Boys in Books are Better

Like other single women who embrace certain literarian (not a word, but should be) persuasions, I have dreamt of certain types of men. (We can admit that; right, ladies?)

We dream of our own Mr. Darcy, whose stern and haughty demeanor we can change, merely by being ourselves. Our own Mr. Knightly, who will help us, kindly and firmly, to be our best selves. Our own Mr. Rochester, who... no, wait... no; I've never gotten that one, sorry... We want a kind and steady Colonel Brandon, who will love us even when we are impetuous and silly. And while crazy and vengeful Heathcliff is not necessarily a dreamboat, there is something mildly appealing about that much passion. I don't think I'm alone in declaring these men Prince Charming 2.0.

Last night, I was reminded why these fictional men are generally so much more appealing.

I was at a Relief Society function, at the church, in the gym. Around 9, the activity was over, women were starting to clear out, and some of us were working on getting the tables cleared and put away, dealing with the leftover food, and trying to get out of there at a reasonable time. Around 9:15, guys began to arrive, adorned in long, shiny shorts, with basketballs in tow. It was "church ball" time, and we were clearly in their way. As they walked in, I was rolling a large, round table across the gym to put it away. They kindly waited until I moved from under the basket to start "warming up" (read: throwing practice shots), but they sure did let me wrestle that table by myself.

A few minutes later, I came trudging back across the gym, this time carrying a long rectangle table. This time, they didn't bother to stop shooting baskets, and they still didn't offer to help. 15 guys stood there, throwing that damn ball around, watching me wrestle yet another table. The only bright spot for me was the conviction that if I got hit in the head with a basketball, I would be perfectly justified in kicking somebody in the balls.

One guy finally detached himself from the Cro Magnon horde and came to help me with the table (it was longer, by a couple feet, than I am tall...). I'm not sure if he was genuinely trying to help, or if I was just in his way.

After that, we continued to clean up, and they continued to "warm up," although by this point, that included turning around every couple minutes to check our progress. They didn't offer any more help, nor did they try to hide their annoyance that we were "taking so long..."

Seriously, guys? Seriously?

Mr. Darcy would've helped.

Maybe I should've just kicked somebody in the balls anyway.



It is probably not a good sign that I have two posts, in as many months, which have the title "Sigh...", is it?



I have no motivation right now. Absolutely zero. It is guilt alone which is prompting me to post this. There is too much going on in my little world, none of it important; none of it far-reaching. I'm just tired and... blah. But, it is, as I have decreed, Poetry Thursday; and as words generally make me feel better, a poem:

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends --
It gives a lovely light!

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

I can relate to the candle burning at both ends, but this week, I'm waiting for my "lovely light"...


Thursday Smile

I have seriously neglected my little blog (and several other things, like laundry and sleep), because I was trapped in the serious time-suck that was the Olympics. I think I watched more Olympics during those two weeks than was healthy, but whatever. So, I'm trying to regroup, and I'll have something real to post soon, but in the meantime, because they made me smile: