She Said Yes

She said yes to him. It took a while. He had waited patiently. Every day he hoped she would see him for who he truly was: the one who would love her the best. He was jealous for her. Would tear the world apart to find her. He wanted to be the only.

They started out just friends. Went to the same Sunday school. Spent some time talking together. He would tell her stories and she would ask him questions. She thought it was like every other relationship. He would disappoint her and she would disappoint him. She broke promises she made. He would stop speaking to her.

But it wasn't really like that. He never stopped loving her, no matter what she did to him. He was always there, waiting outside the door, waiting for her fits of rage to subside. She didn't know, and he wouldn't tell her. He wanted her to love him on her own. He wanted her to choose him.

She grew up and went to college, and for a short while, they weren't on speaking terms. That's what happens after high school, right? People grow apart. He wasn't going to give up though, even if she wouldn't answer any of his calls. She wrote mean things about him in her journal and tried to block out what she knew was the truth about him.

One day he sent her a CD. She listened to it once, twice, a third time. It was then that she decided she wanted him back. The music had changed her. It had reminded her of the truth. She gave him a call and they patched things up. He took her back immediately.

Things were okay after that. There were the usual ups and downs, the roller coaster ride of relationships. After a while though, things started to spiral downward. He didn't show up when she needed him to. She felt all alone. She knew he had a caring nature, but she started to believe he cared about everyone but her. Pretty soon, she only looked for what was wrong with their relationship. She tried convincing him they should end it. He could go love someone else then.

But the truth was, he couldn't stop loving her. The truth was, he knew in his heart that they would end up together. And he wouldn't give up. "I will wait one year or I will wait five. Or even fifty if I have to. You decide." That's what he'd say. "You think a lot of things about me that aren't true. But one day you'll see me in a different way." It used to infuriate her. She wasn't convinced.

One day though, she was in a bad place. She called all of her friends, but none of them answered. Her family wasn't there either. She needed someone, and she didn't know who else to call. He picked up on the first ring. She blubbered all her problems to him. He showed up with warm arms and chocolate chip cookies. "Listen to me," he said gently. "I want you to do something for me. Do you think you could do something for me?"
"I guess maybe," she said.
"Let me love you. Look for the good. Just try it."

And then there was the day that she said yes. He popped the question, unexpectedly. People might have thought she was crazy. "Look how he's treated you" they might say. "Do you really think things will change?" She figured they had to. It had never worked when she asked him to follow her life plans. Maybe she should do this. Say yes. Commit, even if it was hard. It was the only thing she hadn't tried. It wasn't even necessarily that she wanted to say yes. It was that she knew she couldn't say no.

"You don't have to," he said. He made it so easy to back out and take the easy road. But she knew he cared. She knew he wanted this. So she fought for it. She said "yes, and I will change what I do to make you the first priority."

"But do you really want me?" he asked. "Do you want to love me now for reals?" He gave her time to decide in her heart. Her heart knew. In fact, her heart was burning for him. They weren't meant just to be casual acquaintances or long term friends. They were meant to be in love.

After some time passed, he told her "You know that time when we were fighting? When you thought I didn't care about you anymore? That broke my heart. I never stopped loving you. I knew you cried tears at night, and I wanted so badly for it to be me. I wanted it to be me with the salty pillowcase. I wanted it to be me with all the hurt. But you had practically given up on us. You wouldn't let me take any of it. I had to wait for you to reach the bottom, the very deepest pit of your soul."

"It worked," she said. "It totally sucked, but it worked. I don't want to ever do that again."

"I know," he said. "But you're mine. You're mine, and I love you, and that will never change. I will love you forever. I love to see you wake up in the mornings, and I smile when your hair gets all tangled up and you lose bobby pins in it and find them two days later, and I adore the way you care for children, and I want to be with you every moment of every single day. And then when the days end, I want to be with you forever after that. Someday I'm going to get you the most beautiful house painted with so much turquoise, and there will be typewriters everywhere and so many books it will put Belle from Beauty and the Beast to shame."

"I need you to know something," she said. "I don't think I've told you this before."
"What's that?" he said. But he already knew what she was going to say.
"You're mine," she said. "You're mine, you're mine, you're mine. And I love you. I love you and you're mine."
He smiled. "I'm so glad you said yes."

The Soap Opera of Our Lives

Casey and I stood in the restaurant's bathroom, washing the soap off of our hands and contemplating how we ended up at Venti’s with two unknown guys who responded to our Facebook plea for a Friday night double date. Friends of a friend, the two men were the first set of males we had cajoled into undergoing our little experiment. No, we hadn’t drugged them with Love Potion Number Nine. It was our good looks, quick wit, and sparkling white smiles that had drawn these men out of the dark video game dens that their fellow kind dwell in.
             Before we even met Ryan and Zach* in person, Casey and I were sure to e-mail them our rules. The document read as follows:

Rules
1. Absolutely no kissing.
2. You must actually be single. You can’t be married, engaged, or have a girlfriend.
2. Participants must be at least 21 years of age.
3. We go halvsies. Everyone brings their own wallet.
4. Joelle is allowed to blog about the experience. But she’ll change your name. And your appearance. So if you’re muscly and bald, you’ll end up being scrawny with an afro in the story.
5. No commitment to follow up. You don’t have to call us the next day. We won’t cry our eyes out or text you 5 million times.
            I have to admit, number 4 worried me a bit. I didn’t want people to think I was just out for a good story and that I would write lies about them. But awkward dates make for really great blog posts, and I didn’t want anyone to feel tricked when three days later they read a story about themselves on The Real Pretend.

