Van Halen is a bad influence OR There's a reason the ice cream man is an ice cream man

http://youtu.be/i2RKWJD5ops

I never even knew that song existed until I found an ice cream man of my very own...

     "There's a guy driving by down the street - he's the Ice Cream Man, see - and I     
     think we should meet.
     Turns out he's nice. And he's sweet, kinda cute, a good kisser to boot, and he brings
     me free treats.
     But without all his bipolar meds, too much weed, and that pesky former felony...
     I'm still thinking...is it Taco Time for me?"

I have a theory. You have to give every guy a chance. A chance to what, you ask? To show me he is worthy of my precious time & my affections. Why, a chance to show me he's "the one", of course!

Ahem... yeah. I didn't say it was a good theory. (I have since abandoned said theory after a friend questioned my sanity. Let's play along anyway, shall we?)

In my sadly vast dating experience I have, more than once, opened the floodgates to a sea of song-worthy men. You just never know, I'd say (countless times). Insert name here isn't so bad, and hey, I'm not getting any younger. And so I would humor whatever random male passerby it was that paid me interest.

Enter Ice Cream Man.

I always thought I'd end up dating a guy who drove an ice cream truck... said Heather never in life. But he was so darn charming! He really was. He obviously likes kids. Hell, he'd even met mine already. And his aloof-ish nature and long hair and unfortunately (for me that I noticed) kissable lips. Yeah, so maybe it had been a little (a LONG) while since I'd dated someone (YEARS), but maybe driving an ice cream truck was just a... childhood dream? An actual choice? Surely not based upon his utter lack of employability.

I don't remember exactly how it happened, but he started driving down my street more often, and the free frosty treat was occasionally handed my way. And at some point he asked if we could hang out. You know, without a dirty, metal ice cream counter in between us. Annnd he already knew where I lived, so what the hell. I mean, I'd be crazy not to take him up on his offer of a pseudo date/hangout thingy, right? Right? Ahem... yeah...

It was simple. He just came by one night after work. It was spring/summer, so we sat out on the front lawn. It was really more like a strip of sidewalk and a strip of grass and some railroad ties before a steep 3 foot drop to the main sidewalk but I digress. Sitting there, he asks if I smoke. I say no, but I don't mind if he does (which is mostly true), at which point he pulls out a joint. "You don't mind if I smoke some weed, do you?" "Nah, it's fine." Okay, I'm gonna let that slide. Nothing wrong with a little weed. But as the weed burned and his lungs blackened his tongue loosened and he began to talk about his tea-partying burn the government theories and about how robbing that McDonald's at gunpoint when he was 17 really screwed him over.

Go on... (Because clearly I haven't seen enough red flags flying over his head yet. It was dark out, though. Maybe I missed them.)

He continued the elegiac ramblings of how he wished he could go back to prison because it was easier there, and how he wished he could stop talking to his crazy baby mama but all his disability checks still show up at her address and he needs those. Oh, and how he's diagnosed with bipolar but he doesn't take his meds because eh... he doesn't usually need them really.

Ahem...

I can't even begin to explain how this moved from a casual chat over some weed in the front yard to a make out session. But it happened. And geez, I called those lips. He is still, hands down, one of the best kissers I've ever had the pleasure to tangle with. Being such, I couldn't rightly justify not hanging out with him and kissing him some more. So in flew the rationalizations and justifications for all of the what should have been obvious shortcomings for a professional gal such as myself. They were SO convincing. Convincing enough to stave off my good senses for... a good long while. He wasn't a total deadbeat, either. He totally bought me Subway once. Oh, and he put a bandaid on my knee when I tripped and fell up the sidewalk after leaving the salon one time. So sweet! Hey, I never said I didn't have issues.

This went on for months and months. He'd drive by and sell ice cream to the kids and give me some smooches for free. We never actually went much further. Could be because in all my infinite stupidity I at least had the good sense to keep him north of the equator, where all self-respecting ice cream men stay. Eventually, though, I got my fill of his delicious ice cream kisses, or at least enough of them to tide me over for the next good long while until the next Taco Time alum would waltz by.

And that is the end of the Tale of the Ice Cream Man. He's still out there, girls. Peddling his frozen wares, or perhaps some smoky ones (a guy has to have a secure income, after all). Hell, I'm pretty sure he's still my friend on facebook. I'll hook you up.

As always, thanks for reading, friends. And sorry for the lateness and sporadic nature of my blogs lately. If you know me, though, you know it's the nature of the beast that I am. Don't worry. You will grow to love me for it someday.

Oh yes! YOUR TURN! What is the worst, most ridiculous thing you have overlooked for the sake of a date/boyfriend/booty call? Don't leave me hangin', kids.

