SMILFy

The QnQ – THENnNOW

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THEN

Back in the days of binge drinking and blacking out, oh wait a second, I suppose I should be more specific – back in the days of “Temp, Temp, Temp, Temp, Tempe Roll Call,” an Arizona State University masculinized mantra – so we’re talking freshman year, my older male friends, whom I’d known since braces and natural, unbleached hair, formed an exclusive all boys club to both quantify and qualify their sexual conquests.  They called it QnQ.

Decoding the acronym?  Don’t be fooled by the aforementioned ‘Q’ words above.  I’m not saying I didn’t hang with smart young guys who’d grow up to become successful men, because a decent number of them did; what I am saying is that their clever club name was rooted in shallow male bravado and simple math.  Proud members, clearly in an attempt to brand themselves, slapped oversized QnQ decals in the windows of their Honda Civics and, if memory serves me correctly, they even had shirts made.  At that time, I actually wished I was a dude, because I thought I could bring value to their image.  I was also dying to know what in the world QnQ meant.  And I’d always been a fan of t-shirts, I just wanted a damn t-shirt.

I was never privy to any official QnQ mission statement, hell I was only told what the letters actually meant after months of begging one member I’d known the longest and respected the most.  And I suspect that he only told me in an effort to shut me up.  You see, after some careful, albeit inebriated observation, I could tell that whatever those letters meant, they weren’t positive and my newly single, promiscuous ass was worried it’d been receiving negative Q reviews.

Thankfully, my ally assured me that I had nothing to feel shameful about and confessed this: “It means quantity, not quality.”

Ahh ha.  Now there is value in this meaning, but not the kind I’d want to admittedly contribute to.  Boys – they lead such different lives.

NOW

Being a Smilfy to two young children has its challenges and its joys.  Most days, I feel like I’m teetering between the two trying to make sure that one doesn’t greatly outweigh the other because then I might lose my little, learning Smilfy mind.

I simply want this: To be a good role model and a dependable friend, someone the kids can count on.  I also strive to be their advocate – their parents define the term polar opposites.  It’s also important that I be respected and demonstrate basic disciplinary responsibilities so that I may keep some order on our lives.

So when Caroline was getting ready to start elementary school, she struggled with the fear of leaving her old friends at her intimate private school and making new ones in a gigantic public school.  She expressed this worry with wide eyes and such veracity that even I, an adult, was made to believe that this really was “the end of the world.”    Goodness, the girl does worry.  We’re sort of connected in that way.  I’m what you’d call a seasoned worry warrior.  It’s important that I keep my cool for her.   

In the wake of her worry, Caroline started noticing that her daddy and I seemed to have “a lot of friends.”  She was taking note that when we had parties plenty of guests arrived and that when we mentioned a friend it was never the one she thought it was.  It was cute to see her try and keep the names straight.  Then one day she just imploded, “I just want lots of friends like you!”

It’s sort of strange to write, but that college QnQ experience sprang to mind, so I gave it a Smilfy twist and explained this:

“It’s QnQ, Caroline.  That stands for quality not quantity.  One amazing, genuine friend is better than a bunch of bratty ones who don’t really care about us.  Having a friend is one of life’s greatest joys.  This friend is a person to laugh with when something silly happens; cry with when things don’t go your way; call upon when no one else is around; and share life with.”  I emphasized the word with because friendship is a partnership.

I continued, “The best part about a friend is that you don’t ever have to break up.  You don’t need to dump one friend to be with another.  You can literally be friends with countless people you vibe with and keep the best ones for decades.  You’re going to spend a lifetime slowly accumulating a great collection of dependable people who you’ll be proud to call your friends.  So for now, focus on finding one special one to have slumber parties with and be happy knowing that later in life you’ll have a few more to go to the movies with.”

In true Caroline fashion, she impatiently rolled her eyes at me, but agreed to go with the QnQ roll,  “Smilf, Smilf, Smilf, Smilf, Smilfy Roll Call.”

