American Spirit

So, this Independence Day I found myself fighting off some bizarre ailment that felt exactly like a killer hangover. Only, I hadn't enjoyed the binge drinking madness that usually triggers three days of dizzy spells. And that means I missed out on all sorts of 4th of July fun. However, I did find one small consolation. The movie, Bottle Shock. This little film, which I hadn't had much interest in at the beginning, really took me by surprise. It was the enduring American spirit in this sleeper of a film that spoke to me. One small little vineyard, on the brink of failure, rose from the ashes to take the grand prize in a blind taste test against a formidable collection of French wines. I'll toast to that!

Ciao,
Lucie

An Honest Man

It seems to me that the new millennium has brought with it a new kind of man. The honest man. Now, this all sounds really great, doesn’t it? A man who is forthright and upfront about his intentions. Just what every woman has been yearning for, right? Yeah, not quite.

Recently, I’ve come across a few of these honest men who’ll ask a girl out, treat her to a few lovely dinners and then drop a big, disappointing bomb on her. He doesn’t believe in monogamy. Or, he’s in a loveless marriage, but can’t leave his wife until the economy rebounds, or his Orthodox grandma passes, or his brother-in-law, the mixed martial arts master, moves out of their basement . Or my personal favorite line, he just “wants to keep things casual.”

How about telling us what’s really on his agenda. Like, “you’re cute, but I want to keep my options open just in case someone hotter than you comes along.” Or, “I feel a real connection with you, but I’m lacking in balls, so I’ll never really leave my wife, and I’ll just string you along for a few years until you’ve given up all hope of ever marrying me. Meanwhile if you start dating anyone, I’ll go into a jealous rage and mass email all your business colleagues obscene photos of you polishing my knob.” Or even, “I’m just an immature prat and can’t commit to anything beyond next Tuesday.” Ooh, what about, “I may be 38, but in reality, I’m 14 years old and the only thing more important than getting my dick sucked on a daily is playing Guitar Hero while toking a massive blunt.”

Okay, I realize the reason these guys don’t say what’s really on their minds is that they know, they absolutely know, that we women will stick it out with them if there is the slightest possibility of a relationship, no matter how distant, on the horizon. Don’t believe me? Sure. Maybe there is that small percentage of women who don’t want to be in a committed relationship (notice how I didn’t say marriage). But the majority of us do. I’m not saying we want that above all else, but I am saying we will put up with a lot when the glimmer of a good man comes on the scene.

And there in lies the rub! He’s being honest. He’s not filling our heads with fairytale-type romances. He’s coming right out with it at the beginning rather than deceiving us and then breaking our hearts down the road when we discover he’s been bumping uglies with a girl sporting Double Ds and an IQ in the double digits. So, he’s sparing us the humiliation of his betrayal. We should be grateful, right?

This is where it gets problematic. Yes, he’s telling us what he is willing to bring to the table. And we are able to see that it is not enough. So, this is where we girls say thanks, but no thanks. Right? Unfortunately, most of us don’t. Most of us have already, by date number 2, fully imagined a life with this guy. We’re already invested. Already in… love? No, not in love with him. But in love with the idea of being in a relationship. And right here’s a hot prospect. He’s just not quite ready, that’s all. We just have to give him time. So, we say, “oh, I understand completely. I just want to take things slowly, anyway. Let’s just hang out and see what happens.”

But we know what happens. Nothing. He never commits. He never leaves his wife. He never grows up. And who do we have to blame? No one but ourselves. We knew going in that he wasn’t ever really going to be there. He told us almost immediately. But we thought we could change him. We thought he’d fall so madly in love with us that he’d come around sooner or later and make “us” official.

Ladies, I’m here to tell you that rarely does this happen. Don’t waste your time on this “honest” man. You’ll be more disgusted with yourself in the end if you do. Because, after all, he never lied to you. The only one doing the deceiving in this relationship, is you. And that hurts worse than anything any man could ever do.

Losin' It

Salon.com featured a rather interesting article regarding the “shame” and “regret” many teen girls feel after losing their virginity, and it brought up an interesting point. “Would a girl feel quite as disappointed by her early sexual experience if it was seen as a triumph instead of a moral failure?”

I think not.

First of all, it should be made clear that losing one’s virginity is usually a horrible experience. It’s messy, painful and awkward. Now, I’m not saying that waiting until you meet Mr. Wonderful and having a special, romantic prelude with wine and roses and all sorts of storybook details of seduction isn’t going to improve the situation. I’m just saying that when it comes down to the actual act of first-time sex, it is rarely an occasion women look back upon with great joy and affection. Generally, it is something we’re glad to be done with. And, in my opinion, that first sexual experience should not be something regarded as sacred or special, for when it actually comes to pass, what woman isn’t going to be disappointed?

Rather than filling the heads of young girls with fairytale descriptions of “losing it,” we should be honest and straightforward about it. If they really understood all that comes with having one’s cherry popped, they’d probably be much more prudent about waiting until the right, sensitive and caring guy came along.

