Who says?

(This post was inspired as a response to some of the comments made on this post.)

Moms, friends and marrieds will always tell you, "He's out there, just wait - you'll find Him one of these days."

Who says?

And why do I need "Him" to be out there? What's wrong with me as I am?

Yeah, I would like to have someone to take me dancing on Saturday and then to church on Sunday, someone to cook for, someone to help with the dishes and laundry, someone to snuggle with when watching a movie. Someone with whom to discuss the movie when it's over. Someone I know I can call if I get a flat tire. We just had a three-day "ice storm" (Texas-style, but still bad enough for me) and although I had Indy curled up by my feet under the covers, it would have been much nicer to have a not-so-furry bipedal in his place.

Guys don't go through singlehood looking for "Her" - why do we make that the focus of our existence?

I know I'm a rarity. I'm intelligent, articulate, fun, funny. I can appreciate opera, karaoke, Shakespeare, Beavis and Butthead, Stephen King, Bridget Jones, Harry Potter, Tchaikovsky and Tenacious D. I own my own house and car (paid for); I have a degree and a career (and almost have my first graduate degree); outside of mortgage and student loans (which are just a part of life) my debt is less than $2,000. I have no children. I am a cheap date (unless you want to take me somewhere fancy; I won't argue with you.) I don't smoke, don't drink; I read, I think, I can carry a conversation in a variety of settings. I am healthy and attractive. Why in the world no idiot has snatched me up yet is beyond me.

Yes, I'm sure there's Somebody Out There who's a "perfect catch" just like me. And I'm sure we'd get along. But you know what? I don't think I have the emotional energy to hunt for him. I have life to live, I'd rather spend my time doing that than searching for some guy that, if history is any indication, is going to a) abuse me, or b) dump me because of his own baggage and insecurities.

Why do I need to "wait for Him"? Why do people encourage me to do so, giving me false hope?

"Good Guys" are out there; I know, I've seen them. My sister married one. My mom married two (one at a time, you bums!) However, they are few and far between. I usually meet the ones who can't commit, or the ones who committed but are now calling me behind wife's back (yes, this has happened more than once, with more than one guy). Why do I need A Guy to be whole? To be normal? To be happy?

I don't need a guy to be a mother. Ideally, I would love to have one. But I know I'm better off in the company f my cats than some emotionally unavailable jerk who's going to make me feel I'm not worth his time. I've made leaps and bounds in my self-esteem since I've been alone. I hit bottom and below in my marriage; Nietzsche must have been right, because I'm still alive, and much stronger. Alone.

I want "love" and companionship. Who doesn't? But I'm sick of being lied to, by the guys who've sold me the song and dance, and by all those souls full of good inentions who think they are being helpful by feeding me this false hope. Why am I not good enough as I am? Why am I not good enough on my own? Why am I not good enough by myself?

You mean well, I know. And hey, maybe from where you're standing, smug and married, you do truly believe that there is a Someone for everyone and that I just am not trying hard enough to find my Him, or that I'm trying too hard and I need to let Him show up on my doorstep (big red bow optional). But you know what? I'm damn good enough on my own - and so are all other smart single women out there.

New Year - Bad Karma

At the ripe old age of near-30, I had my first "big" New Year's Eve plans. Courtesy of a friend, of course - if left to my own devices, I would have hung around yet another karaoke bar.

Instead, my good friend Megan came to my rescue, asking me to tag along with her and her friends at a hip and trendy bar in Dallas, Karma. Although it is located in a strip mall, it must be hip and trendy - there was a cover charge (normally it's against my religion to pay to get into a bar, but what could I do?), and we were forced to stand outside, in the cold in our pretty, non-warm shoes and skimpy outfits, until the Big, Scary Man at the door deemed us worthy of entering. At least it wasn't one of those where Mr. Big, Scary Man picks and chooses who gets in and who's not hip and trendy enough; he did go in order.

Waiting outside in the cold was quite irritating and not just for the obvious reasons. As I had mentioned, this hip and trendy place was charging a cover for the pleasure of patronizing their establishment; this cover was $10 if you arrived before 10:00 p.m., but jumped to $20 after 10:00. Conveniently, the line for non-reservations (reservations, I heard through the grapevine, involved not only the reservation of a table but also the purchase of a $300 bottle of bubbly) was stagnant until right about... 10:00 p.m. Hmm... coincidence? Or clever marketing ploy?

Considering how unhappy I was about the initial $10 charge, you can imagine how thrilled I was about being conned into paying twice as much. Had I been alone, I would have turned on my stiletto heel and made a boisterous exit, then promptly headed to my local cover-free karaoke dive. Sadly, I was with "a party," and one I barely knew at that. So I followed the mob and handed over my cash.

I guess, for people who embibe, the $20 cover charge was offset by the $3 drinks. Everything was $3, which at first made me weary (and understandably so, given the events leading up to the bar) - were these punks going to charge me $3 for my Coke with no ice? I leaned in toward the bartender to ask him, but he served the drink before I finished the question. I took the glass and turned around - no, I shall not be paying, and no, I shall not be tipping. The girl at the door took all my money, sorry, Charlie. He didn't seem to mind, though, which was good.

Other than the exorbitant cover charge, the place was nice. I could have done without the colored stobe lights, but all's well that ends well, as I didn't suffer a seizure. The music was typical club music, even though better than most, I think. I'm not a fan of "house/techno" music, I like music with words and with, well, music, not just a synthesized beat. This was still "club" music, with more beat than words, but it did have words and they played a variety of songs, not just the same three popular choices seventeen times over.