~h

NEXT UP on TACO TUESDAY: Why accents are so hot OR why the human voice is such a big fat liar

Mythological Monday - The Perfect Man

Oh, you poor, poor readers of mine. All two of you. (hi mom & dad!) You're in for it now.

Today, folks, will now live in infamy as Mythological Monday. A day where I pick the myth & pick it apart, describe it, explain it, give my two cents worth, what have you. Any and all myths are at the mercy of my sharp, rapier wit. At the end of the blog I'll also open the floor for you to tell me what myths you'd like to see me take on.

This first, inaugural myth is perhaps the most appropriate and in line with the original inspiration of this blog (Taco Time). The myth? The Perfect Man.

"But he doesn't exist!" You all cry, gnashing your teeth and writhing in disbelief. Exactly! He's a myth. But he is, nevertheless, one of the most talked about, most propagated, most openly sought myths out there.

As long as stories have been told to sad, frightened, not-nearly sleepy enough babes there has existed a form of The Perfect Man (heretofore referred to as TPM). He may have been a heroic character, saving scores of helpless people from certain peril or a good samaritan fellow who sacrificed all for his fellow man. In the last hundred years TPM had taken the form of the Prince Charming that every little girl dreams about, represented in some form or another in every movie we shove in front of the retinas of little girls across the globe.

Now as all myths & legends go, history is full of the "true" stories of TPM having been caught & domesticated, in what is usually reported to be some sort of "happily ever after". Dare I say I, myself, have had first hand sightings of possible TPM (not in my own life, obviously. tacos anyone?) They are rare, friends. Hence the mythological nature of the beast. So right here, right now, let's unravel some of the thread that helps to spin the yarn of Myth #1 - The Perfect Man.

THE FALLACIES

1. He stumbles into your life when you least expect it.

"When you stop looking, that's when you'll find "him".

Bullshit.

One of the most notorious rumors spread about TPM is that he is only spotted when you are physically incapable of spotting him. Really? Oh, so that is how that works.

My ass.

So I suppose, ladies, if you are ever in the restroom applying a feminine hygiene product & a man enters & accidentally swings open your stall door followed by a flood of jumbled apologies, you better wipe your hands on your skirt & leap into his arms because the elusive TPM is before you!

2. He's everything you dreamed he'd be.

Is that right? So you always hoped you'd find a former felon who sells pot for extra cash, but he bought you Subway that one time a he's a really good kisser & he doesn't really like his girlfriend anymore anyway? I mean, what? That never happened. Eyes on the blog, people... Ahem.

I have to take a different aproach on this one, because it's a bit tricky. Keep up the best you can.

Since TPM doesn't exist, #2 here is, of course, untrue. No man will ever be everything we dreamed of all wrapped up in one.

BUT...

We still must arm ourselves, women, with a list of rock solid must-haves for the man we will grant the pleasure of wooing us. The PLEASURE, I say. We simply must raise the bar on this one. These should also be more or less all inclusive, or you may find yourself in this situation:
         
"Gee, he is sooo awesome! And he wants to take such good care of me! And ohmygosh, he said the sweetest thing the other day... He even likes my kids/pets/hairy mole! Isn't that just perfect? It's just so hard so find a job nowadays, but he's really motivated, though! And his family! His mom always makes us a snack whenever he invites me over to hang... " (Taco Time, verse 2. eerily similar)

Note the use of exclamation marks. Friends don't let friends date beneath their own expectations. Remember that.

Running out of time this morning, so I'm gonna jump right to the sweet, bitter end. (yeah, so I'm an optimist.p

3. You'll never find him.

This is both true & false.

TPM - The Perfect Man - does not exist. Not Disney or Hollywood or even your best friend who married her high school sweetheart & has three stair-step kids, a minivan & a dog in a house with a white picket fence might depict him to be.

But there is man, perfect for you, with all of his imperfections, who is... somewhere. And the best part is it's not like there is only one "perfect-for-you" man in the world. There are any number of guys out there who's imperfections just might align with yours. Find them. Keep your eyes peeled. Or just use the men's bathroom sometime if you're trying to speed things along.

To be continued...

Thanks for reading. Love you all...

~h

p.s. Don't forget to comment with the myths you'd like to see me take on! ~h

MFF OR FML - My Friend Friday OR F... well, you know.

Oh yesss... it's time for another theme. I'm liking themes. Do you like themes?

My life is a lot of things. Fun. Hard. Unbelievable. Hilarious. Sometimes sad. But almost always filled with ridiculous moments. Wtf moments. Fml moments. (hold that thought...)

I love people. I love my friends. I love making new friends. Sometimes I introduce friends to other friends and they become friends. It's the circle of life. Or something. But a lot of my friends are amazingly hilarious, and their humor should be shared with the world. (compiling thoughts...)

