Planes, Trains, and Birth Control Pills

When you’re a baby and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually because you’re hungry or tired and everybody gets it. When you’re a kid and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually because you’re in trouble and are learning that you won’t get every toy you want and everybody gets it. When you’re a teenager and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually chalked up to those pesky pubescent hormones and the need to defy authority and everybody gets it, they’re annoyed by it, but they get it. When you’re an adult and you throw a hissy fit, you’re a woman…. And it fucking sucks.

Ok, you’re not ALWAYS a woman, I know there are plenty of emotional males. Jason Mraz and Christain Bale are proof of that, but can’t we all agree it sucks to have lady hormones? I mean, lets face it, we all have our “crazy” story. Like that time we maxed out our credit card at Forever 21 because it was the only thing that felt right, or that time we ate pizza and drank Mountain Dew until we threw up and then ordered Chinese food because we were hungry, or that time you were mad at your boyfriend  for talking to his ex-girlfriend and so you searched through his phone, found her number, got drunk and called her to tell her about how great your lives are together, only she doesn’t answer so the only option is to show up where she works to SHOW her how great you’re doing and you accidentally slash ONE of her tires and the cops ruin everything!?  All our lives, men have called us crazy and irrational and the reality is, that’s not who we are. As humans, our brains all work the same. Women are even more logical and rational and intelligent than men….  UNLESS our hormones are involved, which unfortunately, seems to be at least ¼ of our lives.

This last week, (JUST before my period, of course) after 3 days of depression, outbursts, and the decision to move to Montana (that I later reneged on,) I sat my boyfriend down and explained to him, that I hated to admit it because I didn’t want this to be his victory for every future fight, but MAYBE we had been fighting the last few days and MAYBE I threatened to move his things out and MAYBE I threw the contents of my purse all over our living room in an outburst BECAUSE  I was……. PMS-ing. This was so hard for me to admit. I mean, I’ve known for a long time that other girls had PMS, but as you mature and try to gracefully enter your thirties, you start to really notice in yourself the difference between normal and bat-shit crazy and even YOU, as a strong and intelligent, talented woman,  start to run out of ways to defend your behavior. He smiled and smugly said, “I know.” ………… I went nuts. After a rant I don’t remember, I ran into my room and cried. 

My cat didn’t know what to do and neither did I.   There’s no talking yourself out of bat-shit. Your hormones have you convinced that life really isn’t what you thought it was yesterday…. Or 3 minutes ago. After I came to my senses (because, to my dis-credit, it happens quickly,) I came out and he laughed as he said, “I can’t believe that after all this time that we’ve been together that you think I don’t know what THIS is.”




“OK, but I don’t want you to think that every time I’m upset, it means I’m hormonal and you automatically have the upper-hand.” I said and then admitted, “I don’t know how to deal with how I feel sometimes. Today, I hate our bed sheets and I don’t know why. Today, I almost introduced myself to the neighbors just to ask if I could move all your things into their house while you were gone just to give you a good scare when you got home. You know? So you’d know I was serious about breaking up with you. I know that’s nuts, but it felt so right! I hate myself.”

“I don’t pretend to know what you go through. I bet it sucks because, right now, you really suck. But, I love you.” He said.

We left the conversation unresolved. And I’ve got news for you, there’ll never be resolution. We take "medicine" to "treat" the natural horror that is our period. We take pills and shots and insert strange springy devices directly into our vaginas to prevent our ovaries from doing what nature intended them. There are male politicians that are trying to make laws based on the things we do and don’t do to our bodies because we have been given the “oh so amazing” gift of child birth. And as women, we will spend the rest of our lives apologizing for our hormones because, let’s be honest, we do some really messed up shit. Well…. It fucking sucks. It really does. I’ve been a feminist since I could walk but I will not support a HILLARY 2016 ballot unless she can provide evidence that all her hormone producing lady parts have been removed or have stopped working!! (She’d have control over the drones for crying out loud! Imagine if she had been President back in 1992 instead of Bill.... Monica Lewinsky's "disappearance" would still be unresolved, meanwhile there's a very unhappy intern in a hole in Guantanamo Bay.)