I do have to mention the bathrooms. When the line goes down the hall and around the corner, literally... you need more bathrooms. When you charge $20 for ladies to get in the stinkin' place, you can afford to put in some more bathrooms.

The coat check was, oddly enough, also in the bathroom (which was on the opposite end of the club from the bar, don't ask me why). This is not the smartest design choice, fellas - you have a line of small-bladdered, embibed women who already have their panties in a tight bunch because they need to pee and have been standing in line forever, and you're asking other embibed (and therefore less coherent) women to walk past them, cutting in line, to get to their coats and purses? What, do you have cameras set up outside the bathroom to tape the catfights? (C'mon, guys - at $20 a head, do you need the extra income?) It almost got ugly. No, boys, sorry - no catfights, all the girls kept their tops, and their bunched panties, on.

I do have to brag - I stuck it to The Man.

The bathroom contained the lady who handed you paper towels to dry your hands, and a table full of toiletries - lip gloss, makeup, and the like. And, of course, the Tip Jar. Do not ask me why on Earth I would want to borrow the community lip gloss, but I guess I'm just not hip and trendy enough to get it. There was, in addition to lip gloss and cigarrettes, a bowl of mints and Blow-Pops.

While the bathroom attendant/coat check lady was hassling with some girl's coat (which, by the way, were not hanging, but strewn across two chairs. In the bathroom), I snuck a LifeSaver.

I feel I got my $20 worth.

So this is Christmas...

Something old
Growing up in Chile, Christmas (December as a whole) happened in the summer (which, come to think of it, I think it still does, at least for those south of the Equator). Typical Christmas presents for the first half of my life always included bathing suits, beach toys, beach towels, arm floaties. It was a little strange to see Santa on billboards and streetcorners in his North Pole red suit with white fur trim when it was 30 C outside - some ads tried to "summer-ize" Santa by giving him a red bathing suit instead; red swim shorts, still trimmed with white fur, and still topped with his traditional Santa hat, accompanied by his trademark black boots - but when you're a kid, and you don't questions eight flying reindeer traveling around the entire world exactly at midnight to give away free stuff to kids for no good reason, why would you question some funny fat man's fashion choices?

Transplanted to Texas, Christmas now happens in the winter. But now we're talking about Texas Winters - a week before Christmas I was walking into Target squinting at the sunlight, wearing flip-flops and a t-shirt, gleefully enjoying the 80 F weather. Coming from way south of the border, I hate it when people complain about this glorious weather around Christmastime, whining that "it doesn't feel like Christmas." Look, if you've always lived in Texas, then this is the weather you've always had, so what does Christmas feel like to you? But mainly my beef is that Christmas has never been cold for me, and I like the warm weather around this time. Partly because of the memories, but mostly because I hate cold weather no matter what the holiday (it's never bothered me that my birthday, which is in July, is no longer in the middle of winter).

My siblings and I would sing about White Christmases and Frosty the Snowman while eating popsicles barefoot in the backyard in eager childish anticipation of Christmas, even though we had never made a snowman in our entire lives. Why would we worry about the "white" missing from our Christmas? I guess it would have been nifty to be able to make our own Frosty, but we didn't have a magical hat so the lack of snowman-making snow was not a big deal anyway.

Something new
When my mom remarried, after eight (or so) years without a single date (to my knowledge), quite a few things changed within our family traditions. I don't know if the fact that I was already in college and out of the house made the transition easier or harder. Not being home as much (even though I was going to school in the same town - I guess I'm not the most dutiful daughter) meant that I didn't see the small, gradual changes, I just got slapped in the face by them when I did come home.

The Christmas traditions changed, adding the traditions of the step-family. I have, in the six (or so) years since the wedding, managed to come to terms with these additions. A variety if issues on my part made this quite a task, but this past Christmas was actually quite enjoyable. Which was a lot better than what I've cause in the past - hopefully this peace will develop into another new tradition.

Something borrowed
This year, my mom started another tradition, which I also hope we keep, cheesy as it is. My step-sister's daughter, aged three and a half, has been going to church with my mom and step-dad and attending the Sunday School and Children's Church classes. The pastor's wife, who leads many of these things, stresses the fact that Christmas is Jesus's birthday, so my mom decided to bake a birthday cake for Jesus.

It sounded goofy when she first said it, but when we sat down, after a huge family dinner where we actually managed to fit the twelve (or so?) family members who were there around the table (made for eight), it didn't turn out to feel so goofy.

My mom's family sings three birthday songs - the traditional "Happy Birthday," followed by "Who is the Birthday Girl/Boy Today?" and, for the grand finale, "We Had a Very Lovely Time" (lyrics available upon request). This is one of the many traditions from my side of the family that the steps graciously added to their traditions without the whining and fussing that I did about their holiday traditions, by the way. As with every birthday, we started with "Happy Birthday" and sang all three songs. I don't know why, but singing those songs, listening to the words I've been rotely singing since I was able to form words, shone a new light on Christmas. It sounds so silly to bake a cake for Jesus, but that's what Christmas is. Instead of getting caught up in the shopping and buying, I'd much rather enjoy cake and ice cream.

I hope we keep the birthday cake tradition... even if I have to admit it's for me, not for the three-year-old.

Something blue
This year, I tried once again to add a "family donation" to a charity, to keep the focus on giving instead of consuming. The idea didn't seem to catch on, and I didn't follow through with it either. The idea was for us to give money to donate, as a lump sum, to a charity on behalf of the whole family, instead of going through the stress and expense of buying presents for each other when we don't need any more stuff, really. This year, I told myself that even if nobody else did it, I'd do it anyway.

Here we are, December 28th, and I still have not even decided how much I'm going to give. I wish I could stick to my good intentions with slightly stronger conviction.