Stellar Love Stories

If you follow my private blog about my love life (fascinating stuff that)--I am here to inform you that it has finally been updated. And it will be receiving many more updates over my summer vacation.

So, please go read it now because I need advice.

Spoon

Remember the first time you ended up spooning all night with someone you were nervous to care for, nervous to feel for, but the nerves didn't stop you from fountains of care and feelings. You got a little out of sorts to have them next to you. They wanted to stay the night. They brushed their teeth in front of you and winked at you when they caught you staring. You wondered what sounds you would make in your sleep and hoped they wouldn't be too unfeminine. And yet, they snored the whole night long and you forgave them without a moment's notice. Remember when you needed to turn over and you thought that maybe he would stop holding you, but instead, he turned too, and your bodies fit together. Think about that. A body that fit with yours. Remember that. These are not questions. I want you to remember. Now. Remember when you kissed his shoulder because it was the closest thing to your lips, and he rubbed that back part of your neck, just where your scalp and neck connect and it made you think of sunshine and warmth and this one song by Stevie Wonder, of all people. You felt all of that, All from one little spot by his one hand? Remember. Good.

Sometimes I try to Believe.

Sometimes I try and believe in the goodness of men. Sometimes I try to believe that they aren't all the way societal cliches claim them to be.

Sometimes I try to believe that they will listen to me. That they will be interested in what I'm saying and not how pretty it is when my mouth moves.

Sometimes I try to believe that it doesn't matter if I have make-up on that day or not because I never care if they have make-up on either.

Sometimes I try to believe they will see past my blond hair and full mouth and cleavage and see me as a whole person.

Sometimes I want to believe that it is my wit that charms them, and nothing else.

Sometimes I like to believe that they really do want to be making eye contact and that it is not a chore to not look at my lovely breasts (I really do have brilliant breasts). Or watch my ass sway as I walk somewhere.

Sometimes I try to believe that they won't their manhood insulted if I know more about politics then they do. That they won't want me to walk around in 5 inch stiletto heels so that I can turn them on. That they won't feel the need to avoid real conversations. That they actually do want to communicate and commit.

Sometimes I like to believe that the fact that I have an ivy league education, that I own my own house, that I own my own car, that I am completely independent and confident doesn't make them feel like they don't know what they could offer me. Sometimes I like to believe that men know they are actually much more than just providers and protectors. That they can be needed in a woman's life for more reasons than just those. So many more reasons.

These attempts at belief go out the window when I change my facebook page photo to one of my recent  photo shoots. Photos I have TAKEN, not photos that I am IN. The photos I take are of very stunning people most of the time, and when I put a new one up, I usually get about 10 to 15 requests from strange men I have never met who send me a one liner like "Hey, you're hot (though, let's be honest, in this day and age it's usually, "Hey, your hot.")

That's really when my beliefs about what I imagine the amazing possibilities that reside within a man sort of wane.

LOVE Bucket List

When I was young and idealistic and whimsical and braided my long hair so that if fell over my left shoulder and wore sundresses and loved that my room was flowery and sweet and soft...when I was that age, I made a list of things that I wanted to experience in the world of love. I wrote them on little pieces of yellow paper. I folded them up and I put them in a small dish that I never gave back to a boy I dated. He had given me raspberries in that little dish. He gave them to me on our first date. They were fresh and round and red and he taught me how to burst the flavor of them by pressing my tongue to roof of my mouth. He gave them to me instead of flowers. Sometimes, I'll day dream about those raspberries, their taste, and the fact that we both kissed each other with remnants of them still in our mouths.

That little glass bowl is packed up in my belongings somewhere. I'm hoping to find it next month when I finally get my own house and can finally stop living out of a suitcase.


I remember a few that have come true. I wanted to kiss and kiss and kiss in a parking lot during a rainstorm...just like Molly Ringwald at the end of Pretty in Pink. It happened, and it was, if you can believe, even HOTTER than this. It was good. So, so good.

I miss kissing. I think about it a lot because I don't really want a boyfriend. I've had those. They don't stick the way I want them too. They either want too much from me or I want too much from them, but lately, it's been the former and it makes me wonder why I can't seem to make any sort of commitment. But I want kissing. I haven't kissed for two months. Maybe that doesn't seem like a long time. But it is. And I want it.

My wish list in the realm of love, I think, is simple. There is something attainable in that kind of simpleness.

One of the other simplistic wishes on my Love Bucket List is for a man to buy me the perfect used book for no reason at all other than the fact that he knows I would appreciate it. This happened, out of the indigo blue. It was a little French version of a small tale that I read when the sun is shinning. It was perfect.