Ok, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Go Hillary! But, as I sit here, taking the first pill of yet, another month of birth control, I am sickened at even the name “birth control.” And, Quite frankly, I’m fet up. I know that ovaries are what make the world go ‘round. I know that our lady genetic make-up allows us to be the empathetic, emotionally aware, beautiful beings we are. It is, however, like being on a roller coaster ride that you weren’t quite tall enough for. You move around too much in the seat and are relieved, a little dizzy, and thankful for your life when the ride is over. But, you’re proud of yourself for doing it because at least half of the population will never know what it feels like. Being girl is never boring, but it makes our job as human beings a lot harder. If you've ever looked at yourself in the mirror and called yourself "a fat loser," you don't mean it. Its likely the opposite of the truth, so don't trust it.

I sometimes wish I was single and alone, with no family so I’d never have to apologize for my behavior, but that’s not a possibility (because, at least from what it sounds like, I’m so loveable) so for now, I apologetically and reluctantly deal with the repercussions of my “lady-like” behavior. You’re welcome for children, World.

And what does this post have to do with its namesake, the movie “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles?” Nothing, but I FUCKING LIKE HOLIDAY MOVIES, ALRIGHT?! J

Junior High Mascot: A Tween Comedy

I coulda been somebody.... I coulda been this lady. 

My parents were great but could never afford to truly foster any of my talents. (This is not necessarily a complaint because it inspired me to work even harder and follow my dreams and blah, blah…) BUT… I started a lot of classes that I was successful in but inevitably had to quit because of financial reasons. It is my parents’ financial irresponsibility that is the reason I am not a Black belt in the art of Karate today. I taught myself the piano after only a month of lessons. I’ve KILLED it in some very popular LA Karaoke bars after only a few voice lessons when I was 12. I went on to dance in a professional dance company after only a couple tap classes when I was 5. I’m not bragging. This was after years of failure and lots practice later on in life. My pre-teen years were spent an awkward, talentless mess. So, it was really no surprise to anyone, including myself, when I didn’t make the Junior High Cheer team.

All of my friends made the team. It was awful. After a tearful inquiry, the cheer coach assured me I was very close to making the team. (Yeah, right. I’ve been a cheer coach. You can’t just say, “you really fucking suck, honey. Give it up.”) But I believed it. I was still devastated. The cheer team was my ticket to the “cool” table in the cafeteria. The cheer team would’ve prevented the REALLY vivid memories of being called things like, “Dyke” and “Orange Heels.” (“Orange Heels” came about after a combination of sweaty feet and a pair of cheap, imitation Birkenstocks. Long story, but my heels are fine now.) I would have to sit on the sidelines alone while all of my friends basked in the glory that is a “cheer uniform.”  What was I going to do? I was already grade A, 7^th grade nerd and not making the cheer team made it official.

I mean, everyone thought this guy was cool. 

I went home that day really upset. My mom, being the great mom she was, dried my tears and told me that I had “more talent in my little finger than most kids had in their whole body,” etc. and that I should focus on something else. But I was too smart for that speech.  I wanted to be popular. That night, I conjured up a plan that would change my life forever. I figured out a way to be with my friends on the court and hang with the guys without actually being on the cheer team. I could be…… the MASCOT!...... Why not? We didn’t have one. We were the wildcats. We had school spirit. The other schools had mascots. I was convinced this was my ticket to cool. I was so….. so smart.

I brought my proposal to the cheer coach the next day. She looked at me with a furrowed eye-brow that, at the time, I thought it meant she was thoughtfully considering what the amazing benefits of having a mascot would be, but now I know she was showing great concern for my 12 year-old self-esteem. “Are you sure?” She asked. “We don’t even have a wildcat costume.”

The original pattern for the Tigerbear. I'm pretty sure. 

“My mom can make it!” I exclaimed. (MY MOM CAN MAKE IT? What the hell was I thinking? What kid pleads to be the mascot? Whatever. You live, you learn.) My coach reluctantly agreed.  I ran home to tell my mom the great news. She was incredibly supportive and so off we went to by the “wildcat” pattern and the fabric. We worked all weekend. We were so proud of the costume. It had a large furry belly and striped fabric. It had a cap with furry, short ears that exposed my face.  The mittens were made of fur entirely and the shoe covers had the stripes. In retrospect, it looked less like a Wildcat and more like a Tigerbear. (I invented that animal. Don’t take it.)  But I didn’t care. This was my ticket to the Cheer team. Everyone was going to think I was sooooo cool.

