A Thought, Therefore I Am ... Awake

Why am I up at this time? Neil Young, that's why.

Those who know me are aware that I regularly have a song stuck in my head. How they know this is that I subject them to the song by posting it on Facebook -- no matter how awesome or awful it may be -- to exorcise it out of my own head. It works, too. After I post it ... and then force myself to listen to it about a dozen times in a row ... the song begins to slowly fade out.

Most days I wake up with a song already playing in there, like I have a crazed brain dj who spins just the loops of certain parts of songs over and over to get my attention, except when I start paying attention I don't usually find a message; rather, I just find that at some point I must've heard or said a snippet of, say, some ABBA ditty (like, "Knowing me, knowing you") and my good old brain dj thinks it was a request.*

Occasionally, my brain dj is so adamant that I hear a song, s/he wakes me up in the middle of the night to play it for me ... like tonight. This time, I got really lucky, because it was Neil Young's "Only Love Can Break Your Heart" ... and given that I have a huge soft spot for Mr. Young, I cannot be angry that he or my rabid brain dj woke me up at the crazy hour of 2:15 AM on a Tuesday night ... or I guess it's Wednesday morning now. 

To get myself back to sleep quicker, I decided that I should slip over to my computer and pull up said stuck song in an attempt to exorcise it early ... or at least get the lyrics right, so I'm not going around all day singing:

I have a friend I've never seen. He hides his head inside a tree.**

The first video that Google presents to me in my search is one that has been put together with very old black and white footage of a wedding, so not only is the song mesmerizing, so are the images. I am, of course, immediately entranced... 

Then at about 2:15 into the video, something jars me out of that trance. It appears to be a boy jumping up on the left side of the frame so that he can get on camera as it's slowly panning the crowd. Time telephone!

No, I'm not dream blogging. I'll explain...

See, I once made a little movie using found home movies that I'd purchased off of Ebay ... well, mostly made up of found movies. At the very end, however, I also inserted a segment of all of my own home movies from growing up, edited just to be the parts with me -- turned out to only be a total running time of just 10 minutes worth of film, if you can believe it ... and I was an only child! Sheesh! Where was I again? Oh yeah...

To be practical, I compressed that 10 minutes into just 2 minutes by speeding it up; to be artsy and weird, I presented it all in reverse chronological order. It made sense when I was editing the film (running on very little sleep and nothing to eat but bison summer sausages and Diet Cokes for 8 weeks straight), as I was trying to find the origin of a thought ... a thought shooting a home movie, a thought being a woman, a thought on the responsibility of collecting long-dead strangers' personal things, etc.

The main thought that I was pursuing -- the film itself -- actually was born in a moment when I was just a Wee-Creature ... heck, I was merely a She-Tadpole. 

An actual picture of actual me from around that actual time.
Yes, that really is me. Whaddiya mean, "What happened?"

I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7 years old, when my father was doing his annual "film the Christmas decorations for posterity sake-- Dammit, the kid's in the shot! I'll just tell her to hold the dog to make her useful" thing. (Yes, the reason there was only 10 minutes of film of me was that there were 45 minutes of film reels of furniture, Xmas trees, parades, and other "important" stuff. Again, I was his only child.)

In that moment that I was supposed to be helping to feature the dog and Xmas tree like some sort of PRICE IS RIGHT model, tadpole me got a thought:

What if there was a way to send a message to yourself in the future through a movie camera? What if the lens could act like some sort of time telephone, and if I can look into it while I'm thinking that thought, I can project that same thought to myself in the future ... like 21 or something old like that? 

The only problem was, my dad wasn't interested in shooting me in that moment. He needed to capture that new Santa house my mom created in her ceramics class ... capture it good, for posterity's sake! I had to take matters into my own hands ... or in this case, feet.

