Never the Bridesmaid

This past weekend I successfully executed my first-ever bachelorette party for my friend Beth.  We spent the weekend re-living our college years (IHOP, Bubble Tea, listening to me prattle on about an older man I’m crushing on) and doing all the things we never got to do while we were at college (Carousels, hiking the nature preserve).  A fun time was had by all.

My co-maid-of-honor was in charge of bringing up all the bachelorette goodies–the sash, scrapbook-making materials, chocolate penis molds.  She, unlike me, goes to a lot of bachelorette parties, possibly because she has friends and a life outside of work.

But among the fancy paper and the cheap chocolate, she also brought up a card game designed to be played at a bar, where one gets points for doing the dare on the card.  Kissing five guys, standing up and screaming “I’m lonely, somebody marry me!” or getting a bald guy to buy you a shot.  You know, the kind of basic-bitch behavior that makes everyone hate you and wish you were dead. These points are redeemable for clearly nothing but self-loathing and shame.

five_guys_tulsa_food

How You Doin’, Good-Lookin’?

HEY, JERK-BRIDES: No one but you gives a hoot that you’re getting married.  Finally tricking some wide-striped polo-shirt wearing broseph into going to Jared and buying you an enormous ugly ring is not a reason to sexually assault, humiliate or annoy other people.  Maybe those five guys don’t want a sloppy kiss from some appletini-drenched skank.  Maybe that bald guy doesn’t want to be a source of your drunken amusement.  And maybe the rest of us are trying to enjoy a night out with our friends without you screaming about how no one wants to marry you.  I can’t imagine why the kind of classy dames who enjoy these stupid games are still single.

(Also: There is a special place in hell for people who put $20 into the jukebox and use that to play terrible faux-country songs and Kesha.  Especially if they’re wearing rompers as outerwear).

Luckily, Beth, who is neither a basic bitch nor a jerk-bride, agreed with me that this game was creepy and weird, and we laid down a hard-line “NOPE” and Michelle didn’t push the issue.   After all, I’m engaged too, and Michelle has a boyfriend, and I’m not going to A) cheat on my fiance with some 25 year old frat guy named Jaysonn or B) Allow Beth to cheat on hers under some misguided, imagined notion that the whole world has to stop and celebrate her special day, regardless of their own lives or comfort.  And neither would Michelle.  Beth deserves all the awesomeness the world can offer, but she deserves it all her way, not some Spencer-Gifts approved vulgarity designed to humiliate everyone involved.

So instead we hiked and ate and made penis chocolates and went in the hotel hot tub and did our mud masks and rode six carousels in three hours.  She had an awesome time.  And that’s all that mattered to me.

Mix Tape Blues

So a lot has happened since last I blogged…I’ve got a literary agent, the wonderful Jim McCarthy at Dystel & Goderich, I finally got a halfway-decent haircut and, well, Catch came back.  Guess I owe Robert Rodriguez and his horrible Sin City 2 trailer for that one.

But now I’m tasked with making a mix CD for Catch and that’s harder than I expected.  I had a whole CD planned as a last-ditch effort I was never going to make, an assortment of pleas and sorrowful tunes perfect for playing on a boombox outside his office window–Tom Waits, “Bad Liver & a Broken Heart” The Cure’s “Cut Here,” The Smiths, “Bigmouth Strikes Again” (I am nothing if not melodramatic).

But now he’s back and I am at a complete loss for songs.  Do I put my whole heart on my sleeve, reveal to him seven awful years of heartsickness, or do I celebrate his return, play for him all the songs I’ve heard over the years that I thought he would like–the Replacements, Tenpole Tudor, the Magnetic Fields?

And harder still is that so many of my songs are already taken up–I can’t very well give him “Midnite Cruiser,” that’s Matthew & I’s song.  “I Will Dare” makes me think of Thor, and “Choked Up” was the song that was playing the night Ian and I first kissed. Where’s your advice for that, Arlene?

I think I’ll keep “Bigmouth Strikes Again,” though.  It’s still appropriate.

 

Geek Girl Celebrates, and Bids a (Temporary) Farewell

Today is Ian & I’s 9th anniversary.  It’s amazing, in a way, when I look back on how much time has gone by and how happy we still are.  There have always been challenges and will continue to be many, but one of the things I’ve really learned is how important my relationship with Ian really is, and how important it is to nurture that–and all the other relationships in my life–every day.