I was nervous at the first game. I realized that I really didn’t know how to be a mascot. Mascots did flips and lead cheers. I just sort of ran around and clapped a lot. I wasn’t asked to go to any of the practices, so I didn’t know any cheers.  It wasn’t until 4 games in I even began to clap over my head. You know, to get the crowd pumped. I didn’t care. I got to go to every game AND every away game. But then, I started to get made fun of…... A LOT. I started to realize that running around in front of your adolescent peers in a home-made Wildcat costume was kind of embarrassing. I thought about quitting, but at this point, I was committed and I was NOT a quitter. So, I embraced it. I made a couple younger kids laugh at the games and that felt pretty good. So, I started to get really silly in my classes. Wearing a costume AND being funny seemed to make more sense to everyone. My grades started to slip because I was more concerned about my next silly escapade than my next test. (As cliché as it sounds…)  I wasn’t even THAT funny. I just did silly stuff. People laughed. I wore a costume. This was now my thing. After two years of mascoting, I hadn’t really improved, but I got voted “Class Clown” my 8^th grade year. (Of course I did, right? Tweens seem to really go for the obvious.) I would really have loved some title like, “Best Legs” or “Most Fashionable,” but, how could they see it underneath the costume?

The costume, I’ve realized, was just a mask for my insecurities. You know, “If you’re gonna make fun of me, I’ll give you something to make fun of me about!” I learned a lot though. It motivated me to work harder than everyone else to get what I wanted. I learned to be funny, to be myself, and that I never needed to settle for just being the “mascot.”

To this day, the sound of mittens clapping together makes me cringe a little and brings me right back to the court.

 Go TigerBears!

The Soda Jerk

I’ve never been a heavy drinker. I think I’ve had a pretty average drinking career. I started when I was in high school and drank the shitty keg beer and the jungle juice at house parties. When I was 21 and working in a restaurant, nights out bar hopping were a regular occurrence. I went through my mid-twenties, “Sex and the City” phase and drank only Cosmopolitans. Shortly after, I graduated to a cocktail followed by a couple glasses of wine, all of which were chosen carefully and discussed at the dinner table. But, I enjoyed all of these as luxuries, a reward for a hard day at school or at work. Lately, I’ve been going through a phase (or maybe I’m just getting old, but for now, let’s call it a phase) where I just don’t feel like drinking. Ever. It is partially because the hangovers are getting worse and it’s expensive to drink all time but, I also struggle with the feeling that I don’t “deserve” a drink because I haven’t really succeeded in the acting industry… yet. (I will get really wasted the night I win an Oscar. Like, puke in Elton John’s bathroom, proposition Ryan Reynolds for his sperm any way I can get it, kind of wasted.) But, for now, I’ve let up on the drinking. There’s no need. Coincidentally, since I’ve cut down, I have more energy, the dark circles under my eyes are disappearing, and I started a blog. This finds me missing the days spent mulling over which beer to try and which wine will pair well with the night’s dinner. So, I’ve been trying different Root beers, Cream Sodas, Sarsaparillas, and Ginger beers to curb the need to be a connoisseur of some sort. As it turns out, there are a lot of people out there who put a lot of time and effort into the science and art of making these tasty drinks. Finally, a non-alcoholic vice I can be a snot about.

I decided to stop by the BevMo in Pasadena on my way home from work one Friday afternoon to choose some root beers to sample (exciting evening planned.)  I like this location. Everyone is always really helpful without being overly friendly. They keep the conversation strictly to Bev’s. Usually. Today, I headed straight to the soda section and was pleasantly surprised with how many obscure and vintage sodas they had to offer. I grabbed a six-pack carrier and began to search. I had chosen a few already when I heard a voice behind me, “I hope you have the Butterscotch in there already.” I turned to find my friendly BevMo assistant smiling, excitedly. He was probably in his twenties, with perfectly parted hair, a too tucked-in shirt, and the posture of someone who plays video games every second he’s not working.