I began jumping up to get my eyes in line with the lens. If you're watching my film FOUND, around 7:17 you see just a spazzy blur bouncing up and down for about 3 seconds, totally messing up the shot of the lovely red ceramic Santa house atop the giant console television set.***

The good news is the time telephone worked! The thought got through, and I made the experimental art documentary short that made me the nillionaire I am today!

The strange news that jarred me alert over an image of a jumping boy in an old home movie that reminded me of my own jumping self in my home movies was the uncanny moment not 6 hours earlier, when I was telling a friend about that little film of mine for the first time because the subject of copyright law came up ... a topic I happen to know a little something about firsthand. And I'm not bitter in the slightest. Nope.****

Wow. I stayed awake for an extra hour to essentially write an ode to coinkydinks.

Yeah, I basically live for this shit.

*A quite lovely former co-worker of mine told me that this song or phrase looping is actually a brain defect and is related to schizophrenia. That information only looped in my head for about 3 weeks before it finally dissipated.

**It's actually, "He hides his head inside a dream." Good thing I caught that.

***If you know where my film is to watch for that, good for you! If you don't, I'm not posting it here for you to track me down on Facebook in order to "friend" and/or date me, just because you've been stalking my blog. Not again.

****Copyleft, people. Google it.

Phenomenon

Doo doo dee doo-doo. Phenomenon. Doo doo dee doo.

I told you guys all about how awesome my imaginary boyfriend is ... was ... whatever ... sure, but I never expected any of you to actually start seeing him with your own eyes. I honestly don't know how any of this phenomenon happened, but it is uncanny!

Here's where I describe to you in great detail some delicate matters of the heart that most shrink from, likely outing yet another oddball side of myself that will make you all think, "Oh crap! She's doing it again!" Or maybe just, "Oh crap. She's doing it. Again."

This time, however, it's not me; it's you! Yep, all you.

Well, okay ... it's a little bit me. And it's a little bit you, too.

Why am I singing this blog now?

At first it all started out like just your typical outdoor concert, where friends and strangers gather wearing captain's hats like a "Tenille got too much credit!" convention, get completely blotto in the hot August evening, and pretend it's the 70s again, while singing songs they probably only remember choruses to and gyrating around with said friends and strangers. There does or does not have to be a giant inflatable shark nearby with kids sliding out of it, and a she-male passerby giving his/her own dance show with a Shakeweight while her/his tank dress keeps allowing full-on nipple slips.

Yes, I am (almost) entirely certain that we concertgoers were merely tipsy and a little overheated ... nothing else. We all saw these same things and have (varying degrees of) memories of these sights, so therefore we can come to a consensus that these things were real. Right? Right.

And yet I have no explanation for the multiple, independent hallucinations of me in a relationship.

The first reported sighting came when I was flagged away from a great conversation with guy friends about movies and music and farts (I'm adding that last one in, but I'm sure they were mentioned or snuck at some point) by a group of female friends and strangers, who felt they needed to "save" me from the boy talk.

Among these ladies was a drunken former cheerleader, who proudly told us all about how she's angry that her once robust arm muscles turned to pure flab, how her husband is the only man she's ever had sex with, how he ended up with only one testicle, and other topics that I've since blocked. She turned to me in a breath between talking about how long she'd only been having flabby-armed sex with this one man and his one testicle to ask me, "So how long have you two been together?"

I looked next to me ... no one there ... before replying, "Me? I'm single." Then she sloshed her drink in the general direction of the boys and asked, "Isn't that one yours?" I laughed it off, explaining, "Oh no, I'm divorced. He's divorced, too. Not from each oth-." Interrupting me, she slurred, "Well, what are you two waiting for? Get on that!"

I laughed uncomfortably again, as yet another gal from our group walked up, asking if anyone knew how to find the restrooms. I jumped up, exclaiming too robustly, "I do! I have to go, too!"

I really didn't have to go that badly; I just needed a convenient escape.