What is one of yours?

Something like a Pick Up

I am buying a house. It is cute. It is small and white and feels like home. As I wait for the paperwork to go through, I've been vintage/used/old shopping. I've been scouring little shops and finding bargains and eclectic relics that will be stunning in my house. Most people might not get my style. That's ok. I get it. I like it.

I've been hitting this one store pretty often. They get new stuff in daily, they are super reasonable, and I've found three freaking awesome things already. The latest was an old church window from a 1906 chapel. All original glass, huge, arched, various decorations on each pane. Stunning. I bought it. I'm going to hang it on a wall--just as it is. The lady selling it to me kept trying to tell me how to "fix it up". The whole love relationship started when I saw how used and worn out it was!

But that's not the point of this post at all.

The point is that I think one of the owners tried to pick me up today.

But I'm not sure.

The last three times I've gone in he has told me that I smell good.

OK. The third time was a little creepy, but ok.

TODAY:

Him: "So, how tall are you?" (he didn't even say 'hi' when I walked in to pick up this awesome table I just got for a steal!)

Me: "Six foot."

Him: "Wow, that's really tall."

Me: "I suppose it is, at least, that is what I have been told."

Him: "Do you want to know how tall I am?" He said this sort of flirtingly--it was at that moment I paused--wait, was his "How tall are you?" His pick up line? Wait, is this happening? Wait, how do I handle this? Do I want to be picked up by him?

Me: "Um, sure."

Him: "I'm only 5 foot 9."

Me: "That's a perfectly acceptable height." I said because he sounded a bit sad about his height.

Him: "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Me: (not smooth dude, not smooth) Some mumblings about how I date a few different people, but not one main person.

Him: "How tall are the guys you date?"

Me: (seriously, this is the best you've got? You're NOW going to ask about the heights of guys I am dating! Dude, losing points. Ask me about my favorite place to get coffee, if I've seen any good movies, I'm buying an antique table for god's sake, ask me about antiques! Show me your antiques! Give me a discount! That's the way to a woman's heart.

Me: "They're tall, I suppose. It depends."

Him: "Taller than me?"

Me: "Yes, sir. They are ALL taller than you."

The end. **

** The most AWESOMEST part of this story is that I have started to look at men again and think about dating them. My broken heart is so utterly, completely, relishingly healed, that, like the love masochist I am, I'm ready to go out and let it be fragile with someone else.

But that all depends on how tall they are :)

The Wedding Invitation

Sometimes I wish this blog weren't so dedicated to keeping identities private and I could put all the pretty pictures up that I take. This one is sans faces, so I think it is safe.

As my sweet sister, her fiance, and I drove down to Utah county to take engagement photos on my uncle's farm (because, where else would one go?)...the wording of her wedding invitations was the hot topic of deep conversation.

I suggested:

"What is a friend but one soul in two bodies."

She suggested:

"Cute spinster finally gets married to hot bachelor and gives everyone my age some semblance of hope."

Then I suggested:

"He's finally going to make an honest woman out of me."

(they've been co-habitating for awhile now)

And she put in that it might be good to add:

"We are pleased to announce that we will not be living in sin anymore."

And then she remembered this wedding invitation she got once that said,

"You are invited to be a part of our fairytale."

I thought the expectations of that reception might be a little high.

So I suggested something I remember getting on a wedding invitation

(with precious moments on the cover)

"We invite you to be a witness to one of life's loveliest surprises as we are joined together in matrimony..."

And then we realized the demographic of Utah and the typical wedding reception that takes place in a church, with sheet cakes, hundreds of congregation members who give you salad spinners from Wal-Mart and wear overalls to the reception (or thereabouts).

So Her Fiance suggested:

"We request the pleasure of your company as long as you don't bring your children, give us money in lieu of gifts, and don't wear stretchy pants."

This is harder than I thought. What would Martha suggest for a black tie cocktail party/reception at a beautifully lighted venue?

Something Matrimonial...

My sister is getting married in two months.

We have been planning the wedding for over a year.

People will be sitting on chairs,

though I tried to get us to go the "bale of hay" route.

Tiny cookies in perfect colors will be served.

I will be the Maid of Honor

and wearing a dress that fills the roll.

This photo made me want to marry a hippie.

My sister is NOT marrying a Hippie.

Small white cakes will be served.

Something like Love Letters....

Over at the Dancing Newt (who is a terribly delightful blogger, by the way), Newt posted some of her recent love letters. I loved them so much, that I decided to copy her and do the same. Thank you, Newt.

