a rainy day smile.

clif notes for men. volume one.

Men. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. I have had a real onslaught of emails and calls from girlfriends who are having more and more difficulties with their significant others so I thought I’d jot down a few tips for the average man to use as a Clif notes guide on how to not fuck up. I went with five this time around though you ladies know, this list could go to Beijing and back….just like a list like this could go out to us girls. We ain’t too proud. But I’m a girl and this is my blog so suck it if you don’t like it.

Print these out if necessary and hand them to your man, ladies. Men, do you part and be proactive here; take these to heart.

1) Don’t have double standards. If you can joke about certain topics, so can your woman. If you like her big ol’ bootie, she can poke at your sweet, soft belly. If you joke about being the perpetual bachelor and getting the milk for free, don’t be angry when she pretends to hold her breath for a ring when you walk by her favorite jewelry store. Don’t blow money on video games and shots and cuss her out when she sends a pretty penny on a pair of (too expensive) shoes. Everyone sucks at life, or working out, or being un-insane sometimes. Cut each other a break.

2) Don’t set precedents you will never maintain. Don’t set up elaborate surprises and sweet gestures at the beginning of your relationship if you are never going to do them after the 3 month threshold of romantic notions. Don’t take out the garbage before it gets full for a month then get lazy and leave it to start your very own landfill in the corner of the kitchen. And perhaps the most important precedent to maintain…

3) If you can’t be faithful, don’t pretend you’re capable at the beginning. Monogamy can be difficult for some, and that’s fine; we can respect that. And I understand if you come into the relationship with faithfulness and best intention in mind. But if you lose your shit and can’t keep it in your hot little pants, don’t fucking date us. If you know it is our intention to be monogamous and to love you and only you and you violate that trust, I hope you enjoyed your (nasty, slutty, infested) penis while it lasted.

4) Do some things you aren’t that fond of for your lady. Slow dance with her. Give her compliments when she fishes for them. Buy the tampons on your way home from work and mind her purse when she dances at the club. If she doesn’t already treat you right, you will be paid back hundred fold with steaks and BJs. Believe me.

5) About Compliments: Don’t piggyback. Coming up with an original compliment when she comes down the stairs looking good or when she chooses and outfit that compliments here breasties/hynie/feature of your choosing, tell her so. Its not as special if you say something right after we compliment you. “I like that shirt on you, baby,” followed by an, “I like your shirt too,” is seriously, epically lame. Effort is the name of the game, fools. Piggybacking is the MO of flattery scrubs. Be creative. There is something unique and original about your lady; that’s why you’re with her. Bring it up to remind her that she is special and she deserves more than a pathetic coattail compliment.

That’s all my pretty little fingers can type right now. I am meeting a girlfriend for lunch, to, surprise, probably bitch about guys and life and work some more. Stay tuned. I intend on posting more this afternoon.

amen.

the picture on my desk.

Sometimes when I sit at work, I look at this picture framed on my desk. I tell people, “No. She’s not ours, but she could pass for ours, right?” I just held her until the picture was taken then I handed her back to her mama. Often times, I lose myself in my stream of thoughts looking at this picture and I just realized today why I love his photograph so much.

While our lives are fun and exciting to a certain extent with a decent amount of spontaneity infused into our world, this is what I’m talking about missing out on and being jealous of sometimes. And I know I’d miss the ability to jump in the car and go anywhere whenever we please, but I’m to the age where that wild hair isn’t as glaring. I’m missing out on that eternal bond, that secure commitment, the idea that we’re inseparable now. The idea that we aren’t boyfriend and girlfriend, living in sin; we are a FAMILY. And there is a big difference between the two. They can both be fun and exciting in their own ways, no question. But I miss that common bond, the common last name.

Anyone with any of my blood lives at least 1,100 miles away, in another time zone. And friends can be “family” in some ways, but it’s not the same, no matter what. You can’t depend on friends like you do your blood, no matter what. And because we do grow up and grow apart and move to other states and time zones, those bonds break down and get less familiar.

