THE SUN (or, at least, everything under it)

It's been quite a while now since I've stepped up to the blogging plate (sorry, adoring fans!—all three of you, that is), and there is much to be discussed, for there has been much on 'Gizzle's mind as of late.

I'll lead with a waxing update. First off, I found a MUCH MUCH better waxing joint. I mean, 100 times better than that previous butcher shop. It was quick and easy, there was minuscule plucking involved, and the recovery time was about 20 minutes as compared to, like, 3 weeks. Seriously, I was in a hot tub the same night. However, I still ended up with problems. The lovely Brooke, who was fantastic mind you, put some oil on my forehead after waxing my brows. This after remarking what sensitive skin I have. A couple days later, I glance in the mirror only to be horrified by my own face! My forehead is completely broken out, as if I didn't already look pubescent enough. Do I really need to look more like a teenage girl? It'll go away, but it's a bummer. Unless I get hit on by an 18-year-old or something. That would help give the ol' ego the boost it needs at a time like this.

I've begun reading devouring this book Loose Girl, a fascinating memoir about a girl who was very promiscuous from an early age. The author is actually a friend of my friend Brittney (Brittney, are you listening?), and she will be coming to our next book club meeting! When I started the book I thought, Wow, this could be MY memoir, it is so close to how I thought and acted back then. But there are noteworthy differences: My parents did not get divorced, my mother did not leave me, and I did not sleep with a bajillion guys. I have, however, had little "things" with a massive slew of dudes—I was fortunate enough, though (as the author was not) to have myself a really sweet, loving boyfriend when I was in high school and beyond. That was actually my longest relationship to date (and I am long-term relationship girl) and, honestly, no one since has ever loved me like he did. I hate to sound hokey (really, I do), but I seriously wonder if anyone ever will be able to match the love that he had for me, and I sincerely doubt it. If I hadn't known this boy's love I would tell you that the word had no business trying to follow the term "unconditional" in a sentence (unless you're talking parent/child love—I'll give ya that one). It was like that. And, yes, I threw it away, cold B that I am. But I was 19, so give me a break. Well. Anyway, I'm digressing.

It is sadly and painfully clear that the author of Loose Girl, Kerry Cohen, so desperately needs to be wanted, desired, loved. That's what she searches for. Each boy/man, each time, she is hoping maybe this one will stay, and will love her. It's rather depressing, but poignant too. I was telling my good friend Trish about the book yesterday. I had just walked into the house and was sitting down on the couch when she brought up this NY Times article "What Do Women Want?"* As she started telling me about it, I noticed a stack of paper Roommie had left on the coffee table. It was the very article Trish was simultaneously referencing. It seems this article has been making its rounds.

Following my own experiences, past and present, and reading the book and the article, things seem more clear now. I don't know why this didn't dawn on me before. Women are complicated, yes. But making them happy is not. It's actually fairly simple: Make them feel desired. Women want to feel desired, above all else. As one of the scientists/psychologists in the article says, for women, "desire is the orgasm." Think about it.

But not too much, meaning not so much that you freak out on your manpanion because he should be showing his desire more, like he did when first trying to enter your pants. That is too much. I've realized that I spend way too much time inside my head and, you know, it gets kinda lonely up in there. I know I should probably be on medication, but I'm trying to brave the storm that is life coupled with mental, um, "eccentricity" without that kind of help. I already have enough side effects to deal with thanks to BC.

Even though I didn't come from a broken home—single parent, divorce, abuse—I feel like I ended up like someone who did.** Is that weird? I think it's just because I'm imaginative and dramatic, and maybe because I grew up living in books and in my head. Books. They are also the culprits behind my theory of why I tend to think like a guy often enough. Those closest to me in life right now (MP, Roommie) notice it too. Here's the theory: It's that many of the books I read growing up focused on male protagonists, whom I then learned to relate to. That makes a lot of sense to me, whether it's true or not.

MP and I were brunching locally one day when an acquaintance of MP's walked in.*** They said hello and the guy walked away. Immediately, I whispered to MP, "Hee hee, that guy you know's fly is down." His question was, "How did you notice that? You just automatically look at a guy's crotch when he walks into the room?" Me: "Um, it was at eye level?"


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*http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/magazine/25desire-t.html
**This is not to say my family lacked dysfunction, trust me. We've got your alcoholism, codependency, insecurity, rehab, teenage pregnancy, junkies, incarceration, mental illness—sadly, the list could go on.
***Seriously, is there anyone in this town that MP doesn't know? We literally cannot go ANYwhere without running into someone he knows. And he's not even from here. He should change his last name to "Bacon." Maggie Bacon. Wait, that doesn't sound so good. . . .