Dear Switzerland,

Just so you know, yelling at me louder in German is not going to make me understand you. I thought speaking French, Italian, some Spanish, and some Indonesian was enough for you?


Dear Bread Baker,

You are the magician I always wished I could be. How do you do it? Each little loaf is a gift from the heavens.

Dear Police Officer,

I am sorry I didn't pay my 1 franc parking today and you felt you had to give me a 40 franc ticket. I promise not to try to cheat the system again.


Dear Alp Air,

You're so cool, crisp, and delightful that I might just have to breathe you in.

Dear Utah,

Today, well, today I really missed your sounds and smells, today I missed all your people and faces and food and the English you speak. Take care. I hope to see you soon.

Dear iTunes,

Please lower your prices. Seriously, you need a frequent shopper card.

Dear Blindside,

I avoided you because I have a hard time with sentimental movies that manipulate my feelings (like when I cried at Wilson (the volleyball) getting lost in the water), but then I got desperate, so I rented you from iTunes....and yeah, I kinda dug it.

Dear Jon Stewart,

Marry me, please.

Dear Dave Eggers,

Write more, please.

Dear Fox,

You better bring FRINGE back asap before I have to come over there and take care of it.

Dear Heart,

I think you are finally mended back together again. Switzerland has stitched you up all nice and neat. It feels good to have you whole.

Hug Me.

v., hugged, hug·ging, hugs.

v.tr.

1. To clasp or hold closely, especially in the arms, as in affection; embrace.
2. To hold steadfastly to; cherish.
3. To stay close to.

v.intr.
To embrace or cling together closely.

n.

1. A close, affectionate embrace.
2. A crushing embrace, as in wrestling.

[Probably of Scandinavian origin, akin to Old Norse hugga, to comfort.]

huggable hug'ga·ble adj.
hugger hug'ger n.

Yesterday on my walk I looked over and saw an oddly shaped person. Then I realized it was two people. They were hugging. Then I remembered how sweet hugs are and how much I love them.

Something Simple

This blog finally feels like a blog to me. Thank you to each of you who are reading and for those of you who are commenting. You will find out that I don't usually post about love on this blog as I have a separate and private blog where I do that. But this post I just wrote, well, this one, I just felt like sharing on a larger scale as I think a lot of you have felt these feelings. I just happen to be feeling them now. By the way, if you'd like to read my Stellar Love Stories--please send me an email and I will send you an invite. It's all love--all the time!!

Something Simple:

He could be kissing someone else right now. He could be holding her hand the way he used to hold mine. He could be kissing that sensitive spot just below her left ear, just like he did mine. Everything he did with me, he could be doing with someone else. Now. Someone not me. Right now. I cannot, thought I've tried these past few months, wrap my brain around this idea.

Does that make the times when it was me less poignant? Does it cheapen what we had? Do we all just continue to replicate the same actions with people we form attachments to?

I can't think that we do. But I've been wrong before. Many times.

She may not know that he likes to have his stomach rubbed. She may never smell like ambrosia the way I did. He might not breathe her in the same way....nor as deeply as he did with me. He might not hold her in the same way...with his hands touching her lower back just so. He may not reach over and tuck that piece of blonde hair behind her ear while she's ranting about feminism.

But then again, he just might and she just might. They might just have exactly what we had. I cannot wrap my brain around this.

He told me he wanted someone simple. Is it possible to be glad I didn't fit that description, but also sad that I didn't fit that description? There is something beautiful in simplicity. Something easy. Something...predictable. I think after what he'd been through in life--he wanted predictable.

He mentioned a girl he thought he could date. She was simple. Very simple. I told him--as we sat on my couch that dark night, no lights, just empty air and black silhouettes--I told him that if he wanted to know what every day for the rest of his life would be like, then he should marry that girl. She was safe.

What he didn't know, what he couldn't see, was that I was safe too. That my love, once given, is fierce and strong and radiant and beautiful and intense and far from simple. It was lasting, it was a choice, it was redeeming, it was voiced, it was considerate, in encouraged, it was passionate, and it never discouraged. It was safe. It wasn't simple. These two things don't have to go together.

But it is over.

And right now, right now--he could be with a simple girl, holding her simple hand, and simply feeling safe.

And I cannot wrap my brain around that.

Stellar Love Stories

For those of you following the Stellar Love Stories...I've started writing them again. It feels good! Lots of juicy love stories to share.

If you need an invite, let me know as this is a private blog!

Click here

choose love

Fear is never love, and love is never afraid.