The Fall

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Since I spent my high school days as a student government kid, I’m currently cramming in extra hours post work and during daily life to help plan and promote my 10-year high school reunion.  It’s crazy it’s been 10 years already.  Amidst flipping the pages of my senior yearbook and accepting that I live a very different live than the one I had planned for myself when my whole life was this school and these pages, I randomly and suddenly remember a scene from the WB’s hit show Dawson’s Creek.   This particular scene is more vivid than others and doesn’t even include any of the leading stars.  Here’s how I remember it:

Dawson’s dad discovers that his wife, the love of his life, has been hiking her pencil skirt up for a co-worker.  He tells her, while standing on a bridge, probably near the creek, that he remembers falling in love with her.  I remember how inspired, and heartbroken, it made me feel.

He then proceeds to tell her, and with an impressive amount of strength considering the situation, that he just fell out of love with her – and not a single thing about it is empowering.

When this episode aired, my parents had already divorced and my boyfriend was a dick.  This scene has resonated with and bewildered me ever since.

How in the world can someone pinpoint the exact moment his or her heart quit yearning for another?  And why did they let is stop?  I’m not questioning the ability to fall out of love; I am just genuinely awe-struck by the fact that someone can recognize the exact moment.  The only firm recollection I have of truly “falling out of love” with something I absolutely dug are things like: Taco Bell after having eaten it twice daily throughout freshman year at ASU, or MySpace once I was introduced to Facebook, or pineapple mind erasers after four too many mornings of not really recalling the night prior.  I don’t need any of those things ever again.  But loving a person, I will always want that.

I’m a Libra – I’m said to be in love with love.  I have had several boyfriends.  And like my four-times-married great grandmother was once quoted, “I loved them all for their differences.”  I’ve just always been guilty of allowing a love affair to slowly wither away, similar to the way I keep dead, welted bouquets of flowers on my table for days longer than I should – I keep them, although scentless and completely color deprived, simply because I love having flowers in my home.

Some people pray for clarity.  Those are the patient ones.  Others are impulsive and say precisely how they feel when they feel it, and act decidedly so.  Me, the Libra, is somewhere balancing in the middle searching for inspiration as if it were a dim fishing boat in the middle of a dark, raging sea.  The boat just keeps floating forward because it’s hopeful that there’s calm just over that wave.  But what if the boat is going the wrong way? A Libra might wonder if the journey is wrong, but the destination, that being love, will always be right.  A Libra leans into love, even if she falls.

Lady Marlin

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Something really grown up is happening.  In fact, I’ve been heard gasping, “life is happening!” on numerous occasions to several wonderful people who make my world go round.  And on the contrary, it’s also been brought to my attention that some things haven’t happened at all.  Here’s the mature yet static line-up:

My oldest and longest best friend, the one I used to play motorcycle mamas with, is getting married to an older, successful man.  When that day comes, I know she’ll be the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen and her walk down the aisle will be perfection – I mean we’ve only been practicing “the walk” since we were three.

My most fun friend, my crazy counterpart, the one I’ve danced with in tutus on tops of furniture in after hours nightclubs and other louder-than-life establishments is considering starting a non-profit, and might even leave Sin City in her Jordan hightops’ dust once and for all.

The number of friends with babies is really starting to rival the number of those without.  And as far as I’m concerned, you really shouldn’t have a baby in a bar.

Men look at me like I’m supposed to be someone’s wonderful wife, and are completely baffled to learn that no one has locked me down yet. They also vocalize that all my boyfriends should have known better.  I accept the compliment and ponder the reality.

And my guy’s little guy, we’ll call him Kyle, wishes I’d turn 30 because he feels like that’s a “nice age” for me to “become a wife and mom.”  It is currently 8 days before my 29th birthday.

