I had two thoughts. The first of which was “Paul Rudd?” Dude had some douchey roles before the world realized he was funny. The second of which is that Shakespeare (or at least misinterpretation of Shakespeare) is solely responsible for everything that is wrong with romantic ideals. I know I’m not the first to realize this, but those kids were nuts.
My Zombie Ex
After three years I like to think that the ghost of my former fiancé would stay where he belongs, deeply buried in a past life I only revisit when I come across the aborted remnants of the wedding that never was in my parents’ closet. (Which is how chapter 13 of my biography would start if the tragic Zelda Fitzgerald were to write it.) Yet he seems to keep popping up as though he were a mole in a perennial arcade game. The most recent manifestation of this romantic apparition occurred a couple of weeks ago when I received an e-mail informing me that he would be in town and would like me to meet him for coffee. A response was not required. I simply had to show up so he could apologize (again). Oh and he left me with this loaded song to ruminate on in the interim (subtle no?).
Great Expectations of Movie Love
How many times have we tried to pin the blame for our romantic shortcomings on Hollywood and the preposterous, impossible ideals they instill in our hearts (earlier evidence). In reality we can blame that land of glitz and glam for James Franco’s ubiquity (full disclosure: I follow him on Twitter—have you seen those dimples?), Gigli, and Nicholas Cage’s career, but we cannot rebuke them for our naive hopes of riding off into the sunset with our ever-faithful, tall, dark, handsome, humanitarian doctor prince special agent.
Confessions From the Tragic Love Life of a 16-Year-Old Girl
One of my best friends from high school recently uncovered our note notebook from our junior year. Reading it ten years later is both hysterical and heartbreaking. Among the heart-dotted eyes, Stereomud lyrics and obnoxious spellings of “nite” there is some insight into what love and boys can do to the delicate psyche of a sensitive 16-year-old girl as she struggles to find her path and figure out who she is along the way. Before I chose to combat heartbreak with sarcastic cynicism, I handled each romantic let-down with raw, unadulterated (if not immature) emotion.