When the Cat's Away... Pt. 1: Get Out of My Grill

Greetings!

Or I guess I should say, "Farewell!" In a few hours I'll be heading across the Atlantic to join up with my pal Leo for some European adventures. Sexy adventures.

You laugh now, Beth, but...

If Hollywood has taught me anything, it's a fact that all European women are:

• extremely openly sexual
• always fascinated with the American accent
• hot (see: brunettes with glasses that look like saucy librarians or voluptuous blondes with pearly white teeth)
  

The good times are inevitable right? Hilarity will surely ensue. I hope to get a few good stories in me before this blog kicks the eBucket.

But in the meantime, I decided to have a couple of good friends share their own stories and views on the single life. However, I am mixing it up a bit. Some are from bloggers that you've come to know and love and others are from friends of mine who don't have blogs at all.

You'll read entries from:

Maxie at ihatesomuch
Kim from What Claudia Wore
my good friends Michelle and Will

... and, if I can put enough pressure on her, from good ol' Beth at Bethis.

I hope you enjoy them. I'll see you back stateside.

Best,
So@24

* * *

Get Out of My Grill

It all started when I was five. I was hanging out on the top of the jungle gym, ruling the shit out of kindergarten, when I was called down from my post to celebrate Lauren’s last day before he moved. Lauren was the first boy who had a crush on me. This made me suspicious.

Maybe it was the fact that he had a girl’s name that raised my eyebrow, or perhaps it was because he was moving to the “Grapevine”, a place that I thought must be all about licorice. (I recently drove through that beast and finally realized that while they rhyme, this place has nothing to do with Red Vines.)

Either way, he confused me.

The way he hung on my every word as I recited that month’s reading of “Chicken Soup with Rice”, or how he’d put his head on my shoulder during our weekly viewings of Barney… I just didn’t trust it.

I guess Lauren loved square dancing because on that morning in ’92 his mom made us all square dance for his big sendoff. Take one guess who this prick wanted for his partner. So I line up across from Lauren, trying like hell to pay attention to the instructions while he is grinning at me like a fool. Finally the music starts and he grabs me, trying to carry out the painfully douchey dance moves.

Although this was merely my first time square dancing (and his passion) I still thought I knew better. I resisted every turn, every spin.

Fast forward to seventeen years later. I am in a salsa bar in Seattle for a bachelorette party. There is a live salsa band and we are all dancing. Despite my square dancing blunder with Lauren, I truly love to dance.

But let me clarify: I love to dance alone.

Unfortunately, this man, we’ll call him Curly Sue, did not know this about me. I saw him make his way through our crowd of girls, dancing with each one of us. Curly was an amazing dancer and made everyone he danced with look great. And then he came to me… he would step forward and instead of stepping back, I would step right into him. He wanted me to spin left, I wanted to spin right. He pulled me into him, I resisted backward. I wish I could blame it on the alcohol consumed or my five inch heels, but I had to face the facts: I cannot follow a lead.

Perhaps this is Lauren’s doing, or maybe it was because I grew up in the bump and grind generation and have felt one too many boners in the small of my back. Whatever the reason, I hate when people make me follow their moves. Since when do people just get to dip and twirl you at their own will? Why would they know which way I want to spin better than me? Maybe I don’t want to move quite so fast, or perhaps I do not want your sweaty body to soil my clothes. All I know is that I did not sign up for that shit.

I hope I am not the only one that is so opposed to another’s choreography.

How I ever have sex, I really don’t know…

- Michelle