Yes, I’m pretty wide-eyed and in awe of all of this life happening before me.  I also keep myself quite busy reassuring everyone else that I really am OK with my unwed relationship status and unused childbearing hips, which is actually a great relief – this contentment just might be the single thing I’m not bat shit crazy about.   I’m calm and going with the flow, I just don’t see what the big rush is.  So after the fourth, “when are you going to marry my dad?” inquiry of the summer, I took a stab at real talk.  I explained to Kyle that I like being a girlfriend and dating, because once we get married, I’ll never date again, and I really enjoy dating.  His mind was blown to bits; and as he skipped off, the way all small 6-year olds do, he looked at me like, “You pick up my confused bits, Smilfy.”  And so I did.  I know he’ll need them for the next time he tries to will a marriage on me.

People, children especially, crave structure and tradition and stability.  I get that.  I also feel it – on occasion, about some things.  Thinking back, I know that I shared Kyle’s enthusiasm for marriage when I was young and wore an unbroken heart on all my sleeves, but like I said, life happens – things like divorce, infidelity, career ambition, and newly single moms who don’t know who they are at age 42 because they’ve been married since they were 18 tend to tarnish the shine that matrimony used to gleam when my best friend and I took turns playing the dashing groom and white pillow case veiled bride. I’d like to say that all of this romantic experience and observation has made me vigilant, because it sounds more eloquent, but the truth of it is, I’m just scared.

My boyfriend, the one I’m enjoying dating and calling my bf, recently compared me to a marlin.  He says it took him well over a year to reel me in; I just wouldn’t come aboard.  And that even now, it occasionally looks like I might just jump ship with no notice, for no clear reason at all.  I looked into his soft, lash-lined blue eyes and gripping, expressive eyebrows and felt equal parts guilty and glad.  Guilty, because, in hindsight, I probably didn’t need to put up such a long fight; especially when I could feel his adoration for me from the moment we met.  My gladness though, that was a proud feeling.  I could picture it – I was a majestic marlin thrashing in a sea of house music, resisting his affection for fear of losing my sense of self, my independence, my balance, my single status.  Aren’t all fish afraid of getting hooked?  I was actively fighting for me – the only person who I could ever really rely on.  I fought and I fought.  And then I let myself get caught.

I watched Kyle walk ahead of me – kicking rocks in his path, still shaking off bits of his mind – and made a Smilfy promise to fortify his big heart in the same way I have learned to protect mine.  He will grow to know that love is as grand and real as it feels; more important than even the best storybook could detail; more special than a box of candy; feels more magical than a bear hug; more fun than riding with no handlebars; and worth waiting for, because when you’re beautiful and independent – even if you are a little scared – only the strongest fisherman will do, and in the mean time, it’s best to enjoy the waves, they’re the journey that majesty is made of.

Saint She

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When a young woman flies an airline with zero status a few unfamiliar things happen: she boards nearly last and undergoes/ignores curious and bored stares from sardined passengers who have already fastened themselves into their seat belt as if claiming uncharted land; she gets to sit in the window seat instead of the coveted aisle – which has always felt like such a trap; and she, quite surprisingly, re-discovers herself.

Today she wears sunglasses, as all cool yet aloof girls do, and she actually looks beyond her smoky lenses and through the window her new seat has afforded her.  Alas, this real estate may be more “excuse mes” away from the lavoratory than a hydrated young lady would prefer, but it also offers something unexpected, and splendid – the great wide world in the shape of an oblong rectangle for as far as little brown eyes can see, which is plenty far for her.  And today, she just so happens to need to see her world.  As her anomalous aircraft takes-off she numbingly looks down at the routes she cruises, the places she frequents, the mountain she hikes, the life she lives and the memories she makes.   Today she is leaving most of what she knows behind for a new world she knows nothing of.  A world of splendor, religion, and tradition – a far away world that she knows nothing about and this makes her heart skip a beat.

