Top of the muffin to all the people reading this and a tiny mea culpa to the male gender re: yesterday’s rant. It was, uh, my female time, and I was irritable. Okay, don’t think of a specific “Everybody Loves Raymond” episode, when Raymond queried as to whether Debra was PMSing. So I am putting the blame on Eve, because for an apple, we must suffer for generations of cramps and guys using PMS as the butt of their jokes, and suffer through childbirth’s pain(try pushing a watermellon out of your nostrils.). Had the tree been growing Godiva Chocolates, I would’ve completely understood Eve’s decision. A Granny Smith? No.
So the youth still flock to me like paparazzi to document every breath Ms. Spears takes. I have no idea why. I am no female Michael Jackson. 22 yr. old Hallmark Kisser took my IpodNano and filled it with some of my favorite bands–The Rasmus, Whitesnake, Breaking Benjamin, etc…He can’t wait to meet up with me tonight, and I don’t know how to look him in the eyes and tell him I kissed another guy since him. Well, a friend. Yesterday. Someone that was in the neighborhood, and wanted to do dinner…I know him for a few years, and he has only been nice to me…We will never marry, even though he was someone I wanted to marry. He is a player–25–but way more mature. He reeks of Eau de Confidence, and when we meet, fireworks crackle. I feel horrible. THIS ISN’T ME. I AM NICE. 22 yr. old is a dead end, as is this occasional rendezvous friend. I am marriage minded–thats the goal–OR IS IT???
Am I commitment phobic, therefore, date people I know it will never happen with–it being marriage? I do not stand alone. My friends that don’t have 2.5 children are doing the same. Do we want ’til death do us part, or is that just a romantic notion?
Okay, I have had enough. Oh, and hi. This weekend started beautifully and ended in self pitying bawling. I would like to take a moment to address an issue that will have you guys on the defensive and ready to hate me–but feel free. Guys either love me or hate me–there are no benign feelings.
Males: Admit it. You are looking for perfection. You want a supermodel that will be a trophy wife, eye candy, have zero percent body fat, and will make your friends so jealous they won’t be able to sleep at night. (Don’t know how you will be able to sleep at night. That carpenter’s dream can leave serious black and blue marks when you are doing the Mating Salsa.) Personality is important too, but if the girls isn’t thin enough, and is fun and makes you laugh and is smart and stimulating, but(funeral music insert here) has curves and isnt thin, yet isn’t fat either, its a no go. Am I right, or am I right?(You will go for the third option.)
I am actually someone that dealt with ups and downs re: weight and look good now, but dont wear clothing to emphasize my chest, or tight short skirts, as my close male friend feels will definitely bring the males by swarms…I feel uncomfortable about it. I am not skeletal, but I have an awesome, edgy, wacky personality that can be serious as well(and my digits are…haha…u wish). I know males need visual stimulation, but I think these days, things are being taken to an extreme.
Prove me wrong. This is what I see these days, and I am one of you.(No, I am not a male–not that there’s anything wrong with being one…lol…I love being so…is it politically correct? Not sure…)
Anyhoo, off I run to take care of things.
Men, I know you still love me deep deep inside,
Gigi–sounding off and signing off
Aloha!It’s me again. Your friendly freak that is dating a 22 year old. Let me rewind. His name is Marty, and is a friend of a friend that I saw in a photo and thought, sweet…We did a bit of Instant Messaging, and then I found out the real name, and almost had a coronary. I asked him to check his birth certificate, just to be sure. We spoke online and on the phone for about two weeks and he was so mature, witty, nice…there was NO WAY HE WAS A GUY.
So we finally decided to meet in a really chilled-out bar/lounge that is my favorite secret place to just be me, without the paparazzi trying to get my mug shot–but I have taken so many people there, I need to find a better place. By now, I am left with the option of a park bench. But back to the topic at hand. Marty came in and was even cuter than the picture but looked EVEN YOUNGER than 22! We sat, the dim lighting casting a warm glow on my face and missing the fine lines and undereye circles. Spoke a bit more, but we were talked out. (Yes, I CAN be talked out. ‘Tis a miracle. I know.)
So, uh, you know how they say “All roads lead to prison and all conversations lead to sex”–or something like that? I didn’t wan’t to ask him what he had done or hadn’t done. I’m not a cross between Doktorrr Russ and Howahd Stern. He was shy around girls, and a bit self conscious (so what if he was calvous–I am trying to impress you here. Calvous=bald. I just came out and pulled a Gigi (no, didnt fall and trip over my gift for my boyfriend–an athletic supporter.) I asked him if he liked me. He smiled.
And then came The Hallmark Kiss. He said he would “show me” how much he liked me”, and he leaned in for the sweetest longest, um, Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul Kiss. Very emotional for him. His eyes closed. My eyes open–no comprendo. It was nice, but it was more of a longggggggggggg peck that was a French Wannabe.
When he finally detached himself, he said, and I quote, “You are the first girl I kissed.”
This is Gigi, signing off, as there is nothing more to say. Yet.