Not to mention, I thought rule number 4 might attract only self-centered D-bags that wanted to become famous. Because, you know, this blog gets a lot of hits. And not all of them are from my mother. But let’s get back to the date I’m currently in the middle of.

“What do you think Casey? Possibilities or no?”
            “I think it’s going well so far. They’re both really open and relaxed, even though this whole thing is a bit out of the comfort zone.”

“A little bit out of the comfort zone? Try off the charts. The comfort zone for me was sitting at home wearing a snuggie and watching Joshua Lucas on TV.” Because I don’t know about you, but I just don’t go hang out with strangers found on the FB. I pondered the other option. “Case, do you think posting our themed dates on Facebook was a better idea than organizing Spiritual Speed Dating at Broadway Cafe?”

 That had been our original idea/joke. How we wanted to find guys who loved Jesus but weren’t already head over heels for the blond YWAMer who just got back from her mission trip in Ecuador.

Casey and I had discussed spiritual speed dating, and how we’d kind of poke fun at the whole thing, but it could maybe turn out well. In order to make the event spiritual, participants would have to recite Bible verses in order to meet more people. If you only memorized three verses, you only got to meet three people. I figured this strategy would really motivate twenty-somethings to study the Word. Plus, I still remembered most of James chapter 1 from when I was in middle school (also the Gettysburg address, but that won’t count).  And those GT and the Halo Express songs really helped with memorization too.
            After the joking ended, I approached Casey with the idea to get friends of friends of friends to go on dates with us (the friends of friends were mostly already married). We’d advertise on Facebook in a completely non-desperate-I-so-don’t-cry-my-eyes-out-on-Friday-nights sort of way.

“Casey, How does my eye patch look?” I asked.
“Really good. Reminds me of Pirates of the Carribean.”

To launch off our themed dates, we had started with a Blind Date, but we took it literally. This isn’t an episode of The Bachelorette, so there will be no dates to Dollywood, but Casey and I are creative and know how to put together a memorable experience. We had a unique night of braille reading, blind folds**, and trust walks planned. We really needed to get back to the table so as to continue with the trivia game before our food arrived.

***

I sat opposite Ryan and picked up one of the cards we had made. “Okay, for three points, what does a green tipped cane mean?” I looked expectantly around the room, thinking most people would remember this from reading the Oregon Driver’s Manual at age 15.

“Um…the person’s blind?” Zach answered.

“Close.”

“Blind and deaf!” Ryan shouted. The couple from the table next to us looked over.

“Correct,” I said.

Casey picked up the next card. “Who invented glasses?”

“Benjamin Franklin?”

“Name five animals with excellent night vision.”
“Cats, lemurs, wolves, raccoons, and….”

“Owls!” Zach finished.

            Shortly after our round of trivia, the food arrived. I had the falafel pita and Greek salad, which is my usual. I’m a fan of Greek food, but I never tell anyone this because I hate olives and don’t want people serving me food stuffed with kalamata olives. Also, saying you don’t like olives is offensive to Greek people. It’s like not valuing the knowledge of Latin and Greek root words.

            During the meal, Zach winked at me. Or at least I thought he did. It might have just been that his eye patch was irritating him and he needed to blink. But still.  

            When the bill came, we all pulled out our wallets. There wasn’t any of that “Is he paying? Should I offer to pay? Am I making him feel like less of a man for purchasing my own meal?” Rule 3 clearly stated that you pay your own way on this date.

            Casey was pretty excited for the next part of the date. She had thought it up. We were headed over to Bush Park for some trust building activities, because a very important foundation for a relationship is trust. We wanted to put the guys to the test.

            “Alright,” Casey said. “This is what’s going to happen. We are going to blindfold you. Then we are going to lead you through the trees. You will have to follow our directions to stay safe, and trust that we are telling the truth.”

            Guys are forever not wanting to follow the instructions of a woman. Apparently it’s hard for some reason. Smart is the man who just does what his wife asks. Casey and I had plans to open up the vulnerability of these two strangers, testing them out in situations that could cause conflict.

            After the blindfolds were secure, I gave Ryan my first set of directions. “Okay, take five steps forward. Good. Keep walking.”

            Casey had her work cut out for her, having to navigate Zach through a cluster of trees. “Take a left. Okay, go forward until I tell you to stop. Stop. Take a right. We’re going to go up a hill. Lift up your feet.”  

            I am happy to say that both men made it to our end location safely. Nobody tripped on a branch or got attacked by a rosebush. And the blindfolds helped keep the guys from being distracted by the other park-goers who were more attractive than me. For some reason, slender women are always wearing short shorts and running at Bush Park, despite the fact that there are no bears in sight.

Casey and I had our turns next. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be blindfolded and directed down a path sprawling with roots and rocks. I’ve got a terribly loose knee joint, and if you so much as nudge me at the wrong angle, my patella will pop out and it’s all kinds of gruesome. If you don’t believe me, just Google images of “dislocated knees.” I needed my date to know how very sensitive I was to terrain changes.