“No.” I said. “It sounds good though! Where is it?” I was excited. He ran his finger delicately along the wall of sodas until he found ‘Dang! That’s good!’Butterscotch root beer. He pulled it out proudly and presented it to me like a fine wine.

“Oooooo.” I said, my eyes lighting up.

“They use real cane sugar. It is buttery but still has the strong bite a root beer should have. Have a you tried a Sarsaparilla?!” He and I were both excited now! I was going to have BevMo’s resident expert choose the best for me. This was great! Before I knew it, I had two 6 packs of soda. 6 root beers, 2 cream sodas, a sarsaparilla, a bottle of Cheerwine (a southern friend had JUST been talking about it so I had to try it,) and bottle of Moxie, a vintage soda that, according to my expert, “couldn’t be defined by any of the characteristics of today’s sodas.” He insisted I would need to try it myself.

I was so eager to get home and sample, I turned to him and said, “Thank you so much!” And I turned to walked away.

“W…w..wait. My name’s Jason.” I turned around to find Jason with his hand extended toward me for a handshake.

 I suppose this wasn’t uncalled for. We HAD just spent a solid 15 minutes discussing soda. My hands were full, so I awkwardly shifted both six packs into one hand and tossed my purse up onto my shoulder to extend my right hand. He was waiting so patiently. I shook his hand and said, “Andrea. Nice to meet you. Thanks again!” I turned quicker to walk away.

“You’re very pretty….” Oh my god. This just took a serious turn for the worse. Can two people of the opposite sex really not have a conversation without one of them taking it the wrong way? I was in full server garb with my hair back in a bun and still had the smell of meat on my skin.  Did he really think I was “presenting” myself for “mounting?” How was I getting out of this? I let out a sigh and was getting ready to interrupt with the “I have a boyfriend” speech…

He continued “and I don’t often meet pretty girls who take such interest in Soda.” Where was he going with this?

“Oh… Uh… thanks. Heh.” I said.

In the voice of Sam Elliot from The Big Lebowski: “’Do you have a good Sarsaparilla? ‘Souix City Sarsaparilla?’ ‘Yeah, that’s a good one.’” He quoted. “Ha ha. You know where that’s from?” He said this with a cockiness that was awfully strange coming from his nerdy, little body.

“Noooo.” I replied, wide eyed. What was happening? Was I getting hit on or not?

“The Big Lebowski! Come on! A soda girl like you?” He playfully hit my shoulder.  A ‘soda girl’ like me? What was this guy’s game? His confidence in his “game” was kind of awesome, but I needed to remove myself from this situation immediately.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen it, I guess.” I turned and started walking this time.

“Well, maybe you should see it again!” He started to follow me. “Maybe we could watch it sometime?” He asked this as I approached the checkout line.

“Actually… I have a boyfriend, so… but thanks anyway.” I said, probably a little too condescendingly with squinted eyes and a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, I get it. I just thought with all the soda… on a Friday night…. That….” He trailed off.

“That what?!” I said, a little surprised. “all the soda?!?!” Was he serious?! I knew I was going to regret the inquiry, but I knew what he was implying! What a dick!

“Well, that you were… alone… SORRY….” He said with his hands up like, ‘calm down, crazy woman’ hands, turned and walked away. Why is it sooo weird that I would be buying soda…. BEVMO!? Why would it imply that I was single and “alone?” And why would he take this as the opportune time to hit on a customer? “Aw. She’s buying soda. Pathetic. I’m goin’ in. I’ll impress her with my soda skills, compliment her, and then finish with the Lebowski line.”  

“JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD BE FUN TO TRY SOME NEW ROOT BEER!!” I shouted after him, getting my shoulders into it, (were my hands free, I would have sharply waved them, very reminiscent of George Costanza.) I was fuming. I turned to find the people in line staring at me. Now, I was the girl with two six-packs of soda, yelling at the BevMo employees,… who really did have a boyfriend. So, it is not pathetic. (Right?) Sometimes, I just get to that point where, the only way to get my point across is to shout it, annunciated, in a real dramatic fashion. I am an expert in this area.