I’m the first to admit that I don’t talk to my parents as much as I used to…I make it to Houston less often and leave more space between MySpace and Facebook updates for cousins and I to keep in touch. It seems like the easier technology makes it, the less we do it. From my own perspective, while we are trying to stretch our wings and make our generation as proudly transient as possible, we are simultaneously trying so hard to reinvent the closeness that was once so prevalent in previous generations; when our extended families all lived in the same town and we had Sunday dinners together. While its fantastic to have the resources to travel the world and make your nest wherever you see fit (not in the snow, thank God), I think it’s human nature and self-preservation to tribe together…and this type of lifestyle is getting less and less feasible with us living 1,100 miles away from our families.

All these thoughts come to my mind as I sit and look at this picture on my desk. I love my SM more than anything in this world and want to spend the rest of my life with him without a doubt or question in my mind. And the Punk is an important part to us making Charlotte “home” as well. But still…I miss the concept of unconditionality, the security, the protection….of family. And THAT is why I get jealous of my dozens of friends walking down the aisle and making that promise to each other.

something old, something new, something borrowed, ashleigh’s blue

I promised the SM last night over a plate of manicotti that I would not have a nervous breakdown of biological clock proportions this weekend, given the fact we are going to a wedding. But that just means I have to get out all frustrations and thoughts out beforehand here.

Again, I couldn’t be happier for Sue and Mike, my dear friends for a long, long time now. And I am so excited about seeing everyone there who I haven’t seen in years, or even since we graduated high school. But where is my wedding? I have put in some serious time with some significant others, never to have that blessed day when he goes down on one knee and asks me to be his forever.

Why is it that women feel so pressured to link up and stick with someone through better and worse? Why do we plan the flowers and dress and church as little girls only to have to rearrange our plans when we grow up? Why does everyone I know in the whole universe need to be getting engaged and married every other weekend this year? I haven’t really hit the wall regarding this yet, until this summer. I’ve said it before, but I officially know something like 11 couples who are engaged for their future wedding or got/are getting married this summer. That’s TWENTY-TWO people…and I don’t know all that many people!

The reason we even got on this subject was because the SM mentioned that he would love to plan a trip to Puerto Rico to surf at some point in the winter. I made a frowny face. I tried to brush it off because I knew that it would end ugly, but he persisted. I told him that I could think of something else I’d like to spend a few thousand on. I’d like to go to Puerto Rico too…but how about for our honeymoon?

I try. I really do. I try to stay calm and patient because he always talks about our plans and futures and we’re definitely both present. I know that guys have their timelines and they aren’t always ours, but I am tired of having my little hopes and dreams determined by other people; in every facet of my life. I have more people to answer to than I care about answering to. I guess that’s everyone’s story though. I just figure in this one arena, I might have a little bit of a say.

I just want to know, forever, that I have someone who will be there with me through everything. I want to know that the time and money and tears and everything I have spent aren’t for naught. I want to walk down that aisle and be secure in my future. I know that marriage isn’t the most stable convention and I know that marriage doesn’t mean that someone WILL be there for everything because you will disagree at times. But I have gotten out of relationships after 3 or 4 years more than once…and if feels like I am doomed to serve a life sentence of serial monogamy.

It’s just frustrating. From day one, hour one, literally, the SM talked about our wedding day; where it could be, how it could happen, who we’d invite. We both know this is it for us; there isn’t anyone with whom we’d rather be. But when will that day happen? 487 days so far…and ticking. Hopefully this is enough catharsis for now.

Just remembered: The SM was like…if I get you a ring, YOU are happy for a few hours, telling friends and family. If we go to Puerto Rico, both of us will be happy for a whole WEEK. Hahaha. Asshole. I told him if he gets me a ring, we don’t have to have this fucking conversation anymore and he quickly saw my point.  PWNED.

sound off, friends!

I have no idea where they came from, but as of late, there has been a real influx of Debbie Downer comments on the AOT. Every time I mention the relationship with the SM in a light that isn’t as favorable as Cinderella and Prince Charming, someone out there thinks that they know what they are talking about and give me their two cents.