“Don’t let me fall in a hole or you’ll be carrying me back to the car.” The last part was a lie. I’m resilient and typically good to walk after my right knee dislocates, provided I get it back in quickly. But I wanted him to know that I’d expect him to carry me if I were injured. I’ve never been carried by a man, unless you count  the time when my brother in law carried me to the river edge to throw me in, or when I was ten and stepped on a rusty tent peg and my foot was bleeding and my friend’s dad carried me into the house—which I don’t. I’d like to be rescued by an attractive prince man at least once in my life. Disney taught me that.

“All set.”

I took baby steps forward as Ryan navigated. I could hear Casey walking a few feet away. Everything was going fine and I totally was keeping all my joints in place until I heard an additional male voice.

“Joelle? Is that you?”

I ripped off my blindfold and took a look. My stomach lurched. It was Evan*, a guy I’ve liked for longer than I care to admit.

“Hey,” I said, as casually as one could.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked.

“Ah, you know. Just some blind games. Trust walk and all that...”

“Oh. How come?” Evan asked.

Men are forever wanting explanations to why single girls wear blindfolds and stroll through the park with near perfect strangers.

Zach, who must be an extrovert, piped in. “We’re on a blind date. And it’s like, literal.”

I could feel my face turn crimson. Now Evan is going to think that I’m signed up for Match.com or something, when really all I did was make a plea offer on the world’s largest social media site. I started to worry. What if Evan started to think that I was unavailable? That I was going to pursue a relationship with a man in an eye patch? He’d never take me on a non-date to Word of Mouth then.

Men are forever fearful of taking women on non-dates. Because sometimes they like the girl and just want to find an excuse to hang out with her, but they are afraid that a breakfast burrito or some French toast will mean that they are saying “I like you.” And guys are terrified of telling girls that they like them (this is what all the articles tell me), because they are just as self-conscious as girls and don’t want to be rejected.

For every guy who secretly likes a girl, there are ten girls who are mad crazy about that guy. But instead of just taking a chance, the guys have to make sure we like them, so they force us to do things like bat our eyelashes or show cleavage to get the message across. I can’t do either of those things. So what I do instead is go silent as a mime every time a guy is around. Then all the guys think I hate them, but really the problem is that I was home schooled for nine years and don’t know how to interact with the opposite sex.

“Well, have fun,” Evan said.

I smiled dumbly.

Turning to Casey I said, “Shall we move on to the last activity?”

Casey nodded.

Some people end dates by getting ice cream or by making out at the top of a hill while in a parked car. Or maybe you get a kiss on the front step while your mother peeks out the curtains at you. That’s what they show on TV anyway, I don’t really know. We did none of those things. Instead, Casey and I had some braille reading for the boys to do. We had created our messages using puffy paint. They were fairly short, because writing in braille by hand is a lot of work and we weren’t that committed.
            “You’ll have to do some research to figure out what these say.” Or, you know, just throw them in the garbage on your way out.

The night ended. If you think there was a rose ceremony and we picked our favorite bachelor, you’re wrong, because this isn’t ABC television and Chris Harrison isn’t telling me what to do. Instead Casey and I went to her house to gossip and plan our next themed double-date.

*not their real names

**if you are thinking something dirty, then shame on you.

Author's note: Just like The Bachelorette, this "reality" story is completely fictional. This did not ever happen. Yet.

Crush Quiz

Meg Cabot is my favorite female author. Her characters are typically hilarious, candid, and always hopeful. Maybe if I become a popular YA author, Meg and I can become friends. And then we can co-write advice pieces together.

While catching up on Meg's website, I discovered a little gem she wrote from 2004. It's a crush quiz. It is really excellent. If you are a guy, you should read it anyway, because it's funny. If you are a girl, it's a must read.

Never mind that it was intended for girls under the age of 18. It is totally applicable.

Here it is. It only takes five minutes. If you are one of my closest friends, then you know that I scored mostly C's and D's. But mostly D's.

Here is a sample question.
3. How often do you guys have actual conversations?
a. Often, almost every day
b. Sometimes, maybe once a week or less
c. Only when I've gone out of my way to make it happen
d. I chose to admire him from afar only

Good Wife/Bad Wife

So you're a guy and you're wondering to yourself, what would it be like to be married to Joelle? It's okay if you've thought this. Your mind is a private place. Except that you know, God can see your thoughts. I've more than once wondered to myself If I were married to that Italian guy I had met in the library, would he have driven thirty minutes out of his way to return my overdue copy of The Penultimate Peril to save me 40 cents in fines? Just because we wonder these things doesn't mean they are going to come true. But in case they do...

I'm not going to keep anything from you. You don't need to be the person who dates me for three months just to find out that I am haughty when it comes to the use of apostrophes. I will let you know my faults right now.