I trotted off with the second gal -- who was having far less foot-in-mouth issues than I remember her having -- until we rounded the corner to find the line to the women's restroom was three years long. Opting for the much shorter, but more disgusting Port-a-TARDIS option, we joined the other desperate "wizzards" there, where she pointed further up the queue, noting the very same male friend.

Female Two: "There's your hubby going in!"
Me: "Heh, no. We're not mar..."
FT: "Oh, okay. Your honey."
Me: "Hee. Er. No. We. Not. Couple. Er. I..."
FT: "Wow. I didn't mean to embarrass you."'
Me: "...I mean ... he's a friend. Friend of friends. We're both friends. We've many friends."

What was happening to me!? Somehow, English had become my second language! Luckily, my own embarrassing moment got sidelined by that same male friend getting an embarrassing walk-in from another dude because of an unlocked door.

Oh, yes! Let's talk about how important it is that we remember to lock the door! Yes! Whew. Handled that diversion like a champ.

I managed to survive the TURDIS experience only mildly mentally challenged, and avoided the overly inquisitive ladies by returned to hang out with the boys. At least they don't want to ask me about other boys. Or shoes. Or cheerleading. Or flabby arms. Or missing testicles. Well, not usually. Even though I may have said something embarrassing about a pipe fetish, it was still a much more comfortable conversation than the psychological minefield the girls were sure to dredge.

Somehow our group of drunken sailors finagled their way around a table that belonged to an older woman and her son -- befriending them in order to commandeer her table, I believe. At some point, the drunken ex-cheerleader decided to start talking about my boobs ... to the very same person she'd previously thought was my significant other ... or maybe she still did think that? Either way, in my mildly buzzy, but still uncomfortable state, I may have uncontrollably blurted something else embarrassing here, too -- like my cup size -- which may have inadvertently fueled the discussion further. That was my cue to hightail it to the bar and escape awkwardness again. I never set out to order that many vodka tonics over the course of the evening; it really was all the fault of socially awkward situations. Just like high school all over again.

When I returned, the boob talk was over (thank goodness), and only managed to be brought up again 5 or 6 more times that evening. During a lull in the boob and testicle talk, the table-mom/new stranger leaned to me and quietly said, "Your husband is really nice."

[press play; start singing until 0:46] 

...It's a little bit me. (A little bit me.) It's a little bit yo- 

[press pause; insert record rip sound.]

What? No, I ask you... what? As in, what is going on here?

I momentarily considered that I was being punked ... that everyone was in on it and secretly giggling over how more and more befuddled by this same question I was getting. Then I realized that everyone was genuinely hammered, and it would take someone a lot more sober to pull off that prank. So I decided to relax about it.

How I got next to the one-testicled husband of the drunken ex-cheerleader, I don't know. And how he became almost as obsessed with touching my boobs as his wife was obsessed with talking about them, I also don't know. What I do know is when I turned the grope down, he leaned in and slurred, "Will it make your guy jealous?"

Hey now! Wait. What? How did...? Where is that hidden camera!?

He swore he just assumed we were a couple, that no one said anything to him, but he also added that, since I was in fact single, I should just go with it. The boob grope, that is.

Really? Does this work on anyone?

Time for an escape (not the Pina Colada Song which ironically was never covered, despite it apparently being my theme song for the evening). Another trip to the bar had yet a fourth tipsy gal from our group cherrily saying to me as she passed by with drinks, "I like your new guy!" At this point, I just went with it and chirped back, "Thanks!" If they were going to insist on he and I being an item, I was no longer going to contradict anyone.

I returned to the table -- or rather, was hailed over again -- by two more female friends who do actually know me well enough not to ask the question the others had asked. They did, however, have questions of their own, and they got right down to business.

[highly edited version follows]

Ms. Thing One: "What is going on between you two?"
Ms. Thing Two: "Seriously!"
Me: "Unless you know something I don't know, nothing. Honest! Why is literally everyone asking me?"
Ms. T1: "Because there's a thing between you. It's huge."
Me: "I'm not denying it, but are you sure it's not just coming from me? I have that imaginary boyfr-"
Ms. T2: "It's BOTH of you! That's why everyone sees it. It's PALPABLE!"