The BevMo guy was an idiot but he sure did know his carbonated beverages. I’m sure he’ll make some soda loving girl very happy one day. As for me, I’m working on my temper. AND As it turns out, the Soda Jerk was right. The Dang! That's good! Butterscotch Root Beer was the best.  I drank it while I watched ‘The Big Lebowski’ a few nights ago…. WITH MY BOYFRIEND!!!!

How I almost became a Trophy Wife

This is probably the only RomCom I'll ever write, but I'm not making any promises.

My boyfriend/fiancé/best friend has been so for almost 8 years now. We met right about the time we both turned 22. We’ve spent almost all of our twenties together. AKA, our sexual primes. I have plenty of relationship stories, but I’m not going to tell any of those now. Now, I’m going to tell you a story that happened during the 4 months we were “separated” in the summer of 2011.

I’m going to change almost all of the names, places, and even some of the details of this story as some of the people who read my blog at this point would definitely be able to figure out who this is about. I’m obligated to leave the innocent protected because I’ve been told I should write a movie or book about this at a later time.  I’m taking a great risk here, but, THIS is a story that must be told. This is dedicated to every girl I know that has that one, single man in their life that is a COMPLETE fantasy. Whether it is a celebrity, someone you went to high school with, the hot cashier at Whole foods, or whoever. It is pure fantasy and would likely be ruined if you ever managed to score an actual date with this guy. Surely, the first delayed phone response or fart would ruin your entire, personal, lady mental world. My point is that it should remain just that, a fantasy. Because, and I hope I’m not REALLY crushing anyone’s dreams here, that IS all IT is.

Prologue:

His name was Jerrod Finkley. (Ha ha. No, not really. What a stupid fake name.) In high school, Jerrod was an athlete, at the top of his class, and drop dead, mouth-wateringly, out of this world, stupid gorgeous AND 2 years older than me. In high school, I was totally awkward, had a white girl fro, and was often mistaken for a boy. I was just lucky my best friend was beautiful, popular, and talented, for this is why high school was not a total failure for me. I was also lucky in that I was also a little talented myself. It allowed me to be a part of our varsity Pom team, our dance program, our theater program, choir, and the advanced track academic program. (Thank you for my talents, God. For, without them, I would not have survived my teens. My awkward stage lasted from 8-21, guys. It was rough to say the least.) My sophomore year was pretty cool. I was discovering all of the talents I mentioned above and growing out of the phase where I dressed like a thrift store lesbian. Jerrod was a senior. He was one of those completely unapproachable seniors because of all the things I mentioned above. This year was moving along well. In fact, my best friend, Abigail Jenkins, had started dating a senior. He was sort of cool, but most importantly, he was best friends with Jerrod. In the high school world, this meant that as the single “best friends” of a couple who was dating, Jerrod and I HAD to hang out. Jerrod was so nice about it. I knew he was practically doing charity work hanging out with me while Abigail and that guy she dated for a bit made out, but he would even often tell me how cute I was. Oh man, did I mention he was hilarious? I remember that year he was the lead in our school play, yet again proving that he was, hands down, the most talented, perfect being I had ever made contact with. When Abigail broke up with his friend, it was an understatement to say I was devastated. This meant our obligatory hang outs were going to end. My memory gets foggy around this point, but that’s fine because there was really no contact between Jerrod and myself for several years. Screeeeeeeetch, scraaaaaatch, FLASH FORWARD.

2011

My Fiancé and I had broken up. “Fiancé” doesn’t really describe him well enough because we were best friends that put ourselves in a situation that was doomed to fail.  We moved from our 3 bedroom home in a suburb of Phoenix to a studio apartment in Hollywood. 1600 square ft to 400 square ft can ruin any relationship. We fought, had no sex, and I thought I needed to find myself. We took a “break” and I made friends, hiked, drank and got the appropriate amount of self definition I felt I needed during this time. On the 15th, an overcast day in April, I was feeling particularly low and had just returned home from my demeaning LA serving job and got a notification that “Jerrod F” had sent me a message on Facebook. I hadn’t seen or heard from Jerrod since high school! What could he possibly have to say?!  All I could see of the message on my laptop was “Jerrod F. – I think you are….”…….  Ecstatic, I ran, put on my stretchy pants and poured myself the appropriate amount of wine it would take to receive the following message in my FB inbox:  Jerrod F- “I think you are gorgeous. I thought it back in high school, and I definitely think it now. I just wanted you to know….” (the same FB font it arrived to me with. CTRL + V’d from the original message. Somehow seems more organic this way. His words are somehow more authentic. I am sure this is how Jerrod would have wanted it.)