So here we go. The reasons I would be a good wife or a bad wife:

1) The sleep shirts I wear to bed are from 1997, no lie. They are super comfy and two of them I got from the bowling party my orthodontist sponsored when I was in middle school. They feature a stick figure kid wearing braces. So not sexy on so many levels.
Verdict: Bad wife

2) I had a bed-to-wall dependency issue for 15 years. I always had to have my bed against a wall in order to feel comfortable sleeping at night. Apparently this is an issue if you are married, because people don't like to feel trapped in a corner or crawled over in the middle of the night. I've since weaned myself of this dependency. If you have a bed-to-wall dependency, I'm fine with it.
Verdict: Good wife

3) I'll probably keep writing love letters to strangers. I'm on the writing team for MoreLoveLetters.com and really enjoy it. This work means I write words of encouragement and love to people I've never met. You might not like this idea. Maybe it weirds you out. But if you marry me, I promise you I will write you the very best love letters, and not just really sappy, lovely dovey ones all the time. Some may include puzzles or a secret code.
Verdict: you decide

4) I can't go to sleep without brushing my teeth first.
Verdict: Good wife

5) I like brushing my hair just about as much as I enjoy untying a hundred sailors' knots without the use of thumbs. If you end up marrying me, I'll probably try to convince you to comb my hair for me, because my arms get really tired after a while. I know this doesn't sound like fun. But I'll do something for you that is equally as unpleasant, like waxing your back hair. You're getting a deal here.
Verdict: probably bad wife

6) I find nothing wrong with putting a spoon into a carton of ice cream and eating directly from it.
Verdict: you decide

7) I can be ready to go in 15 minutes flat and look pretty cute in 30. If you don't think this is a short amount of time, then talk to men who are already married. 
Verdict: Good wife

8) I will probably blog about you. But it will only ever be about how awesome/funny/sweet/handsome/clever/smart/talented you are. If you really want, I won't say your actual name. My favorite author, Meg Cabot, refers to her husband as He Who Must Not Be Named in her blog. And she always blurs out his face in photos. On our first date I'll probably make you sign a release.
Verdict: Bad wife (but one who brags about you, so maybe good).

9) You will be able to keep nothing from me. You know, because we'll have a relationship based on honesty, trust, and mutual respect. Plus I'm a detective and can figure anything out. I might not let you know that I know, but I'll know. So if you try to plan a surprise for me, you better be five times as sneaky as you think you need to be, because chances are I'll discover what you're up to.
Verdict: Bad wife

10) I still pretend things. I might as well be ten years old. I enjoy building forts and wearing disguises and talking with accents. I've got a sharp imagination that some may call delusional. Three weeks ago I cut a square out of a cardboard box, put it on my head, and pretended to be inside a TV, all in the name of a children's church lesson. But really I just wanted an excuse to play pretend again.
Verdict: depends on your own level of sanity

God's Valentine

I present to you, a lovely gift from David Bowden:



Lyrics are available here.

I love you, you asshole

 Raziel sat draped across her bed, writing in her journal, feeling like a moronic middle school girl even though she was a 23 year old college graduate. She figured she might as well still have braces for the sort of progress she’d made over the years, which was none. The things in her life were still crooked and wrong and needed wire to keep them together.

Eight months earlier, at the beginning of the summer, she had told her little brother’s best friend that she liked him. Talk about a dumb idea. Raziel hadn’t a clue how the attraction had begun. How did she go from wanting to kick him and her brother out of her playhouse to wishing he’d want to spend one-on-one time with her? Micah was only a year and two months younger than her, but he had been that kid. The one she’d seen wearing Batman underwear when she was eight.

And now she liked him? The admission hadn’t gone over well. Micah told her that he was sorry, but he wasn’t interested in her. That he just didn’t have any of those feelings for her at all. However, eight months later, here she was, writing about how she still liked him—no, loved him—even though he basically thought of her as a sister. Raziel contemplated going through her entry and dotting all of her i’s with hearts, because everything was so ridiculous anyway. Might as well be a pre-pubescent teen about it.

She thought, Is it too much if I drive over to his house on a night that it is pouring rain? And I ring his doorbell at 9pm and am standing on his front step with soaking wet hair? That sort of thing happens all the time in movies, but is it too much if I do it in actual real life?

But she was determined. She needed to hear him say “I can never love you, and I will never love you.” It was the only way she could move on. All this time she had been clinging to some psychotic hope that he would change his mind, that he would see her in a different light.

With my luck I’ll drive over there and he won’t be home, she thought. Or worse yet, his roommate will answer the door instead of him. Then all the drama would be lost. That’s the thing about real life. It’s rare that anybody acts out the script you’ve written in your head.

If she was really being honest with herself, what she wanted most was for Micah to show up at her door—whether it was raining or not. She had thought about this many times—how she would hear a knock on the door, open it, and see Micah standing there saying, “I was wrong about you.”

It wouldn’t even matter that she’d be wearing sweatpants and have no make up on. She knew that if he were to show up at her door, she wouldn’t be lucky enough to be dressed attractively like the girls in the movies. No, it would probably be 2pm on a Saturday, and she’d still have her elastic waisted pajama pants on. But it wouldn’t even matter, because he would be there. For her. To ask for a second chance. And what she would do is look at a clock and note the time, so she could remember the exact moment in history when Micah came to his senses. Then she would say, “I’m so glad you’re finally here.”

As it was, Raziel could not count on that ever happening, and the not knowing drove her mad. She wanted to forget about him, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t expected this. For the three weeks immediately following Micah turning her down, she was fine. There were no tears, no heartbreak. She even signed up for Match.com.

But when that first message arrived in her inbox from a stranger, asking her more about herself, she realized she couldn’t do this. She didn’t want anybody but Micah. She would rather wait three years for him to change his mind than be in a relationship with a man who was sup-par to Micah. And everyone was sub-par to him. She couldn’t reason how anyone else could be better than him. It just wasn’t possible.