There’s always been love, to some capacity at least.  To her, love is all there is.  It can take her places, and then bring her home again.  It is as right as the rain couples embrace under, as true as the beat in her fighting heart and as extraordinary as an Arizona sunset.  Love is what makes her world at peace.  She isn’t a hippy.  Not really, anyway.  She is, however, an absolute romantic, sort of a heartbreaker and, even though she wouldn’t know what to do with a beautiful ending, an inconsistent ever-after seeker.

She has always brought love, evoked love, made love.  She’s even made a few men pine for and fall in love with her in just a single night’s time – quite frankly, this is most of all she’s ever known.  And this inspires her.  You see, to her there is no “happy ending,” because that concept is yet to exist, assuming that it really does, of course.  She revels in the now so hold on tight.  She is the woman who reveres her past even if it’s sticky for the simple truth that it’s made her who she is today; impulsively and passionately makes the most of her present; and bashfully throws out a rope to wrangle her future half accepting that it might not catch anything proud or pretty.   Despite all this, she is an opportunist; she is heartfelt and kind, playful and fun; and she loves.

She is the type of lover who smiles at her suitor; finds the good in him, and commends him so; she laughs with him; encourages his story-telling; cheerleads his dreams, caresses his arm; leans on his shoulder; and looks longingly into his eyes as if she’s been searching for him all along.  No, she isn’t methodically misleading him into serving her the full moon on a silver plated platter; she’s simply exercising all the female finesse she’s ever known and expecting nothing but the very best from “the one.”

If you’re in search of her, find her.  If you’ve just met her, don’t stop getting to know her.   If you have her, keep her. If she’s left you for another world, ask her to come home.   If you’ve already lost her, hope that the next man realizes her worth.  May there always be red roses and blue violets in her Valentine’s Day.  And may you find your Saint She.

Tick-Tock SMILFy Not

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Thoughtfully, and quite obviously in a pursuit to persuade, last Christmas my mama gave me another charm for my Pandora bracelet.  I laughed aloud when I laid eyes on a silver clock that comically resembles the clock character from the Disney masterpiece Beauty and the Beast, which is, coincidently, her favorite flick and my 2nd grade stocking stuffer.  It sat shiny and ominously in my jewelry box.  I knew without cue that this lovely gift was a small sterling reminder that I should be a more punctual young woman.  Today, nearly one year later and despite that cute clock on my right wrist bone, I still underestimate 15 minutes and am genuinely apologetic when I am tardy to your event – god bless that mama for trying though. 

 

Time and I have rarely played nice.  There’s either been too much of it or not enough; it’s the $1.99 app that underwhelms or the free advice you should deny even if you’re paid.  Either way, we’re never in the same zone.  As of late, my creativity has been challenged by time – my inescapable fault – and fear.  Talk about a conquering humdinger.  It’s been one year since I emotionally and vocally committed to launching my SMILFy blog – and beyond buying the domain and some unfinished, unpublished blogs, I am yet to show anything for it.  Truthfully, I believe in this blog.  I consider it a creative outlet for myself and a resource for other women like me; I even have faith in its brand power and fully intend on cultivating this concept (consider this a warning to those who may try to highjack this business opportunity).  All I have to do is take the first step, post the first blog.  But this step has transformed from visions of rainbow arches to thorny detours – there’s just always been an outside force that’s stronger than time to slow me down. 

 

I fear that launching this expressive blog/potential business may further anger my unpleasant counterpart, thereby flooding my life, as well as my new family’s life, with even more chaos and compromise.  Or worse yet, I fear I will proclaim this endeavor, but never be able to deliver because I wasn’t meant to be a SMILFy after all.  All the while, through all the contemplation, worrywart tendencies, and a collection of content inspiration, the SMILFy blog remains blank and the time on my wrist rests unchanged.   

The Single Girl is Getting Domesticated

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Come spring, life is getting more dandy with Andy. That’s right, we have decided to take the next big step: we are going to co-habitat; move in together; shack up; share a roof. Either way you say it, at the end of day, what’s mine is his, and vice verse. I don’t mean to brag, but he says that “what we have is special, and this is just the next big step for us moving forward.” I could have melted.