I fell out of my chair, stunned with the pure joy the message had brought me. I read it several times to make sure I wasn’t somehow making it up in my brain. Each time, it got better.  Rightfully so, I facebook stalked him. Turns out, after pursuing a career in acting, and later a career as a concert Cellist, he was studying in Nowheresville, USA to be a SURGEON! This extraordinary human being not only thought I was “gorgeous,” but took the time out of his very adult, very important life to get onto his computer, click on my name, and send a message saying so. The dorky high-schooler in me was flying high!

I FLOATED around for a whole day. I winked at men that were easily out of my league because Jerrod thought I was “gorgeous!”  I mean, WHAT?! Who was I, Reese Witherspoon?!  It was a marvelous 24 hours. I begged my new LA lady friends for feedback on how I should respond. The response had to be the right amount of casual and clever to leave his Midwestern-ass spellbound. After much debate, on April 16th, I responded:  “I don't know what prompted such a sweet message, but it could not have come at a better time. So, thank you! And you're not so bad yourself. I've always thought so.”

Ha Ha. The perfect, casual retort. It looked as though I was carrying on a lifestyle that was both too busy to leave a more, involved thought out response and too self-involved to leave a more “I fucking LOVE YOU! I HAVE FOR YEARS!” response.  Oh my, I was just fantastic.

Then a day or two went by. I had not gotten a response. I checked my internet connection. It seemed to be working normally. Yet, I had received no response. Was I crazy? I would read over our exchange on FB just to ensure it had actually taken place, and my own response to make sure I had said nothing crazy or silly….. No response.

Finally, on the evening of April 19th, I got the notification he had responded on my phone on the way home from an audition in my car. I started to breathe at an accelerated rate. I waited until I got home and snuggled under the warmth of my covers to read what would surely be the start of our romantic, facebook relationship. The message said, “Are you going through a bad time?”  Oh, Ok. Um…… How deep should I get here? I mean, he WAS asking for it, wasn’t he? I’d had a glass of wine or two in me so I responded immediately because I have no patience sober, let alone a little tipsy. Later on in the evening of April 19th, I wrote: “Not a 'bad' time necessarily. My fiance and I are separating after 6 years.... its tough and exciting all at the same time. Just moved to LA 7 months ago, so I'm pretty excited at the thought of taking it on alone. Its just that, after six years, you gotta wonder if you still got it goin' on, you know? The compliment was nice to hear.” (I’d decided to use a lot of shortened, ebonic like words to keep it super casual. Like, whatev.)  I mean, YOU asked for it, Jerrod. I responded immediately because I felt you’d asked for it. This was the relationship YOU had asked for. I slept soundly that evening knowing full well I’d wake up to a prompt response from him because we were definitely THERE facebook relationship-wise.

Morning came and no response. Fine, he was busy. I was busy. No big deal….  Days went by. It was driving me nuts! Occupying my every thought! I would show a picture of him to my friends just so they would have an idea of the ordeal I was going through. When they saw the photo of the tan, blue-eyed, surgeon Adonis, they would pat me on the back and “Aaaaww” with sympathy. It was only so reassuring, and then, on the morning of the 23rd of April, 2011, I received this reply: “I could easily love you”

W….. T….. F…..?

Seriously, W…. T…. F…..?

I showed this response to almost everyone I knew. I even used it as a way to reconnect with people from high school because it was so astonishing. Everyone was blown away.  He was…. Oh my…. And I was just…. normal and he said “I could easily love you. “ What did it mean? He could “easily love” ME? How should I respond to this, “I could easily love you, too?” Was he joking? I mean, it’s a weird thing to say. He had to be joking. I decided after much debate to keep my response ambiguous. This time, I was definitely NOT stupid enough to respond the same day so I waited. His average wait time was 3 days, so I was going to wait at least that. I debated with friends on what my reply should be and took some time for myself. I got a massage, a mani/pedi, got some work done and exactly 72 hours after “I could easily love you”  arrived into my facebook message inbox, I responded with the artfully crafted, well thought out, 5th and final draft of “Aaannddd, so when will you be in Los Angeles next?”