Raziel had self-diagnosed herself with psychosis. That had to be it. Who else reasons like this?

Yes, driving over to his house at night and showing up in the rain seemed like just the movie-esque thing to do. The reason scenes in movies never happen in real life is because people aren’t brave enough to attempt them. They are terrified that the other person won’t respond the way they envisioned, and so they go about their lives in a mundane, non-dramatic sort of way. Raziel didn’t want this to happen to her. She wanted to be the girl who at least tried to get a cinematic scene. She was determined to gather all of her shredded bravery and bind it together to form enough new courage to take on this challenge.

There was no evidence at all to suggest that Micah had changed his mind about her. There was really nothing hopeful about the possibility of showing up on his doorstep, but she needed to hear him say that he would never love her. She figured those words said in person would be enough to cut her to the core, to pull her out of her psychosis and realize that she needed to stop being crazy and move on.

***

Raziel practiced some lines during the drive in her car.

           "Michah, you are an asshole." She said it many times over, changing the inflection in her voice. But no matter how many times she rehearsed this particular sentiment, she couldn’t believe it to be true. She was not any madder at Micah than before. She was not angry at him at all. He was not an asshole. He was kind and sweet and clever and strong and handsome. He was everything she ever wanted in a man, and it was a pity that all those wonderful qualities had to be enveloped in the very person who didn’t care about her in the least.

Sure, there were a few things about him that she initially was not attracted to, like his wardrobe. The guy wore numbered jerseys just about every day of the week. How many times had she wanted to explain to him that jerseys were something you should wear for sports games, that they were not acceptable as actual attire? But she didn’t care about that anymore. She found them endearing, adorable—hot even. Micah could wear those stupid jerseys every day of the week and it wouldn’t bother her if he just wanted to be with her while he wore them.

Raziel tried a new line. Both hands gripping the steering wheel, she spoke over the dashboard and into the darkness with as much feeling as she could muster. “I love you, you asshole.” 

 An hour and a half later she drove past Micah’s college campus. She turned left and then right, finally pulling up to the curb on the street that Micah lived on. The house sat four driveways down. The lights inside the living room were on, and his car sat parked outside the garage.

Was she really going to do this? Make a complete fool of herself?

Sometime later she found herself on the outside of the white wooden door. Her finger hovered over the doorbell with such violent shaking that you’d think she was pressing the button that ended the world. About thirty seconds later the door opened, and there Micah stood in socked feet, wearing a Lakers basketball jersey and a five o’clock shadow across his jaw line.

It was act 1, scene 2.

“Tell me you will never, ever love me.”

“Raziel, what are you doing here?”

“Tell me you find me repulsive and you can never love me.”

She could see that he was considering whether or not this was a trick. Was this a prank or was Raziel serious? He wanted to respond safely.

“Dammit, Micah, I drove all this way and have been standing in the rain for ten minutes trying to get the courage to push your doorbell, and you won’t even say your line. You need to tell me that you don’t want to love me.”

Slowly the words fell out of his mouth, like he was testing them to be true. “I don’t want to love you.”

“I didn’t want to love you either. You are not who I expected I would love. But I love you now, and I can’t stop. Even though you dress like a moron and need to shave. I used to think those things were stupid, and now I just find them endearing.”

Micah treaded carefully. “Razi, I’m sorry. I thought you understood. I don’t like you that way, and my feelings aren’t going to change.” The words tumbled off his lips like boulders rolling down a mountain and squashing a hiker who was trying to reach the top.

A few drops looking suspiciously like tears collected in his eyes. But maybe it was just sideways rain. “I’m really sorry.”

Dammit, this wasn’t supposed to be hard for him. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything. How could he not love her, but still be pained to say so? Did he have to be kind? Why couldn’t he be an asshole? Slam the door in her face and say “You’re a creeper, don’t ever come near me again!”?

“Look, Razi. Someone is going to be crazy about you. I know it. They’ll want to spend every waking moment with you and every slumbering minute next to you. There is someone out there for you…It’s just not me.”

Raziel did her best to feel a broken heart. She wanted to have every faint glow of hope extinguished from inside of her. She wanted to feel what it was like to have no hope in the development of a relationship. Her psychosis had taken over her mind, though, and she still did believe. She still trusted that anything could happen, and she would not give up hope until Micah was taken by somebody else. She would respect that. How could she not? She loved him and wanted him to be happy, so if he found happiness in another girl, she would smother out her own feelings and turn them to ash.

Raziel nodded. She wasn’t going to tell him this. If he knew she still had hope, he might worry. She didn’t want him to have any unsettling feelings.

“Micah, please. Please get a girlfriend. For my sake.”

Raziel turned around and walked back in the rain to her car. She didn’t look back. What she wanted was for him to come after her. To race out into the street and say It was all a lie. I want to love you. I can love you. I was wrong. But this isn’t a movie. It’s not a Nicholas Sparks book, either. It is real life, and those things don’t happen.

Middle Kiss

 Opposites attract if you're a magnet.

Sometimes you watch movies or read books where the two main characters start out hating each other, but then end up falling in love at the end. This story isn’t like that.

Katherine and Tom didn’t exactly hate each other, but they weren’t particularly fond of one another either. Despite the fact that Katherine and Tom would rather not spend time together, they did. All too much time. It was Katherine’s best friend’s husband’s fault. Sarah was best friends with Katherine, and Sarah’s husband Matthew was unfortunately good friends with Tom. Whenever Katherine attended an event that included Sarah and her husband, Tom was more than likely invited as well. The two had even spent an unfortunate three days camping together in the woods.