Though this blog officially ends on Dec. 31, this will, in all likelyhood, be my last “official” entry.  It’s been an interesting year; I’ve found a lot of things that work (being nice to people, (regardless of gender) putting on a little makeup as a means of pampering myself, cross-stitch) and some that don’t (ice baths, beets as blush, curlers).  I got a haircut I hated and one I loved.  I got engaged.  I learned to dress a little better and trusted myself to throw out clothes that just weren’t working for me.  I ate Cajun food I would have never tried on my own. 

But what I really learned was that I really like being a woman.  It’s something I take for granted a lot, but being feminine is a real pleasure.  I like looking nice.  I like having pretty hair and wearing perfume and cooking dinner. But what I really liked about all of it was that it was a choice I made because it made ME feel good about myself.  If Ian or Dave or Eeon or Pete or Matthew or any of the other wonderful men who took me out and put up with me liked it, well, that was just extra frosting on the cake.

But for all the wonderful men I had the immense pleasure of spending time with this year, I also got a chance to really connect with some wonderful women.  From Jamie and her fabulous French ways to hearing all the details of my grandmother’s wedding, this wouldn’t have been any fun without their assistance.

A handful of fedora-sporting twerps favorited this blog over the year, writing comments about how women aren’t feminine anymore and how that hurt their poor little man feelings and blah blah blah.  They can all go cook a radish as far as I’m concerned.  Every woman, whether she’s in Spanx or sweatpants, is beautiful.

The blog will probably be quite for a bit as I get my new year’s bearings…but I’m about to buy a house and plan a wedding, so keep an eye out for more from the Glam Geek.

Until then, stay glamorous! XOXOXO, darlings.  

Now About That French Twist…

“A special fragrance is a most effective expression of femininity” Arlene Dahl, Always Ask a Man

Finding a “signature” fragrance has, like getting a good haircut, been a year-long challenge for me.  Betsey Johnson fragrances are too cloying, I don’t want to smell like Beyonce, Taylor Swift or Justin Beiber’s prostitute, and nothing else I found really smelled like…me.

Well, the long search is finally over.  And a man, in his own way, helped.

ImageIn “New Frontier,” off 1982’s The Nightfly, Donald Fagen sings, “She’s wearing Ambush and  French twist/She’s got us wild and she can tell.”  I wasn’t sure what he meant by “wearing Ambush,” so I did a quick search–turns out, it’s a fragrance launched in 1955, with notes of lavender, bergamot, orchid and jasmine.  Not too floral, not too woody, all scents I adore on their own.  It’s still around; my bottle on Amazon cost $14 bucks with shipping.

But when that bottle arrived and I opened it up, I KNEW I had my scent!  It was perfect–sweet, mysterious,  vintage.  Not heavy or cheap-smelling.  Classy.  Classic.  The scents I grew up with on the dressing tables of my mother and grandmothers.

Now every morning, as part of my beauty routine, I dab a little on in all the right places. The only downside is that it’s a little light, so I have to douse myself pretty heavily if I want anyone to notice.  But Ian did say, “You smell nice,” when I soaked a cotton ball and tucked it in my camisole.

Beautiful TMI

“Just because chorus girls have to shave their legs and underarms is no reason why women in general should turn their nose up at the practice” Florence Courtenay, Physical Beauty (1922)

One of the things neither HGB or Arlene discusses is how to take care of body hair.  I imagine they trust that ladies are shaving their arms and legs, but they don’t give any discussion to maintaining the downstairs carpet.  Of course, every modern ladies’ magazine in the whole universe treats you as if you’re some kind of monster if your batch is anything but smooth, and it’s one of the few things I actually have image issues about.  I just can’t bring myself to shave it all off or wax–trim, yes, but not yank it all out by the roots–and I occasionally panic that this means I am an unsexy freak.

ImageHOWEVER, they both say to give a man what he wants, and I’ve found a quote from one of the sexiest men in the entire universe, Walton Goggins, that puts my anxieties to rest and pretty much settles the discussion forever: “Can I tell you how much I miss pubic hair? To me, if the size of a penis dictates virility, the length of a woman’s pubic hair dictates her femininity.” (New York Magazine, Jan. 14 2013). 

This, of course, from a man who once uttered the words, “Eatin’ ain’t cheatin’,” securing my permanent spot on #TeamShane,  so his declaration to let it all grow is that much sexier.   After all, isn’t the real heart of this project to be feminine for the man I adore?  (So what if we’ve never met and probably won’t ever–a girl can dream, can’t she?)