Which brings me to this:  MFF/FML OR My Friend Friday/F&*% My Life (yeah, I know I do The Blacklist - well, not do The Blacklist, but... I mean, I would do The Blacklist, well, some of The Blacklist, I mean... yeah, trying to keep this PG, people.)

Ahem!

MFF/FML. This is when, depending on my week (and my friends' schedules) I will share with you EITHER an amazing FML moment from my history, or maybe even something from just the other day (had two in the past two days alone), OR have one of my amazing friends write a guest post on a subject of their choosing! You will love it. Hey, maybe you'll write it!

Oh, wait, what's that? You, reader reading my blog, YOU would like to be a Guest Blogger? Why sure! I'd love to have you! Just comment with your name and let me know and you're in! Even cooler if you want to give me a little teaser about what's in store for me. Or make me suffer in anticipation, you masochist, you.

Gee, I love ya, friends. Can't wait to read you! Oh, and if you like what you've been reading so far... pssst! Pass it on! Tell your friends! Follow me! Comment and let me know you were here. Once I reach 100 followers or 100 comments I will pick a few names at random to reward with something amazing & possibly handmade.

I know. You can't wait, and I'm keeping you from doing all of those things by not stopping this blog right now. I hear ya, I hear ya.

Until next time...

~ heather
   f.g.r.

NEXT TIME: Somerhalder Sunday! What happened on the season premiere of The Vampire Diaries, who's been added to my Hollywood hit list now, Six degrees to Ian Somerhalder - how the hell am I gonna get there?

Why dental care is important OR Gingivitis = empty bar stool

(*sorry for the lateness of the post, but no computer = posting of blogs whenever I can get to one. the best things come to those who wait, right?)


I'm 36 years old, and have been single for the majority of the last 14 years. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Sad state of affairs, I tell ya. Ah, the life of the single person. Ahh... um, yeah... Yup. Sigh.

But on the bright side, my exploits as a single person have made for some amazing stand-up comedy. Which brings me - and you, friends - to the first verse of "Taco Time".

"There's a guy at the end of the bar, I can't see details this far, but he smiles my way.
So with a wink, and a coy little glance, I ask if he wants to dance and we start to sway.
But then he opens his mouth up to speak and his gingivitis causes me to flee.
So I'm thinking... is it Taco Time for me?"


The harsh reality for a single woman living in the Quad Cities can best be described with a simple word problem:

                      Available men in QC < or = zero

Okay, so I'm not just any single woman. I am a talented, opinionated, larping, concertina playing, gut-wrangling, improv-ing single mom of two boys. Let's revisit that math problem, shall we?

                      Available men in US < or = zero

There was only one way to improve my odds. The internet. Which brings us to verse 1.

I must preface by saying that I do actually have standards. I've just dropped the bar lower and lower as the years go by. These are the basic, no compromising must haves: must like me, must like my boys (eventually), job, car, no wife. Pretty basic, right? Hell, I'm not even specifying any physical attributes. But with verse 1 I found one attribute that I just can't abide.

"Gingy", as I'll call him, seemed like the perfect blend of normal guy and nerd. Former military, had a kid, posted a pic of him at a Comicon somewhere. Job, car, generally nice. Not awful looking, from the pics he posted. I suggested we meet up. You never know until you take that next step.

It was a beautiful sunny day, the perfect backdrop for the park where we agreed to meet. I got there first - a rare occasion, for any of you who know me personally - so I was in the pole position. I had the advantage. I was all positive thinking and hoping for the best.

And then I saw him.

His head didn't look disproportionate in his pictures, and I don't remember him mentioning Marfan's Syndrome at all. Breathe, just breathe, maybe it's just the perspective, you know, distance playing tricks on the brain. No such luck.

We greeted each other and walked around the pond, making idle chitchat on our way to a bench near a playground. We sat facing each other and started the expected slightly awkward question & answer session.

And then I saw them.

Every time his lips drew back to answer my thoughtful questions, they revealed puffy, bright red gums. Swollen, inflamed gingiva that made his tiny teeth look even smaller in his mouth. And he had the spittle, the cobwebby mass of saliva that pooled in the corners of his mouth as he spoke. Thick, stringy, and ever-present.

Kissing is a big deal to me, people. Dare I say I've had make-out sessions that could rival sex. No, I've not been riddled with nothing but horrible sexual experiences. I've just had kisses that amazing. In the words of Yoda, jealous you should be. That being said, there was NO WAY imaginable where I could even conceive of locking lips with that man, no matter how genuinely sweet I thought he was. Call it an attack of standards.

And so after a rather lovely, if platonic, afternoon, the text messages and emails tapered off and Gingy faded into the backdrop of my history. Does that make me a bad person? I don't think so. Just...non-confrontational? Yeah, yeah, that's it. Besides, he was a nice guy and I just wasn't prepared to have the conversation about how his enormous gums and tiny teeth were the early demise of a potential relationship. Call me a humanitarian.