Now as far as I know, I don’t know this person and there really isn’t anyway that this person knows the SM. And if 2 and 2 are 4, one can only assume this person knows nothing about our relationship either.

I am an opinionated person; there is no question about that. I have my political and religious views and thoughts about whether or not it’s all right to wear white shoes after Labor Day. But one thing that I would never comment on is the status of someone’s relationship with their significant other. I am a staunch advocate of the statement that you have the right and responsibility to yourself to stay committed so long as there is more good than bad in your relationship, according to the people engaged in the relationship. It is not my business how dysfunctionally you keep your shit together. I have been friends with people who have dealt with financial issues, medical issues, addictions, distance, religious differences, you name it – and never once have I told my friend that they were wrong for trying to work it out. There is no way that anyone else can truly understand exactly what their friend is going through. Even if you came from very similar circumstances or even were siblings in the same house, your life experience can vary so greatly that someone from outside your microcosm of similar stories can turn out completely different. Given that fact, no one has the wisdom or knowledge to accurately suggest how, when or why someone should handle their lives.

Unless, of course, your pattern of living directly infringes upon someone else’s pattern of living in a negative way. If your lack of proper attention forces you into the back of my truck at a high rate of speed, I have a right to get your information and make your insurance go up. If you’re at a ballgame with your kids and there are drunken, belligerent fools around you with no profanity filters, you can have a word with them or enlist the event security to have them escorted out. You can tell a friend it hurts your feelings if they are consistently late for the plans you make. Wake up your old man if he’s snoring too loud. Take back the covers. If your livelihood or comfort are negatively affected by someone else, that is the only time you have the right and responsibility to tactfully and appropriately ask them to cut it the fuck out.

This post is another perfect example.

You don’t know, and I don’t care to share, every last detail about my upbringing or past relationships. Additionally, I give the same respect to the SM’s past to the point where I don’t even use his full name. I just know for a fact that we handle some issues that come up less productively than we could. But shall he who is without sin cast the first stone in that arena. There isn’t one person out there who hasn’t said, “well, I could have handled that better.” There isn’t one person who can say, “I am perfect and the model by which all others should model their crisis-management style.” There isn’t a person ever born on this green earth that hasn’t had conflict in their life. And there isn‘t one person I have ever met that can tell me how to run my life because they aren’t living it. And in this instance, don’t even know me.

I read self-help books. I go to therapy. And if something can help someone else out that I have learned through the trials and tribulations in my life, that is fantastic. I can recommend books, recommend a shrink, but I can never recommend what you do with that information. I would never suggest any of my friends to leave their significant other for any reason I created or thought to be valid according to my experience.

The problem may lie in the perception I am giving. Quite simply, if I blogged each and every day about the sweet and generous actions of my boyfriend, no one would read it because they would be busy throwing up. He holds my hand, kisses me twenty times a day, spoons me at night and even cooks healthy and low-carb dinners a few times a week. He pays for more than his share of the bills and isn’t jealous when I need to make time for myself. He tells me I’m sexy/talented/smart and takes out the trash (most of the time). He does all of the laundry. He makes me laugh uncontrollably and keeps things in perspective. He’s gorgeous, he’s smart, driven and he’s unbelievable in the sack. But honestly, he has an Irishman’s temper. He plays the martyr sometimes. He takes things personally. He leaves his dishes on the sink instead of putting them in the dishwasher. He’s a bad singer. He’s not perfect?!

Big fucking deal.

I’m an overemotional crybaby. I’m terrible with money. I take things too personally. I have a temper. I can be lazy. I get epic PMS straight from the 5^th or 6^th ring of Hell. My feet smell like Fritos. Ask him.