Speaking of palpable, if you ever want to feel the simultaneous thrill and terror of what it's like to be in one of those shark cages while the sharks look at you as their overly prepackaged snack, just have some juicy tidbit floating around in your psyche that girls will want to sink their rows and rows of sharp, toothy questions into ... and they will. Oh, they will. All I could do was give them what they wanted. I was more amused at this point than scared, as I realized that everyone was now seeing me with an imaginary boyfriend! I am just that good! Huzzah!

That was my own inside joke. The reality is that once I got over trying to dissuade anyone of their assumptions, I enjoyed being seen as part of a couple. Why wouldn't I? He's cute. He's funny. He's smart. He's my highest match in a 500 mile radius, according to a certain dating site we both use. If he's my imaginary boyfriend made manifest ... even just for one evening ... even just fleetingly as images in other people's minds ... what's not to like?

Speaking of things burned into people's brains, the image of me enthusiastically simulating a naughty act with my tongue and a stranger's lightsaber may continue to bounce around in a few people's thoughts, cameras, and erotic fan-fic message boards for a while.*

And so with that lightsaber fanning the flames of passion and drunken desire, of course you know how this evening ends.

Yes, in traditional She-Creature fashion, I brought him home with me! Wanna meet him? I don't normally mention anyone by name, but I feel this one's going to be around for a while. Meet John...

Me to John: "You make my dreams come true."

I introduced him to the dogs, but they didn't really warm up to him very quickly...

Millie to John: "I can't go for that. No, no. No can do."

Bacon to John: "My private eyes are watching you."

Then things went from bad to worse!

John to me: "She's a maneater!"

*Where the real events ended. Only the lightsaber got any action.

Never Say Neverland

For the last couple of years -- pretty much since my break up with "Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde" -- I've been half-jokingly saying that I have an imaginary boyfriend, who flies around in a TARDIS. Well okay, at first the story was that I have an imaginary boyfriend who is Jack Lemmon circa 1960, but no one else seems to remember how awesome Jack Lemmon was back then. For some reason, people can accept me pining after a Timelord, however ... still not sure why?

Anyway, some of that "imaginary boyfriend" business is no joking matter. I really did conjure an imaginary boyfriend. No, he doesn't fly around in a TARDIS; no, he doesn't dress up in drag while on the run from the mob; and before you ask, no, I did not just break up with an imaginary long distance boyfriend who lived in a fairy tale land called "Arkansas." That was all real -- I even have pictures to prove it! Also, although I have no actual proof, I hear there really is a land called "Arkansas," but I'll believe that when I see it, which may be never, so I'll just call it Neverland.

Where did all of this wackiness begin? Well, last Fall, I managed to conjure the idea of myself in the funnest, quirkiest car I could imagine (or as Edmunds.com called it, "the car equivalent of a ninja dressed in Hello Kitty pajamas riding on the back of a robot Godzilla") right into my reality. It's true; I did such a good job of fantasizing about it, the next thing I knew I was driving around in that very same fun, quirky car. To this day, everywhere I go, people tell me how much fun they think she is, and I gleefully gush that she really is as much fun as she looks. Her name is Mothra ... she's kind of a big deal ... protecting the Earth from threats and such.

So after I managed such a great feat, I set my focus on my love life -- my non-existent love life, that is. At that point in time, I really did just fantasize about David Tennant showing up in a blue box on my lawn, or Tom Waits driving a Citroen up my driveway, or Jack Lemmon atop a unicorn in my bedroom. Hey, a girl can dream, right?

Those kinds of dreams get in the way of reality, however, and quite frankly set the bar a little too high (yes, I said "high" -- shut up). I mean, where's a regular guy going to find a Citroen or a unicorn in this economy? Sure, he could build a TARDIS, I've seen those on Pinterest, but that's a lot of pressure. No, I needed to figure out what was the magic of conjuring Mothra.