It was perfect. It showed my interest. It was funny. It was casual, just in case this was all a joke. WHAT WAS HAPPENING?! I was beginning to pack for Nowheresville, USA. It was sounding really awesome with that one kind of cool landmark it had and the great schools it had for our future, tan, blue-eyed, curly-haired genius children. Who needed my acting/dancing/singing/writing career here in LA? I could have a SURGEON! I could be trophy wife, right? Sure. I would have to lose my brassy, no BS attitude along with the rest of my personality, but he was a beautiful, like take a “Happy Mother’s Day to Mrs. Finkley” add out  in the West Valley View for simply creating such an amazingly perfect human being, kind of beautiful. I know a girl or two who would definitely go in on that add with me.

I was no idiot. I kept myself busy for the next few days knowing I would receive no response for at least 3-4 days. Whatever. No Big. I was busy, living my awesome, new, LA life. I did everything I could to avoid Facebook so, after 72 hours, I would casually catch whatever reply he decided to send. May 1st brought this response: “ you mean you won't be coming to Nowheresville anytime soon?? J”  Ha! A smiley face? I knew where this was going. I was practically engaged to this man. I dreamed of my friends from back home saying things like, “Did you hear Andrea and Jerrod are getting married?” “Yeah, I hear he drove all the way out to LA without stopping, picked her up, carried her out to the beach in Santa Monica, got down on one knee an proposed to her while dolphins sang and star fish mated on the shore.” “Yeah, I hear she said, Yes.” “Yeah, she is most definitely not the less-attractive one in that relationship.”

Ha ha. Jealous bitches. I clicked the locks on my suitcase as I composed what would surely be my last facebook reply. Phone numbers had to be exchanged at this point and our amazing, one-on-one conversations had to begin to start making our children. I sent the, OH SO clever : “Well, it is a shame that there isn't much to do in Nowheresville because I have a feeling you and I would have fun. ....

and just a reminder, I have the beach. LA-1 Nowheresville-0”

I couldn’t wait to begin our romance. We would tell our grandchildren about the cute, archaic, facebook exchange that got us together. I waited for his reply that would surely give me directions to his place in Nowheresville.

Turns out, I was going to wait a long time. A week passed. Did I say something wrong? Had I been too sarcastic? Men have complained about this trait in me before. Two weeks passed. Ok. Perhaps he was busy with doctor school or something. Yeah, that was it. Doctor finals. Then I began to go through all the stages of grief. There was some denial, some anger, some tears, but then, I began to realize that this was, of course, not really what I wanted. It was unrealistic. I didn’t want to be anyone’s less attractive, sidekick trophy wife.  And, quite frankly, I didn’t want to be anywhere near Nowheresville.

He never responded. A few months later after all of this, my boyfriend and I mended and are now living happily ever after in the best relationship I could ever imagine. Jerrod was the best thing that could’ve happened to me at a really low time in my life. Even now, whenever I’m low, I still look over our FB exchange from more than a year ago and I feel better. I felt beautiful and confident during our Facebook messaging saga. He allowed me to escape to an amazing fantasy world where I felt feminine and beautiful and I was treasured for it. But, Jerrod was just that, a fantasy. I’m happy to have him stay that way. In my world, Jerrod doesn’t fart, leave his shit everywhere, or call me crazy AND he returns my texts in a timely manner. It still bothers me at how perfect he seems to be. According to FB, He’s started is residency, has a great girlfriend, is a great friend to his friends, is a great son, blah, blah. It’s unreal. But that’s fine. I prefer him to stay that way. Unreal.

Epilogue:

I have a friend that knows both Jerrod and I from high school and she and I sat a few weeks ago over hamburgers and talked about how we would pull that lady astronaut, no-stopping, wear a diaper shit if Jerrod said, “Come to Nowheresville today.” I definitely have that dedication. Don’t test me. It’s just that, I like my REAL life. It’s pretty cool and hasn’t been shaped by anyone else’s dreams. I have a supportive, challenging, and uplifting partner who farts, leaves his shit everywhere, and takes way too long to reply to a text. In this way, I’m very lucky.