We do all we can to put up with each other some days. A huge majority of the days, it’s the easiest job in the world and I have the honor to be able to pile up even more proof that the SM is who I want to spend the rest of my days with. Every day, that is my determination and choice. And that determination and choice has absolutely zero effect on anyone else’s livelihoods. There is SO much more that I love about him than qualities that bug me. I know that I share my life with the public via the AOT, but I choose to share the interesting and comical bits, not the repetitive, boring bits. I don’t comment on other people’s relationships and I don’t feel like I need to defend my choices, especially to people who don’t know jack about me, the SM or where we come from. I just share the lessons I learn, the questions I have, so people don’t feel alone. This thing called life is a very common phenomenon we all share and feeling like we are in the same boat as others is something that only the human species can comprehend.

Ask anyone who knows the SM and I. In fact, I encourage those people who do know us to comment on this blog. We are a cool muthafuckin’ couple who gets along more often than I write about because getting along is boring to read about. No use in being the Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag of the blogosphere. No need to set up cheesy photo-ops of the SM giving me a piggy back ride through a carnival while I eat cotton candy and giggle like a high school cheerleader. We don’t slurp spaghetti like the Lady and the Tramp. No one does. LIFE is the business of the montage below. Go live yours and mind your own.

the arsenal.

A lot of folks have asked about the “arsenal” that I acquired last weekend at the Pure Romance party.  Unfortunately, due to the profound stress I have felt from my new job, long hours, lots of softball and little restorative sleep, I haven’t gotten much use out of it.  It’s absolutely tragic.  This week, however, I fully anticipate some substantive action.  Even if I have to wrestle my old man and we fall asleep mid-bang.

I have used some of the stuff on myself…just to try it out and I’ve enjoyed what I have played with so far.  Part of the issue too is that I haven’t had time, or remembered to buy a truckload of batteries for all this stuff.  Maybe I should buy stock in Energizer.  All I know is I gotta lube something up this week.  Before I go nuts.

did i shave my legs for this?

Saturday was filled with hours of cleaning and getting my pimp ride’s oil changed and inspection complete, and therefore, there wasn’t a lot of time left for the nookie.  Nothing like sitting in the Toyota dealership’s service lobby for 2 hours to get a girl in the mood, eh?  So Sunday, after church, I knew I needed to get myself a piece of hot man meat.

I came home and the nightmare of all womens’ nightmares was commencing on the couch.  The SM, unshowered, still in his attractive ensemble of old ratty basketball shorts and no shirt, faux hawk in total disarray, was flipping between not just two, but THREE sporting events.  The NFL Draft, our hometown Cleveland Cavaliers playing in the NBA Playoffs and the Cleveland Indians putting it down with the Yankees.  Don’t get me wrong; I love sports more than the average girl.  I bleed scarlet and gray for my Buckeyes, etc.  But I needed some hot man lovin’ and I needed it now. 

I proceeded to change into a white tank with a cute bra underneath, some boy shorts (rar!) and began my chores.  I pranced around, bending over provocatively to clean up around the SM, resorting to standing in front of him and shaking my awesome tushie. 

He was like, “What is THAT about?” 

I responded, “I am trying to tempt you with my feminine wiles.”

“Baby, you know I love you…but the Cavs, the Tribe AND the Draft are on.  There isn’t much that is going to tempt me today.  These are all my favorite things…and they’re important to me.  I’m sorry.”

I was *thisclose* to losing my mind.  I had been…incapacitated…for the last week with my Aunt Flo in town and now he wants to pull the sports card and leave my va-jay-jay unused like a sad, abandoned amusement park for another day? 

“Fine,” I said.  “I’ll just have to fuck myself then.” 

“Hey now….I’ll make it up to you!  It’s just a big day for Cleveland.”

“Fine, tomorrow, when we get home from work - I am claiming the whole rest of the night as ‘Ashleigh Day’.  Snuggles and flowers and rubs all night.” 

“Oh…..baby.  The Indians finish up their series with the Yankees tomorrow night.  At 8.  So how about some Ashleigh Hours?”