The key was that I focused entirely on how it felt to be driving her everywhere. Even while I was driving my old beater of a minivan, I would fantasize about people smiling and waving at me in my kooky funmobile.

It wasn't easy transferring this idea to a companion at first, because I really wasn't sure if it was sane what I was doing. But little by little, I started to feel my way into an imaginary relationship. If I was at the movies alone, I would leave a seat open next to me and imagine sharing an armrest with him. At some point during the movie, I might just tilt my head over to the side, as if to rest it on someone's shoulder. It may have looked odd, but what were people doing looking at me during the movie anyhow? They should be watching the screen!

Basically, I didn't care because it felt nice. While driving around, I would have fun conversations with imaginary him and joke about the things I saw, or the places we were going. I never talked aloud while in public (like the movies), but the conversations did often continue in my head, making me have a bit of a smirk on my face sometimes like I was in on a really good joke.

I noticed that people around me started to respond to that smirk, too. They started saying "hello" or asking me for directions or wanting to talk about the weather or the movie we were about to see, what have you. I just watched them light up the way you see people light up when you're part of a bubbly couple playfully interacting with everyone you meet. It was a beauty to behold. I decided we -- my imaginary boyfriend and me -- were that kind of couple ... the kind that makes people feel a little bit better about their day just from the interaction.

As I wove the pieces of this person more and more into being, I imagined that every little feeling moment that I was finding and liking became its own wriggling fiber; as I collected those fibers more and more, soon this form started to take shape next to me. It was just a feeling of a form, but if I closed my eyes, it felt as real as when someone walks up behind you and you haven't seen them yet, but you know they're there.

Absent Minded - Joe Webb

There weren't very many specifics of this person; this conjured form was entirely feeling-based. It was how I expected to feel when I was with him. But do you know what the best part of this whole thing is? I learned that a real guy is not responsible for me feeling that good. I am responsible for feeling that good ... just me! I did that! So that means that when the real guy does step into that awesome vibrational imagined spot, all he has to do is keep track of his own happy vibes, because I'm totally able to keep mine going on my own! And when I'm not able to keep 'em going, well, that's my problem and mine alone.

This was a revelation that I never knew before. I had the hardest time kicking the hideous Mr. Hyde to the curb once upon a time, because it meant that I would have to give up the fabulous Dr. Jekyll, too. I didn't know I could be my own Jekyll, never needing to put up with an icky Hyde again (well, maybe a tad Hyde-y around "that time of the month").

Now sure, there are some things that do still need actual physical interactions. Once I start having sex, for instance -- especially really good sex -- I kind of want that more and more, not just once every quarter phase of the lunar cycle. My libido still believes that some vibrational imagined thing is a poor substitute ... as is some vibrational real thing, for that matter! And who could blame it, am I right?

Antares and Love #2 - Joe Webb

Here's where things get fun. In the process of conjuring this imaginary boyfriend, I started posting images to Facebook that reflected some of the fun things I was feeling about "him" ... which is only weird if you think that I was really feeling these things about me, which itself is only slightly less weird than that scene in GHOST when Whoopie Goldberg lets Patrick Swayze possess her so that he can kiss Demi Moore again, but it's really Whoopie kissing Demi when you think about it, even though that's not what we see on the screen ... where was I?

Oh yeah ... so I started posting fun, flirty things for my imaginary boyfriend, like:

Friends were starting to wonder. I was getting private Facebook messages every other day inquiring, "So who's the lucky guy?"