To make matters worse, Sarah and Matthew were just positive that Tom and Katherine should date.

“Sarah, you don’t understand. He posts excessive question marks on Facebook. It irritates me to no end. And don’t even get me started on his habitual use of lol.”

“Not everybody gets as bothered by incorrect punctuation and text lingo as you do.”

“Not everybody gets bothered by seeing people in the nude, but that doesn’t make it okay to walk down the street without clothes on either.”

Tom had his reasons to dislike Katherine as well. In his opinion, Katherine was snobby and vain. During the aforementioned camping trip, Katherine had actually bothered to spend time curling her hair in the community bathroom before a fishing trip. It caused the boat to leave 45 minutes late and thus Tom never caught his coveted Rainbow Trout.

Besides the ridiculousness with the hair, Katherine would bring up her Master’s degree whenever she got the chance. She’d start sentences with “In my professional opinion…” or “as someone with a background in blah blah blah.” It drove Tom mad. He hoped that one day she’d be at the library and an encyclopedia would fall on her head. It was a very juvenile thing to wish upon somebody, but that was fitting since Katherine found Tom to be quite juvenile.

One evening, Katherine found herself in an unfavorable predicament. She was at Sarah’s husband’s surprise birthday celebration and had too much to drink. She blamed her increased desire for insobriety on the fact that earlier that week her car had been smashed into while she was waiting to make a left hand turn. As it was, she felt that a birthday and totaled car was more than enough reason to drink excessively.

At one point, Sarah asked Katherine if she wouldn’t mind going up to the second floor guest room to get some extra fold-up chairs out of the closet. Katherine didn’t mind at all and enjoyed the opportunity to get away from Tom’s annoying stories of his college basketball days. Katherine didn’t return immediately, so Sarah sent Tom upstairs to help her.

Tom found Katherine inside the closet, which was actually more of an attic crawl space. She was lounging on a bean bag chair with her eyes shut. Tom thought it would be funny to scare her, so he stepped inside the closet and slammed the door behind him. Katherine jumped and let out a tiny scream. Tom was sad that he missed her expression through the darkness of the closet.  

“What in the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

Tom laughed and went to open the door. It was locked.

“You idiot. You got us stuck in here.”

“What kind of closet has an automatic lock on it?”

“The kind that are in old houses with haunted spirits,” Katherine replied.

The two fumbled around feeling for a light switch, but found none.

“Just what I wanted. To be stuck in a confined space with Tom Graphton. Without my margarita.”

“You’ve had enough drinks. Sarah sent me up here to help you.”

“Of course she did. She’s always scheming to get us together.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t noticed? Of course you haven’t. You’re a moron. Let me explain it to you.” Katherine spoke slowly. “Sarah and Matthew think we should date each other.”

 It was really an absurd thought. The only thing she found attractive about Tom was his perfect nose. It really was an irritating thing about him. Many times she had wanted to run her fist into it and make it a bit crooked, but not now. She was too intoxicated for that sort of hand-eye coordination.

“What do you think?” Tom replied.

“I think you are too cocky and self-centered to make for a pleasant personality.”

“This from the girl who is drunk and got us locked in a closet.”

“I never invited you into this closet. And you’re the one who shut the door.”

Tom smirked in the shadows. “You probably locked the door ahead of time hoping I’d come up here and find you. It was all a plan. You did it because you wanted to make out with me.”

“What is this? Seven Minutes in Hell? Like I said, you are cocky and self-centered. I have no desire to kiss you whatsoever.”

“Right,” Tom said, disbelievingly.

“Do you want me to kiss you or something?” Katherine jokingly leaned forward.

“Are you kidding me? I find you completely unattractive.”

“Even in the dark?” Katherine snorted.

“Do you want me to kiss you or something?” Tom moved closer to her.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Good. Then we have established that I don’t want to kiss you and you don’t want to kiss me,” said Tom. His face was positioned six inches from hers.

“Don’t forget, we have also established that you are arrogant and narcissistic. And you blame others for your stupid actions.”

“Sure, that too. But you are vain and snobby.”

Katherine put her head two inches closer. She could feel his breath. “How many mint leaves did you eat before coming up here?” she accused. “You were looking for Audrey, weren’t you? You were hoping she’d be so low on self-confidence from her recent break-up that she’d make out with you, weren’t you?”

“No,” Tom said.

Katherine continued. “If I kissed you, you’d be the worst Middle Kiss of my life. And I don’t need that haunting me. Joey Ringle in 7^th grade was enough.”

“Middle Kiss?” Tom said.

“Yeah. You know how people have a First Kiss, and then later in life, a Last First Kiss? Well, in between are Middle Kisses. People like to brush over the value of them, like they don’t even matter.”

“Who’s Joey Ringle?” Tom asked.

“My first kiss. It happened in the back of a bus on the way to the Lewis and Clark Museum field trip.”

“Oh. Really terrible, huh?”

“Yeah. Joey had Dorito breath and he was as slobbery as a dog. And then on the way back from the field trip, Joey switched bus seats and kissed Claudia Harper. Which just goes to show you that our kiss meant absolutely nothing to him…Why am I telling you this again?”