There is nothing to lose for love. Why should love be afraid? Love only gives. It is not a business transaction, so there is no question of loss or profit. Love enjoys giving, just as flowers enjoy releasing their fragrance.

Fear is a grave, love is a temple. In love, life comes to its ultimate peak. In fear, life falls to the level of death. Fear stinks, love is fragrant.

Be afraid of your ego, be afraid of your lust, be afraid of your greed, be afraid of your possessiveness; be afraid of your jealousy---but there is no question of being afraid of love. Love is divine! Love is like light. When there is light, darkness cannot exist. When there is love, fear cannot exist.

Love can make a great celebration out of your life, but only love--not lust, not ego, not possessiveness, not jealousy, not dependence.

The Ironies of Love

I write to process things. I write when the thoughts in my brain swirl around too much and need a release. I write because maybe, just like many people have told me, I simply think too much. I write. Sometimes my thoughts simply compose themselves in the form of stories. I rearrange them just so.

As many of you know, my oldest half-sister, Heather, was shot by her husband on Thursday night.

All day yesterday the thoughts wouldn't stop. All day as I sat in the ICU waiting room thinking of my sister and how all our lives how now been changed forever, it was just me and just my thoughts. I saw things in images and I tried to compose a logical story. But logic just can't exist in such an irrational world can it?

I saw my sister with a swollen face, with her entire body covered with bandages, with the only recognizable feature being her soft, long brown hair spread over the pillow in a fashion that was poetically beautiful, graceful and fragile. That first moment seeing her stopped my heart. How could that be someone I know? How could that be someone I love?

I sat in the ICU hallway because I didn't want to hear the television in the waiting room, clutching my bag with too tight fingers and an old lady in a wheelchair next to me. She looked sad and her body was frail and small and she was an age that I don't even know if I want to live to. To every hospital worker that walked by she screamed at the top of her lungs "Excuse me! You have my husband! I want my husband!" She couldn't go beyond the double doors because she was sick. They wouldn't let her. Her words just kept echoing in my mind. They had her husband, the ICU had her husband and they had my sister and they were calling the shots and they had other people in there. They had them.

My thoughts turned to my brother in law. They turned to the big hug he gave me before I left on my mission and how he told me he was proud. They turned to his height and strength and his smile and how he always made the perfect hamburgers at the family barbeques. They thought of how he held each of their three children with love and tenderness in the hospital after they were born. They thought of the day he married Heather. The day he stood by the priest and watched her walk towards him. Heather, in that white dress, married in a mountain grove of turning leaves in a beautiful Autumn flow of colors much like there are now.

My thoughts tried to put this story together, tried to compose how someone went through all of that and ended up in the driveway. She saying that she was leaving him. Him pulling out a gun and saying she would die first. Little Megan watching. Him shooting her four times, in the face, in each arm, in the knee. My brain can't make that into part of their story. They had a beautiful home, always good with money and always successful. They were always happy. They were to be envied, so how did this happen?

How can anyone do this to someone else? Any two strangers, how could they do this. What is humanity? Is the definition of that word lacking some malicious part that we pretend isn't there?

But how could two people who have shared so much have such a different story going on underneath the surface than the one my brain had been composing for them?

Yesterday, in that waiting room, I had a thought I haven't really ever entertained.

"I don't know if I believe in God anymore."

I don't know if God is apart of my story anymore.

At least not this weekend.

After an afternoon in the ICU I took a break. Then we went back in the evening.

We were in the waiting room. My dad and my mom were holding hands and leaning close together. My sister and her husband had their arms around each other and he was comforting her. My other sister had her boyfriend (almost fiance) and he was slowly rubbing her back and neck and being there. And my youngest sister had her fiance there, going to buy her some coffee, asking what he could do. And for just a few moments I cried selfishly. It was nice not to have anyone asking my why I was crying, we had all been crying. But for the first time that day I cried because I felt really, really alone. I cried because I didn't have that person to depend on. I cried because as we all sat quietly in the waiting room I just sat there and held my purse in my lap. I watched all my sweet sisters with the loves of their lives and I felt nothing but skeptical. I felt nothing but the fact that I was alone and maybe life is better when you don't depend on that one other person. Around me, in that waiting room, there was so much love. And yet, why was my sister bleeding and wounded behind those doors as a result of some twisted version of love? How could I be in the presence of such sweet and tender emotions as these four beautiful couples were showing last night? All the while sitting and waiting to hear if Heather would live because of what own husband had done to her. How is such a dichotomy of the same emotion even possible?

Last night the ironies of love were simply too much for me to handle.