Like the Deana Carter song, did I shave my legs for this?  Seriously?  I don’t need to get down and dirty every night, but my shit was out of commisson for a week and for real?  We were having this conversation right now?  I decided to to be the bigger person and go about finishing my chores.  I had to keep my mind off of the party going on in my pants and the abundance of retardation my boyfriend was suddenly overcome with. 

Eventually, we got showered to head over to a friend’s for a cookout.  When he was done showering, he came into our bedroom where my bathroom is, and dropped his towel after a little dance that some might venture to call sexy.  (Others might call it…hilarious and super Caucassian.  Others being me.)

“What is THAT about?” I said, dripping with sarcasm. “I thought it was a big day for Cleveland.”

“It’s hot in here…I think I am just gonna lay down here on his bed….without any clothes on….”

Ah….shiiiit.  Fine.  I couldn’t restrain myself any longer.  My defenses were weakened by his white boy dance, his drippy wet faux hawk and peach-fuzzy treasure trail leading to the magical booty that this pirate wench hadn’t pilaged in much too long.  What can I say?  I’m a sucker. 

He just needs to be quite aware; Ashleigh Hours are still in full effect for tonight.  I might even make the SM play with my hair or even give me a little back rub.  I don’t care if he’s watching the Tribe over my shoulder. 

the key to life.

People often come to me asking me, “O wise one? What are we here for?  What is the key to life?”  And I tuck them into bed, snug and tight below the covers and a hand-sewn quilt I made for them and tell them this:

They key to life, the one way to get through life and get along with those around you is through laughter.  With all of us coming from very different backgrounds, regardless of whether or not you are at work, at home, with friends or on the ball field, the one common thread we can share is laughter.  I have friends that have kids, who don’t….who are republicans, democrats (or socialists for Christ’s sake)…who came from affluent backgrounds and less fortunate backgrounds.  None of these things matter.  A friend isn’t someone you agree with everything on.  A friend isn’t someone who is in the same tax bracket or grew up in a neighborhood as safe as yours.  A friend doesn’t necessarily still have married parents, they don’t necessarily have the same career as you, they don’t necessarily spend their money as wisely (or unwisely) as you.  The compatibility lies in your senses of humor.

I know for a fact, no matter how much we had in common, it would be almost impossible to get along with the SM without a sense of humor.  That sounds bad but it’s actually a compliment.  We get along so well because our senses of humor are so perfectly matched.  We get along so well because in many ways, he is the opposite of me and I of him.  He brings talents to the relationship that I can’t contribute and the same goes for what I bring to the table.  But when it comes down to it, with a simple look or a few phrases, we can have each other in stitches.  When one of us is having a bad day, the other one has a few tricks up their sleeve to get the other one back to center.  And it’s almost always through laughter. 

This is only more proven by the introspection of my life regarding the people I haven’t gotten along with.  I am very self-effacing person.  I don’t have a lot of secrets and make fun of myself on a regular basis.  I have my talents, but I am incredibly clumsy, white, spoiled, unathletic and every once in a while, my blonde roots show through. I was in band for 8 years.  I’m legally blind in my left eye, affecting my depth perception and my ability to not look like I am impersonating a pirate.

But the people I haven’t gotten along with, though very few and far between, are people that I did not match with sense-of-humor-wise.  They didn’t get my self-deprecation.  They didn’t get my un-PC, irreverent look on the world.  They took everything I said too seriously.  Keep in mind, with how good it (selfishly) feels to make people happy, there are very few times that I am talking when I am not trying to get laugh.  It’s rewarding partly because it’s making others feel good…and partly because it’s challenging to continually reinvent the wheel to catch someone off-guard.  I have learned to be self-deprecating, funny and clever because of all of my faults, so like me or leave me for what they have turned me into.  I’m stuck with me, so I have no choice but to poke fun at myself. 

So the point of the story - learn to love yourself and all your faults…and love your friends despite it all too.  After all, a good, hearty laugh is the one thing we all have in common; the fabric of our lives to keep our heads above water and our eyes looking towards the stars.

quit stalking me.

I have a boyfriend.  I’m flattered but srsly.