That last one in particular really got me thinking, too. I mean, what about that real "lucky guy" who's eventually just going to wander into my trap vibrational happy place? I mean, I'm on Pinterest pinning food that I'll never make finding these hilarious bits and awesome nuggets, often interspersed among the lamest "dream wedding" photo pin ideas ever ... I began to wonder: 

Hmm, I was married once, but never had a wedding myself; I never even helped to plan one. Instead of holding back my nausea over these lame ideas I'm seeing, why not focus on the kind of wedding ideas I would consider awesome? What would my wedding look like if I ever wanted one? It'll be fun!

Borrowing the energetic inspiration of my imaginary relationship, I ran with the project and began keeping my eye open for the quirkiest, funnest wedding ideas. 

Now here's the part that you've all been waiting for ... for everyone's amusement (and maybe some girls' awe), I shall now "out" my weirder Pinerest side and proudly present some of my favorite awesome wedding idea finds. 

(Psst, boys! Some of you might want to sit up and take notice, in case you want to be thought of as "incredibly cool" someday when your fiancee is trying to come up with quirky ideas. I'll never tell her that you saw them here first, promise!) 

That last one is probably a little too fancy schmancy for me, especially matched with those origami flowers or the muppets, but damn that fabric is da bomb! (Do kids still say that?) I almost feel uber-girly just looking at it! Almost.

In case anyone was wondering, I didn't create a specific "wedding" board like other girls ... because, y'know, that would be "loony tunes." I just added those wedding pins to a wishlist board already full of fanciful things that I covet, like colorful Victorian houses and 1950s-60s Citroen cars.

Oh, and apparently I also found the perfect purple couch, and I am not the least bit shy to make the pronouncement here that I am definitely IN LOVE...  

My Vagina Monologue

Or, "Sisterhood of What's Traveling in Her Pants" ... sorry, that was the only other title that came to mind, but wow, it's way worse!

Don't be afraid/aroused -- no vaginas were photographed for this blog.
("Black Iris" - Georgia O'Keeffe)

Ladies, when was the last time you took out a hand mirror and gave yourself a good look. Y'know ... down there.

I actually used to do that quite regularly, to be honest. It was a good way to make sure things were copacetic, and, frankly, I'm quite fond of my lady parts. They've always treated me well and weren't too hard on the eye, in my and (many a' lovers) opinion.

[Yes, boys, they are most definitely "parts" and not "part" singular. The individual parts also have their own individual personalities, but that's a blog for another time.]

Anyway, back to what lead me to write this here entry...

A little while back, I watched a documentary called The Perfect Vagina in which a female filmmaker pursues the ideas and reasons behind how women relate to their own parts, culminating with women (and the filmmaker herself) taking a mirror and actually giving their genitals a long look and describing what they see, thus helping them to come to terms with other issues in their lives. It made me feel a little sad for the women who were terrified of that idea, but also made me realize that I hadn't done such a thing myself in a while.

...Hmm, a long while. When had I done it last, I wondered? Was I still involved with Dr. Jekyll? What was that, maybe three years ago or so? Had it really been that long?

It had been that long. I resolved then and there to remedy that post-haste, but post-haste got derailed by finding wedding things to pin to one of my boards on Pinterest ... which is yet another blog for another time, especially when you consider I was doing that without even having a boyfriend. Well, I had an imaginary boyfriend, sure, but you need one of those if you're going to have an imaginary wedding! Am I right?

[Disregard anything I wrote in that last paragraph, please.]

In the years since that last relationship, I hadn't really thought about that area "down there" because I had sort of "turned off" the whole idea of "sexy time." Do all of these excessive quotation marks make me seem "self conscious"?

I had even stopped masturbating* due to forgetting that area existed. If it wasn't for "that time of the month," I probably wouldn't have known I even had lady parts anymore. In my mind, the region would resemble a Barbie crotch ... or a Ken crotch; they're about the same. Basically, it was just the area that would start to go numb if I sat on it for too long, which is pretty much every day.

I'd forgotten to go check things out for many more weeks, until I suddenly found myself facing a new dating situation in which sex** was not only likely, it was imminent. The relationship just sort of "fell into my lap," so to speak, and I realized that said lap had been untended for too long. It was definitely going to need some "landscaping" at the very least, but maybe I should also take a closer look-see to make sure everything was still copacetic.