“You were talking about regret and Middle Kisses.”

“Oh yeah. I could never kiss you. You’d be the worst middle kiss of my life.”

“You said that already. But I have to agree with you. You’d be the worst middle kiss of my life. I don’t usually regret kissing girls, but you would be a definite indiscretion.”

Katherine wanted to slap him.

Tom brought his face closer. He could smell Katherine’s strawberry lip gloss. He bit his bottom lip and blinked.

Even though it was dark inside the closet, Katherine could feel Tom staring at her. They both breathed in and out, in and out, inches from each other. It was a game to see who was lying. Who would go in for the kiss first? But I told you at the beginning that this story doesn’t end like that.

They weren’t lying. Tom found Katherine unattractive, and Katherine found him to be a terrible asshole. She wouldn’t put her lips on that. The two sat in the dark across from each other for thirty-five minutes.

What finally broke the stalemate was Katherine’s need to use the bathroom. She found her bladder at maximum capacity and could hold it no longer.

“I really need to get out of this closet.” Katherine moved toward the door and started banging on it. “Help! Let me out of here!” she yelled.

Tom wanted to get out equally as badly, so he started to scream as well.

“Help! I’m locked in a closet with a psycho and I don’t want to be murdered!”

Katherine punched him in the side for that one.

After about five minutes, they finally heard steps padding up to the second floor. There was some fumbling at the door and then it opened. Sarah, Matthew, and two other party guests peered in at the captives.

Katherine scrambled out and ran to the bathroom. Tom stepped out and asked for another beer.

Sarah smiled to herself, thinking her secret plan had worked. They were going to like each other after all. Her hopes were dashed two minutes later when Katherine returned from the bathroom and announced to the entire living room, “I just want everyone to know that getting locked inside a closet with Tom was a complete accident, not enjoyable, and we did not kiss whatsoever.”

“Yeah, I totally did not kiss her,” Tom said.

Nobody believed them.

If you'd just let me

I did this last year on my blog and it was super fun. I requested your addresses and sent off valentines day cards to my lovely readers. It doesn't matter if we've never met in real life. It doesn't matter if you are trying to be secretive and not let me know that you read my blog. You don't even have to tell me your name. I love secrets and mystery. You can use a covert alias, like Girl in Pink Lipstick or Guy in Gray Pants. But don't be too over reaching, because if you request that I send a card to "Commander Frank Sinatra" the postal service may not deliver your mail. 

If you are male and feel weird about letting me send you a valentine, don't be. Because I won't send you a valentine. I will send you a valeMANtine, which is totally different and involves no pink or glitter, but rather steak sauce and mechanical grease. Maybe you saw last year's video.

 If you would like to receive a handmade valentine crafted by moi, please e-mail me your address at jjgrossen@gmail.com. It would be best it you got it to me by Feb. 10th, so your card at least has a chance of getting to you in time. You can request a card for a friend as well, because nothing says love like a paper note from a complete stranger. Limit one. I am not making cards for all your friends. This isn't a Hallmark factory.

Again, I am doing this because j’adore the readers of TRP. And I like to make things. And I have a vault of love stored up and I need to share the wealth. Let me do this for you.

 
Love,
Joelle

Youthful Lust

When I was in high school, I had a crush on a brainiac. I once chose to be in an advanced-advanced group because I thought he'd be in it. My English teacher decided that for one of our projects, she would let students who worked faster be in an advanced group and they would do more work when they finished early. Sounds like every nerd's dream, right?

It was already AP English, so there really was no need for an advanced group within the advanced group. There still ended up being two workaholic groups, because brainiacs are competitive and enjoy showing off. Once I found out the hot guy didn't opt into the I-have-self-worth-issues-and-need-to-be-validated-through-extra-credit group, I decided to just be in a regular group.

I have to admit, my opinion of the guy slightly changed after the incident. Like, maybe he was actually lazy and that's why he didn't want to do the extra work. Chances are, he was too cool to work with the nerdy girls in the advanced-advanced group.

****

During middle school, I developed a crush on a boy because he could do both The Dolphin and The Worm. Plus, he sort of looked like Devon Sawa, who played Caspar the friendly ghost in the movie. All middle school girls had a crush on Devon Sawa, even though you could only see him in the flesh dancing with Christina Ricci for about three minutes of the movie. I am happy to report that as an adult, Devon Sawa has made appearances in several episodes of Nikita, and he's really bad ass in them.

Smoking hot during his middle school years.

Despite his bad ass character, he still got captured by Nikita and chained to a bed so that he couldn't kill her. But she only wanted to nurse him back to health so that they could both take down Division.

I was going to write a bit more, but I think I'm going to go watch a certain TV show on Hulu instead. Sorry.

To my future spouse

I hate to be all sappy and love struck twice in one week, but I figured I'd just share this considering that whole "Greatest Virgin Who Ever Lived" thing from Saturday. Last week I discovered this site called To My Future Spouse. Basically, men and women write little love notes to the person that they've never met. It's very sweet and a little bit creepy, and provides a similar topic for humor author Jon Acuff to blog about (see Stuff Christians Like: praying for your future spouse).

I browsed through the archives and found some notes that the men wrote, which made me hope they were writing to me. You never know. If you wrote any of these, or know the person who did, well maybe you should take me out to dinner. What's great about this site is that I can become delusional and think these love letters are mine. That they were meant for me.