Hello there, all of my fellow singletons! How are you all doing? I am completely Red-Bulled. (I have been out late with um…well, will tell you later.) So this week I was antsy. No good movies out, (Spiderman? Nyet. I will tell you a secret. Come closer to the computer screen, as I need to whisper this….IT’S FICTION!!!!!!!!!), I am not a meat person (not pregnant–Thank G-d, because then it would be an immaculate misconception, like Jesus; and not a vegetarian–meat always nauseated me, so no BBQs, and none of my friends wanted to paint pottery with me, so….off to the city we went….
AND IT WAS FLEET WEEK. G-D BLESS AMERICA, LAND OF THE TANNED, WHITE-UNIFORMED MALES, THAT ARE YOUNG ENOUGH TO HAVE EXITED MY WOMB. (Well that’s exaggerating it a tiny bit, but you know what I mean.) I was out with the guy I am supposedly dating, whom we will call M. for now, whom is 22–a few big fat years younger than me (will tell u more about him later), in Times Square. He didn’t realize it, but as he kept insisting we see Spiderman, The Movie (the comics weren’t around when he was a zygote), I steered him to walk with me verrry closely behind a group of Men In White. They turned the corner, I (we, I dragged M) did too. They slowed down, so did I/We. I had a fleeting thought that if We were arrested for this (notice that I make M a partner in a crime he didn’t know he was pseudo-committing, hypothetically), as stalking these 18, 19 yr olds is illegal–I would answer, and I believe this, in all sincerity–”I SERVE OTHERS THAT SERVE MY COUNTRY”–Gigi, waiting for her twenty five cent phone call at the Police Station.
Until next time, I remain dating a child.
Hi, my name is Gigi, and I am more single than a dollar bill. (“Hi, Gigi”) I am here to share my tales of woe with you, my fellow singletons. If by any chance my first post is one of monotony, feel free to nod off and wake up with lower case “a”,”s”,d”, and “f” imprinted on your forehead. It’s totally fine. I am shedding brain cells as I speak, and since the partial lobotomy, it’s fairly empty in the cranium, but ON my forehead, there’s space for some funky art.
Firstly, I will tell you a bit about myself so that you can use the imagery to conjure up an image of me, as painful as that will be. I am 5′ 8″, forgot what my real hair color is (nah….it is a deep muddy brown), and have blue eyes. My skin is light and freckled, with a liberal sprinkling of freckles. I am thin, but not a size four. I have a nice size chest (Oh, hello all you men out there that just woke up from your nap! So nice you could join us! We were just going to segue into a male bashing session. Haha.), but my derriere is non-existent. Jello and no J.Lo. I have broader shoulder and narrower hips. No, I don’t look like a football player, smart alec reading this and smirking. I’m just not bottom heavy. I think fast, can be really nuts (I keep it under wraps), and suffer from insomnia. Red Bull is my religion, Writing is a bare necessity–like water, Godiva chocolates, and Ice Cream heals all wounds–internal and external. When I grow up I wasn’t to be a Coyote ( a la Coyote Ugly), and a Mommy, and I forgot the other one which is in and of itself very, very frightening. But enough about me for now (Ha…It’s all about me! I’m trying to impress you, though, so I will write anything to make you like me. Did I tell you look absolutely ravishing today? Divine! Sublime! Okay, okay, I am putting the Webster’s Thesaurus away.)
Okay, so how are we all doing on the dating scene? The females out there are huge fans of Lorraina Bobbit, and the males of Dr. Kevorkian? I’m feelin’ you. Well, some of you men, I would love to literally be feelin’, but “Sweet Dreams Are Made of These”, aye? The ones in uniform…HOOAH!!! Speaking of uniforms, convicts are supposedly very very passionate. Since reading “The Count of Monte Cristo”, and then watching the movie…I am thinking James Caviezel-looking men that will duel for me, my long tresses down to my metatarsals, my girdle cutting into my cellulite–THAT IS LOVE.
Speaking of cellulite, a friend told me that if a man would stick to her like her cellulite does, she would marry him in an Elizabeth Taylor I Do. I myself wouldn’t know what cellulite is. (Thou Shalt Not Lieth). So okay, its basically cottage cheese looking, and even the thinnest supermodels, have it. (It killed me when I walked down the Victoria‘s Secret 2007 Fashion Runway. I felt a slight tremor in my seven feet long legs. It felt like jello. (I am NOT in denial that I am delusional. Gigi is short for Giselle.)At the rate I’m going, with my (non) successful dating, I will end up in an old age home, being fed jello, wearing dentures and Depends, and being read to IN A REALLY LOUD VOICE by a volunteer from the local synagogue. My mammary glands will be at my knees and my knees won’t work anyway. Eh, may as well enroll now in some nice home where they give you the option of XXXL Pullups (featuring Chippendales) or Depends; jello or pudding w/ a Milk of Magnesia Slurpee.
So…my dating life, or lack thereof. I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather listen to you–my tired, huddled masses, looking for your other half (Good for you! How did you lose all that weight?) I can’t talk about it. It hits raw nerves that I thought were numb long ago. Okay, I must run, as I have much to do. It has been real. Please refrain from calling your local Mental Health Institution. Chances are, they know me well, and went from staff to patients after being exposed to the GigiIsm.
Until or next time I remain,
Gigi, Single, And Strange.