The article also discusses the peer pressure and fear of losing one’s boyfriend, as well as the addition of alcohol, as contributing factors to the regret that comes from premature de-flowering. The thing is, girls are just as sexually charged as boys. Ok, maybe they’re not as obsessed with it as those pre-pubescent boys whacking off 5 times a day, but still, they’re not repelled by the idea of it either. The problem is, it becomes highly romanticized and rarely does real sex turn out to be as great as what we imagine it will. Especially at that age.

I believe the solution to the problem is to deliver the straight dope while at the same time fortifying a girl’s self-assurance so that she doesn’t feel the need to give in to pressures just to please someone else. Teach her that sex can be a beautiful experience with the right person, but that the first time is likely to come with some less-than-fabulous experiences and so to choose the moment, the person wisely.

And above all, she should be aware that her first lover is most likely not going to be her “one and only,” and that sex just gets better with experience.

Support System

I believe that beauty is within every woman's reach. All she needs is a little style to enhance her god-given assets. But what happens when style requires a degree in engineering?

With the onset of summer-like weather, I have acquired a couple of cute and flirty, low-cut blouses which hang upon my shoulders by the thinnest of spaghetti straps. But due to their plunging necklines, these blouses don't work with my strapless bras. So, what's a girl to do?

1. Go "commando" and let those beautiful girls bounce and jiggle according to the earth's gravitational pull?

2. Invest in a set of bizarre silicone, stick-on bra cups that resemble a pair of skinless chicken breasts?

3. Go all out trailer-trash and just wear a regular bra and let the straps show?

4. Return the blouses and leave the shoulder-baring shirts to the pre-teens?

I am lucky enough to have a couple of perfectly perky silver screen-worthy duos, but too many outings without properly strapping them in will no doubt lead to a pair of less-than-spectacular twins down the road. So, I'm not so sure about going freestyle. But the chicken cutlets? I imagine stripping off my cute and flirty blouse for that special hottie-du-jour only to have him freak out at the sight of a pair of smooth, nipple-free breasts. And what about when you take them off? Are your breasts sticky from the residue, like after peeling off a band-aid? Still, that has to be better than the visible bra-strap scenario, right?

Well, I have yet to give up on my hunt for the perfect strapless bra which will support my lovely girls without peeping out from under my blouse. But since I plan on wearing these sexy, skimpy shirts on my trip to the Bahamas in exactly 3 weeks, I've got some serious shopping to do. So, exactly what the hell am I doing blogging?

The Right Pond

I was discussing my habit of finding unavailable or just plain unsuitable men with a friend today. Actually, I was talking about a certain person who recently made me less than happy and why doesn't he just grow up and be a man about things already, but that's another story. However, my confidant, after listening patiently to my whining for a good 20 minutes, said, "I think you're fishing in the wrong pond."

She's absolutely right. But damn if I can't find the right pond! Where is it? If you know, please tell me.

Ciao,
Lucie

Third Time's a Charm?

So, 2009 started off not with me waking up in a strange cutie’s bed, hung over and resolving to never again mix port with Jagermeister, but with the flu and no one other than my cat to cuddle. This flu lasted three weeks. It was not pretty. I went through several boxes of tissues, took multiple midnight trips to the local grocer trying to find some new-fangled drugs to knock me out, and developed an unhealthy addiction to cough syrup. Finally, it subsided. For two whole weeks. And then I was hit again. This time, I was ready. Upon feeling that first tickle in the back of my throat while at my accountant’s office, I made a hasty departure and sped off to the nearest pharmacy in search of Cold-Eeze. I sucked on those things for seven days straight until my cold ultimately gave up and packed it in. Surely, I was done being sick for 2009.

Joyously germ-free, celebrating the spring sunshine, tooling around Venice and Santa Monica, downing sake and proseco, and basking in the glory of a carefree Sunday spent with friends, all was beautiful in Lucie-ville. Until I woke up the next morning feeling like some evil storybook trolls had entered my bedroom overnight and poured acid down my throat, filled my nostrils with quick-drying cement, and poked my eardrums with their tiny troll flatware.

FUCK!

How did this happen…again?!

What do Lucie and Rihanna Have in Common?

Besides fabulous hair and a sexy allure, of course! Failure to display a license plate on the front bumper of our cars. This little bit of news about the pop singer struck a chord (love those puns!) with me since I found a $25 ticket on my windshield this morning for not displaying my license plate on my front bumper. You can only imagine how irritated I am that the LAPD have nothing better to do with their time than harass people about their freaking license plates. I mean, there's one on the back. That should be enough!

Normally, I am a dutifully law abiding citizen, but a few weeks ago, a guy on a bicycle (who was in the crosswalk illegaly, btw) ran into the front of my car and knocked the license off. I just haven't gotten around to fixing it yet because the guy ripped off the little do-hickey that holds it to the car and screwed it up in the process. And this means I will have to go to an auto parts store or some similar type place where fashionable people tend not to frequent. And, you know, that just doesn't hold much appeal. But it won't end there! No. I will then have to get down on my hands and knees and screw the thing back onto my car.

Really, if I had a boyfriend, all of this would be so much easier!