That was the Tale of Gingy the... Red. There are so many more to come, friends. Stick around. It gets better.

Oh! Question time! It's your turn kiddies...

What is/one thing that would make you turn tail and run from a potential date? (or at the very least just politely explain that your house was on fire and you had to leave the country forever)

Until next time...

~ heather
   f.g.r.

NEXT TIME: MFF! (WTF?) My Friend Friday - explanation tomorrow!

Somerhalder Sunday

Ian Somerhalder

Actor ~ Environmentalist ~ Man of My Dreams

 

Anyone ever have an obsession? Pshh... silly question. Of course you have. I wouldn't call Ian Somerhalder an obsession of mine, per se, but I'll start at the beginning and you can be the judge.

Let me begin by saying (something that would get me scorned right out of a certain person's operating room)...

I. HATE. TWILIGHT.

It's true. I hate it for a great many reasons, not the least of which is because I think the character of Bella Swan AND the acting of Kristen Stewart it laughable, abhorrent, unrealistic and an embarrassment to teenage girls everywhere. Bella? No lovestruck teen is running the streets as ridiculously overdramatic and bipolar as you without meds. Get help. Kristen? Get a facial expression - ANY facial expression - where your mouth is closed. Please? And for the love of all things holy on this earth EMOTE. Feel something other than the obvious gas building in your intestines that seems to be causing you visible distress.

Whew! Wow, that felt nice. Now, where was I? Oh yes, hating Twilight... obsessions... Ian... That's it. I hate Twilight, and for most of the same reasons I made a vow to hate The Vampire Diaries. Impossibly gorgeous young teen with a sorrowful past becomes the love object of a centuries old vampire who longs for romantic happiness? Gag me.

I, friends, am no spring chicken. I'm tired of watching show after show about hot young chicks getting all the hot dudes. Where are all the shows where middle aged single moms stumble upon the dating pot o' gold? Nowhere. (What do you mean no one wants to watch that?) And for that I brood. And boycott. Until...

I don't know what happened, or from what deep recesses the desire sprung forth to 'just watch one episode' of The Vampire Diaries, but one night I succumbed.

Netflix, it's all your fault, you see. If you didn't have The Vampire Diaires in your lovely little library of video delicacies I would have been outta luck. But no, there they were, seasons 1 & 2, all sparkly and inviting. Not sparkly in the Twilight way. And seriously? SPARKLY? Vampires DO not, NOR SHOULD THEY EVER sparkle.

(Thanks, Kiefer)

Come on Soccer Mom Meyer. Grow some grown up brains and quit trying to frak up a centuries old monster by giving him the attributes of a kindergarten art project. Agh! I digress...

So Netflix, my cat and I snuggled in for the series premiere. Okay, that wasn't completely unwatchable. Stupid somewhat adorable Stefan. Sad, sad, Elena. Stupid cute high school kids with stupid cute high school kid problems. Stupid dresses.
Episode 2 will lock it in my brain as a series unworthy of my precious time.

Nope.

And then came Damon.

 

Swoon! Oh, Damon, you try to be bad, but I can see you're really just a doll who wants to be loved and accepted. Silly, handsome, dark, cynical, sarcastic man. *coughiloveyoucough. Let me accept you! I'll love you! *waving hand at t.v. screen

Ahem... anywhoo... Here I am, still watching The Vampire Diaries. Frantically, at this point, because the season 4 premiere is happening soon - next week, is it? Gotta catch up, quick-like.

So about obsessions. I'm not obessed with Damon Salvatore/Ian Somerhalder. I certainly don't post about him on Facebook or anything. Wouldn't bother with liking his Facebook fan page or following him on Twitter. Nah... I've got better things to do. Like try to get to work on time, play with my improv group The Blacklist, work on my stand-up comedy, practice my instruments and be a mom. I'm so not going to google him to find out if he & Nina are still dating and/or engaged (Ian Somerhalder & Nina Dobrev - Elena - are a couple but, I'm giddy to report, NOT engaged yet) (I mean... what? Who said that? I don't care.)

Totally not doing any of that. What I AM doing is sharing with all of you the delightful tidbits I'm learning about the ever-amazing Ian and working (slowly) on my Six degrees to Somerhalder - the stepping stones to Ian's doorstep. Next stop? His heart. Sigh!

So friends, now that I've come clean and you're all ready to embark on this ridiculous quest with me (or at least watch me drool and grovel) it's your turn. Sharing time!

Who are - or were - your famous crushes? What would you do to get yourself in their presence?

Can't wait to hear! Maybe I'll be able to make a new song out of these...

~heather
  f.g.r.

NEXT TIME: It's Taco Tuesday! Time for the next behind-the-scenes look at Taco Time, "Why Dental Hygiene is Important OR Gingivitis = empty bar stool