In preparation for this life-changing leap, I am spending a little more time in my little, humble abode, that mind you, is just rock throwing distance from the stereo vibrations of Scottsdale’s finest clubs (I will always miss this proximity). I figure I need to spend some time here in my lonesome. Enjoy the silence and solitude, if you get my drift. Remember, I am accepting 3 new roomies into my life. I’ve also decided to host some girly gatherings. I think Andy thinks this sort of odd, but I consider it normal, and mandatory for that matter. I mean if all goes well, if I get all that I’ve been wishing for since I asked my Daddy when I could get married and was totally disappointed that he said I had to wait until I was 22 (guess I missed that boat), this will be the very last time I ever live alone. Com-plete-ly A-lone.

This realization gets me thinking about how coveted seclusion truly is. After all, I did just escape to my place to “clean.” And I will in fact clean, but there’s something blissful about the fact that all this mess is just mine; there’s no one trailing behind me to make a messy mockery of all my elbow grease. Besides, when you’re all by yourself, in your own “mess” of a life, cleaning can be quite entertaining: because in between dusting, folding and Good Willing, I am responding to Facebook posts, pouring a little more wine, admiring photos hung on my walls (I’ve lived a good life thus far), and sliding around on my spick-and-span, slick tile in my loud, knee-high Christmas socks; which I swear will make it into the holiday storage bin next wash. Amidst all this fun, Andy calls to see what I’m up to, and I’m literally panting when I answer the phone. This is because I’m doing what only truly single, alone girls can do when they “clean.” You see, “cleaning” is code for drinking and dancing while I do some cleaning. It really is one of life’s greatest joys.

I have loved and appreciated living by myself; the personal growth I’ve experienced is indescribable, even for my jabber jaw, but why not go out with a bang?! Why not party until the very end?! So I’ve decided to move forward with my girly gathering idea and have my former roommates, Jennifer & Shannon, over for a night of wine, apps, and girl talk. I think Andy is mainly curious what the “girl talk” entails, and if I’ll bring over leftovers. But if I know my college roomies and I, we will devour every last drop, and crumb. Speaking of last drops, I’ve decided to assess my bona-fide bachelorette pad’s refrigerator to properly welcome my guests. I swing the door open…. and there isn’t much to look at. It is sparse, and seriously lacking some basic comforts I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping the better part of my ZZZZs at Andy’s. For instance, my fridge’s shelves have the following items: 3 bottles of water; 1 bottle of wine, that I have already broken into because I am rationing my precious water; applesauce because it comes up as easily as it goes down; tuna fish because my physique is an ongoing obsession, and I make a mean tuna melt; Skinny Girl margarita mix because that stuff is delicious; pickles because I entered this world addicted to them; more condiments than I’ve ever had entrees; and lest not forget the oversized bottle of Grey Goose on the counter patiently awaiting the diet cranberry on the top shelf.

Don’t get me wrong; I used to shop and shelf nutritional things like eggs, yogurt and fresh fruit, but when a single girl’s little place morphs into a crash pad for when she wanders home from those stereo bumps I previously mentioned, the grocery store is just a waste of time, bc spoiled food is a waste of money. And that my friends, is a frugal mentality at its finest. Besides, Andy being the best Daddy, second to my Daddy, of course, always keeps a stocked fridge, and always makes sure we eat well. So although my stomach is a little vocal at the moment, I am kind of digging drinking my dinner tonight. I deem it a final farewell to the single, live alone me.
Thanks for everything Self; you were a great roomie.

COMING SOON:
For more tales from my even dandier shacked up & SMILFy life, please read my new blog all about my adventures in being a bonus mama: http://www.smilfy.com
Oh and in case it’s gone over your head, this means I am a stepmom in training. SMILF is like MILF, but better because I am younger, and cooler. And we throw the ‘y’ on at the end to make it a term of endearment. Bam. Super SMILFy.