My Type…

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For a long while I was unaware that I even had a type. “Boy is my type” I’d say. I heard Pamela Anderson say it back when she was Pamela Anderson Lee and they still aired new episodes of Bay Watch and I thought it sounded cool – she saved lives on TV it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway, I always had a general sense of what I was attracted to: broad shoulders, scruffy chin, athleticism, Ryan Gosling – the usual. But it wasn’t until the past few years that “my type” fully emerged.

Let me begin with a brief description of myself in high school… Remember how in junior high there were two types of kids? One was kind of chubby and a little bit big for their age and the other was the saddest, scrawniest thing you’d ever seen?

I was the latter until I was about 18, but with huge sunken eyes, braces, and eyeliner with no mascara.

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Here I am 1st Day Sr. Year

Needless to say I was the pick of the litter in those days, and had to beat the dudes off with a stick.

...And on my 18th Birthday...

…And on my 18th Birthday…

Not.

But it’s no surprise that my type bloomed as late as I did, and now that I’m about three and a half years out of my awkward stage it’s becoming clearer and clearer… My type…

Is:

Gingers.

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I love them.

I love the fiery armpit hair they have to offer, the one skin tone on this planet that’s paler than mine, and the fact that they freckle in the sun instead of tanning. They always have something else weird going on too like a speech impediment or a short thumb that I find adorable.

Now if you ask me, only three out of five men in my life worth mentioning were honest to God gingers but I guess the other two are grandfathered in on a count of their reddish facial hair and their:

A) freckles, or

B) Irish skin.

Potato, tomato – My mom never lets me live it down…

As a halfling, (they call me strawberry blonde but, in truth, I was a ginger baby)

Diva

DivaTotal DivaTotal Diva

I feel as though I need to stand up for my people and love them the same as if they weren’t a genetic abnormality. I honestly feel that I’m drawn to them as if fate brought our similar hair colors together. Either that or God really is playing the Simms with us and is purposefully trying to mate me with a pure bread so we make Him more little baby cupids.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

Boom. Berry Blonde.

 

Either way, here’s a list of hot gingers I’m throwing your way so you can catch my fire:

Jessica from True Blood

Jessica from True Blood

Owen from Grey's Anatomy

Owen from Grey’s Anatomy

Gettin' Some Ginger Lovin'

Work It.

Emma Stone - Duh

Emma Stone – Duh

Isla Fischer

Isla Fischer

Prince Harry

Prince Harry

Ron Weasley

Ron Weasley

Louis C.K.

Louis C.K.

Conan

Conan

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

The Cutest Irish Setter You Ever Saw

 

And the list goes on my friends… The list goes on…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Writer’s Block and How Sand is the Worst

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I can’t think of anything funny to embarrass myself with on the internet. I often find that writing about my lack of inspiration/motivation usually gives me something…

I got nothing.

I was going to write about how sand is the worst – which is really is – but I couldn’t think of how to start.

The towel made no difference.

I wanted to write this long visual about how you’re on the beach in your favorite chair (navy blue, canvas, from the 1970’s never fails me – except sometimes gives me heat rash on my back but YOLO). Anyway you’re on the beach juicy girl chillin’ in your chair and you tip your head back and sink a little deeper into relaxation. You close your eyes and alert the rest of your senses. You start to notice a cool breeze awakening your skin, making your hair stand on end. The warm sunlight on your face and in your hair. The sounds of the gentle waves rolling up the beach and the seagulls hovering in the sky above you. And finally, the sand on your feet. And as you rub your feet back and forth in the sand and dig a little deeper into the coolness of the grains that have yet to be warmed by the sun, you realize…

It’s. All. Over you.

A boy covered in sand on Bamburi beach, Mombasa, Kenya

It’s forever trapped underneath your toe nails.

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

All that sand is still stuck to my feet

It’s wrapped in the one day old leg stubble that’s grown in because the breeze is freezing. Its in the crease behind your knees sticking to the sweat from the beating heat of the sun. It’s in your belly button somehow, even though you have yet to lay down in it and be completely consumed by its wrath (yet somehow you already are). It’s under your fingernails and in between your fingers where it will sit until the end of time.

It’s in your armpits and elbow creases, again sticking to the sweat from this desert heat. It’s climbed it’s way up your body and sits in the sand-bowl perfectly engraved into your stupid collarbone. It sticks to the sun tan lotion on your face and worst of all it’s in your mouth.

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Somehow, it’s found it’s way into your once refreshing lemonade that you ever so gingerly placed in the cup holder of your retro recliner 48 feet above sea level so this would stop happening. But it won’t.

The ice cubes are melting and turning into sand that you are now drinking; and the next time you close your mouth you will find the most unpleasant, out-of-nowhere, shutter-inspiring crack and slide and crumble between your teeth. And once it happens, you’re doomed. No matter how many time you swish and spit, brush your teeth, shower, eat, swallow, this feeling will never escape you. You now have sand in your mouth for the rest of your vacation even if the first day at the beach with the sand was so traumatizing and you don’t go back the whole time – there will still be sand in places you now know you have, and there will still be sand in your mouth.

Forever.

I can only hope that beverage companies start making screens to go over your drinks – but I’m sure the sand will find it’s way through the minuscule spaces in the screens, or just sit on top to give you the same effect. Although, it doesn’t even matter if you have a drink on the beach, you still will wind up with sand in your mouth and no solution.

*sigh*

*crack, slide, crumble*