A palette for my eyes

When I was in the third grade, budget cuts forced us to share a room with a fourth grade class. Before school, and during breaks, a girl named Michelle would offer makeovers to the third grade girls from this giant plastic case. She charged fifty-cents which was just enough for two of the salty snacks being hawked by the sixth graders to help cover some of the expenses for their patrol trip. I used to watch as she'd cover an unsuspecting girl's lids in emerald green or sapphire blue. When she finished, they looked like some freakish version of themselves. My parents forbade make-up, but I went to a school where some girls came out of the womb with a tan, a perm and glittery eyes. I also went to a school where a number of the girls were pregnant before graduating high school, but you'll have that I suppose. I used to watch as she would pick from one of the small squares containing every color imaginable. She'd carefully select from her palette making each girl look different and yet the same. When a round of pinkeye was spread, the makeover business went under. And while I've since learned that you really don't need that many eyeshadow selections, make-up still fascinates me. On a good day, I'm lucky to put on a little mascara and lip-gloss and on a bad day nothing at all. I'm not one of those women that can't leave the house without make-up, though I admit it makes me feel better. So when I received an e-mail from Sephora and found out that they still make such palettes, I have to admit I was tempted. But how many eyeshadows does a girl who doesn't wear it really need?

A Girl's Gotta Live

So I've been packing my stuff for a few months now with the intention of, if not finding a new job, at least finding a new place to hang my hat. Renting in Charleston is a frustrating process, made even more so by the fact that I'm a dog owner with no plans to leave my little muppet behind in favor of a nicer place. I didn't realize that being a single woman would make the process difficult as well. I've decided that I'm at a place in life where I don't want footsteps above me. I don't want to be awakened at 7 in the morning by my neighbor's bed squeaking above me during her "boyfriend's" regular visits (even if does only last three minutes, poor girl). Yesterday I phoned about a house with potential (3 bedrooms, wood floors, a fenced yard)and was met with suspicion. "Just you moving?" "Yes, ma'am," I said. "Just me and the dog." "Sure you're not going to have any friends moving in?" "I'm sure," I said. "Well, okay..." she said hesitantly before giving me the address. Upon drive-by I decided it wasn't for me, but the whole situation left me with a bad feeling. A few weeks ago I lost out on a house to a married couple. Undoubtedly it was their two incomes that made them better, safer candidates in the eyes of the owner. And having seen some of the tenants on my own street, I can appreciate that. The longer I stay in Charleston, the less likely I think I am to move. When I look at the cost of living elsewhere, that in itself is enough to keep me here. I've become more comfortable in my career over the last year or so (yes, after four years I'm finally getting the art of cat herding) and I think I'm starting to come into my own as an adult, as a woman, and maybe even as a spinster. But that's not what keeps me here. Tonight, as I was sitting on my couch (taking a short break from packing, I swear) I saw a man lurking outside my door. My good, no, GREAT, friend had read a status message I'd left on my Gmail expressing my desire for chocolate pudding. She placed a call to her husband who was at the store and sure enough it was him standing on my front porch with chocolate pudding. It was, without a doubt, the best chocolate pudding I've ever had. So while to a landlord I might be a woman living alone, I know that I'm anything but and that's what keeps me hopeful.

Return to sender

I don't write about every date I go on (not that there are that many to be discussed); I prefer saving those stories to share with my friends over a few margaritas. This last run-in with "the boy," however, I think bears mentioning. We got off to a bit of a rocky start when, after hanging out briefly, he didn't call. I mentioned it to a friend of mine who worked with a friend of his and I heard from him shortly thereafter. Were it not for the fact that he had supposedly mentioned to the friend that he was in a state of limbo, but was very interested in me I probably would've written him off an refused to go. We decided to meet for sushi. Minutes before I entered the restaurant I received a text from another friend who thought it might be funny to declare his love for me via text message. It wasn't. I know it might come as a surprise, being a self-declared spinster and all, but I'm not always quick to warm up to strangers. Things went well. He was cute, funny, smart. I thought it went fine. And then I didn't hear from him for a week. It wasn't until I sent an e-mail saying something to the effect of, "If I'd known you weren't going to call, I would've at least copped a cheap feel. Or something," that he was prompted to call back. We had an even better second date. We made plans to hang out again, but he "forgot" me in favor of getting new tires for his car. We made plans to meet out later and he couldn't understand why I was giving him the stink eye. He left to take home some friends and said he would call me the next morning. He didn't. He didn't call again for a week at which time he met me out after dinner with a friend. My friend was parked several blocks away, so I said that we would walk to her car and that I would give him a call later. As we were approaching our car, he pulled in and said, "I'll be back in a minute," as he ran around the corner to talk to his friend outside of the local strip club. After waiting several minutes, I was kind of disgusted with myself for waiting that long and we headed home. I called him. He said he'd call me back when he was finished talking to his friend, and you guessed it -- he never called. He called seconds within receiving a text message from me to explain what had happened. So this is where I find myself. Thinking about what I want in a relationship and what I need in a man. I have enough people in my life who want to be there. I'm blessed with great friends. I don't have time to chase people who don't want to be part of it. And looking back on it all, I'm more offended that he never tried to cop feel than the fact that he didn't want to spend time with me. I think next time I go out with someone with whom I'm solidly on the fence about, I'm just going to skip to the "good stuff." Traditional gender roles be damned. Spinster girls need love, too.

spinster girl goes on a date (maybe two)

So during my brief hiatus, I've been on a few job interviews, lost a few pounds, looked at some houses and been on a few dates. Charleston is a funny place. A few years ago I was out with a friend; those who know him, and especially at that time, will find no surprise that on this night he was a little drunk and a lot obnoxious. I can't remember the details fully, but as I recall he began heckling the band and after a few grimacing minutes, a large, looming figure in a work shirt turned around and glared. Recognizing that it was more of a look than a threat, I offered a silent thanks and from what I recall the night ended shortly thereafter. For whatever reason, I like to tell this story if only because it's the closest I've ever come to thinking I was possibly going to die in a bar, and that's including the time I was escorted from a Brothers of the Wheel function in Boone County. Or that other time when I was escorted from the Edge on Capital Street. The latter was all me, but the former was really just a matter of being with the wrong person at the wrong time. It sure did make for a great story. But I digress.

A few weeks ago I was in that same bar watching another local band with another drunk friend when the guy in the work shirt sat down. I had two choices: I could either gush about the time he stared down my friend and risk sounding, oh I don't know, cuckoo bananas, or I could say nothing. I chose to say nothing. Maybe it was because I'm shy. Quiet. Whatever. Doesn't matter. We were introduced and I found him to be a rather intriguing figure. My friend whispered loudly (or at least it appeared loud to me)"Want me to fix you up?" I shouted, "No!" This came from my own mortification and not a place of disinterest. He made fun of my beer (which was well deserved) and then he was gone. The next morning, I mentioned him to a friend and got some positive feedback. It was at that point I decided to do what any "normal" single woman does in 2007 -- I looked for him on MySpace. And I found him. I decided it was time to put down the knitting needles, let down the bun and remember what it's like to be single, not a spinster. And so with much hesitation I headed out on a date...