So I marched into my bathroom, stripped from the waist down, grabbed a trusty hand mirror, sat myself down on the floor, and took a peek. I was expecting to see the flower that I remembered so fondly: a lovely deep pink bud spiraling open, inviting much admiration and adoration.

What I saw, however, made me gasp loudly and exclaim, "Someone stole my vagina!" Or at least that's why I was thinking in exclamatory fashion.

The nearly two years of sitting on my "fanny" (as the Brits like to call it) all day at this desk job had not been kind. All that sitting atrophy was also compounded by absolutely no sexy time (or even any sexy thoughts) to get the blood flowing to that region in all that time. So what I was looking at was that sometime in the last three years I had somehow gotten old! Down there!

"I thought we had a deal! We were going to age gracefully together. Do you see my face? Of course you don't; you're too far away. Trust me, I do not look my age. How dare you break with our pact this way!"

Yes, I was speaking to my vagina ... well, the whole area, really.

My anger quickly gave way to guilt. "I'm sorry. This is from neglect, isn't it? I've given you no attention whatsoever in years. What was I expecting? I'm so very sorry! I am just awful, and I totally deserve this!" Then I got a little teary-eyed. Just a little. And then I started to giggle, because I was tearing up about my vagina. Who does that? I do, apparently ... but so did a bunch of women in that documentary, so I didn't feel that foolish. Suddenly, I understood. And yeah, maybe I did feel a little foolish.

I decided to take a closer look to embrace this new mature me. First I noticed that my pubic hair, which had been nearly black before, was getting lighter ... like a golden, reddish hue. Was that the way I was going gray?

Under that, the skin had changed colors, too -- from deep pink to a sort of deep purple. I wasn't too thrilled about that aspect. I mean, I love purple and could just consider it "exotic," but that was going to be tough to get used to ... basically, I just didn't recognize myself anymore.

Finally, when I turned the hand mirror over to the magnifying side, I saw wrinkles. Yes, wrinkles! DOWN THERE! Seriously!? I was no longer a pretty pink rose; I was now a dusty dried rose that someone had saved to remember some special occasion that no longer matters. My lady parts were becoming irrelevant! That simply would not stand, no siree.

I was so bewildered by this turn of events that I decided to tell my new soon-to-be-beau about this ... before we even met! Yes, I know that's nuts ... and yes, I know guys do not care about this one bit, but he needed to know what he was getting into ... not my vagina! My brain. I felt it was important that he see how I faced that situation, the silly thought processes that I went through, and ultimately how I was coming to be okay with it because, "Hey, look, I can talk about it and laugh, see!"

He just seemed completely confused by the whole conversation and decided the best form of action was to talk me down off some metaphorical ledge. I thought his response was sweet at the time, but I assured him that I really wasn't asking for the psych couch. I was just wanting him to see how (adorably) neurotic I could be, but it was the benign kind of neurotic ... like a female Woody Allen, without any inappropriate attraction to youngsters.

I'm not sure he ever got that, however. It was almost the same "talk her down from the ledge" reaction I got from him when I admitted (full of squirmy, uncomfortable embarrassment) that I had a board on Pinterest with things for an imaginary wedding. Clearly, my neurotic brand of comedy failed to register as humor with that one.

But guess what? It all makes for okay blog fodder, no? That is, if you haven't navigated away from this already in disgust, I s'pose. Some may have navigated away by now because they were disappointed in the lack of graphic pictures. Sorry, boys (and some girls)! It's not that kind of blog.

Just what kind of blog is it? Self-flagellation with a rubber chicken, perhaps.

*Yes, girls do that, too!

**Unexpected bonus of sex: having it can have a "fountain of youth" effect ... down there!

-----

Next time on The She-Creature Speaks: My imaginary boyfriend.