Here are my favorites.

To My Future Wife:
I can’t wait to fall asleep next to you—books strewn about our bed, your soft heart beating against my chest, your warm body letting me know I’m loved. Yes, yes, yes.

To My Future Wife:
Let’s share a Snuggie.

To My Future Wife:
Don’t worry, my dear, I’ll be making my own sandwiches.

To My Future Wife:
Despite my longing desire for you, I’m on God’s time and He has yet to see reason to bring us together. But I trust Him and I trust you. When the time is right, I’ll be there to make you mine forever.

To My Future Wife:
Don’t worry, ‘cause I got this handled. I’ve been killing dragons and rescuing princesses since I was six.

To My Future Wife:
I know that you’ve doubted if true love was for you, that if you were even meant to ever marry at all. It is and you are. I’m the one you’ll be with forever. We’re just not supposed to know each other just yet. But be patient; I’ll be by soon. I love you.

To My Future Wife:
Just tell me where you are and I’ll come rescue you. I’ll come save you. I’ll come love you. Just tell me where you are and I’ll make all this waiting worth the while. Tell me where you are and I’ll make all your dreams come true.

To My Future Wife:
I NEED you to understand the understated comical brilliance of Arrested Development. Then I’ll know you’re you.

the greatest virgin who ever lived

There are girls like me. People don't talk about us a lot because it makes them feel uncomfortable. It makes us feel uneasy. The media tries to hide girls like us. Often, we are told to mask ourselves and to put on a theatrical performance of who we think you want us to be. I'm here to tell you that there are girls like me, that there is no need to cover the truth, because our truth is beautifully radiant.

Every day that I don't own who I am and what I value, I might as well be endorsing teen sex or encouraging friends to closet the truth for so long that it becomes so dusty with shame that it makes you allergic just to open the lid and take a peek to see what's inside.

This is my truth, and I'm polishing it to a gleaming shine, setting it up on my imaginary mantle, and putting a big pink neon sign over it that reads This is What I Value.

I know it's not a secret to a lot of you. You may have even deduced this truth about me through the reading of previous posts or the title of my favorite movie. Many people probably wouldn't even think of the topic. Here is the truth, in case you didn't know, because I want you to be aware: I am 25 years old and still a virgin. Bigger secret still, I am 25 years old and have never kissed a boy.

Did that get you? You say, "Joelle, why are you admitting these things? They make you sound like a loser nobody wants. Or a really big prude. Or someone so judgmental about purity that not a soul will want to tell you all the things they've done."

I am telling you because I've believed my virgin lips to be a shame of mine, and that's the devil's  clever trick--trying to make you hide who you are. This is the truth of our world. Boys and girls are shamed into hiding that they have been molested or abused, so they keep their frozen lips sealed and their burnt hearts seared. Women feel shamed to admit they lost their virginity at 16 to their high school boyfriend, or that they had a one night stand with a man who doesn't even know their last name. The world shames men for not having notches on their bed post, saying that they must not be a man if they have not yet had a woman.

Whether you are Christian or not, I feel like there is this line that has been drawn. It's a line that people pretend they can't see, and it has been written out in the mud. There is one side where you are congratulated for being sexually pure. People think You're 15 and haven't done anything with anybody? Good for you, you're too young anyway. You're 20, have dated the same person for two years, and still haven't slept together? Way to stick to your values. But there is this line you cross when you later become too old to still honorably have your virginity intact. People begin to think you must be pathetic. That the reason you still hold your V card is because no one wants you. If you've never even kissed anybody, surely you must have leprosy on your lips or something.

That was me. If anybody came up and asked me "Have you ever had sex?" (which you know, is a question I'm asked on a weekly basis), I would be totally fine telling them no, that I'm a Christian and I believe in waiting until I am married. But if anybody came up and asked "How old were you when you had your first kiss?" I might lie. Aforementioned nosy person is assuming that since I have completed grades K-12, and have graduated from college, that I must have smooched someone. How could you not? Well friends, it's totally possible. I've done it. Somebody buy me a trophy. Or like, a golden plaque with my name on it, so I can hang it above my door "Here Lives The Girl Who Has Yet To Be Kissed."

Here is a non-comprehensive list of some of the things I've never done. You may think I am pathetic after reading it, but I am here to tell you that there are girls like me. We are beautiful and we are clever and we are worth while.

I have never been on a date.
I have never kissed a boy.
I have never had sex.
I have also never ridden on the back of a Vespa with my hair flowing in the wind while clutching the abs of a lovely foreign man, but that is another story for another time.
Did throwing in a joke lighten the mood? Whoops.
I have never had sex.
That should fix it.


To the boy who takes me on my first date: It means you actually have a pair. It means you are brave. It means that you wiped the dust off the stained glass window and saw something beautiful when no one else could.

To the guy who gives me my first kiss: It means I trust you enough not to judge me. It means I think you are kind. It means I think you are smokin' hot. It means I've already thought about whether or not I'd let you kiss me, and I have decided Yes.

To the man to whom I give myself: It means that you are my husband. It means I am madly in love with you. It means I think you were worth the wait, that I want to be yours forever, that you are the only person I've ever wanted, that I trust you with all my vulnerability. It means that you are good, and you are kind, and you were chosen among all the bodies and souls on this earth to be my protector. It means that I will love you a day past forever.