Lover's List and Oprah

Okay, before anyone freaks out, I do NOT have a secret fantasy with Oprah (unless it's of me and my bestie in the audience of her yearly famous "Favorite Things" Episode).

I actually have a rather love-hate relationship with her. Love her "Favorite Things" and other fun episodes. Like that she puts out a lot of good in the world. Really dislike how self-absorbed she is becoming. Don't believe me? Then why does every issue of O Magazine have her on the cover?

 Yeah, Oprah. We already know you are ay-may-zing. Leave us alone a minute, k?

Anyway, as I said, Love-Hate. Tonight was a Love, when I stumbled upon this article in her October 2008 issue.

The idea of making a list of my perfect mate's qualities I find intriguing. Clearly, my current method of leaving it up to Serendipity isn't working. I mean, Fate can't do everything by herself. It couldn't hurt to giver her some pointers, right?

The article calls for 100. I think I would die first before that list is complete. But I can start with 5. And, if, by the end of this year I even go on a date with someone who meets half those qualities, I'll bump it up another 5.

Do we have a deal, Fate? Okay!

Elsie's List of True Love, complete with illustrations:

 1) Likes to learn and can carry intelligent conversation.

2) Enjoys family, but isn't a Mamma's boy. Not dealing with a Marco again.

3)  Isn't psychotic. (Learned that on Keeping Up with the Kardashians)

4)  Has an upward moving career, or is in a grad program leading to a career. Like Don Draper, only minus the infidelity and smoking.
5) Enjoys culture, but also likes sports (NOT a Red Sox fan)

 Combine the artistic sensibilities above with the athletic know-how below

Bad Thing Happen When You Go to the Gym

A few years ago there was this ad campaign in NYC with the slogan:
Bad Things Happen when you Leave the City.

Really striking images, like a tornado about to obliterate a lone farmhouse, fed into the the firm belief that we (cosmopolitan sorts from any city, even if we now live in the burbs) should have a healthy fear of Nature and all her powerful glory.

(You'll recall that Dorothy didn't say, "I don't think we're in Manhattan anymore, Toto.")

So I hope the creators of this original campaign grant me some creative license, and are flattered by my twist on things.

Bad Things Happen When You Go to the Gym. 

My bestie has been telling me this for years, each time after one embarrassing incident after another. I mean, we saw what happened with my Yoga disappointment and CH and Bendy Barbie. You would think I would learn. But noooo. I get suckered in each and every time.

And that's when my life tornado hits. Completely out of the blue, and I am left reeling.

I am a teacher. Mid-semester I was approached by our local community college to teach a Comp  course for Freshman. Reason being, they are in partnership with our school,  which means our seniors can leave school a period early and head to the college for English class (and gain college credit). Yay! I was so honored and excited to be chosen! This all starts in  their Spring semester, so for the time being I am acting as a supplemental instructor to one of the profs. as way of learning the college ropes.

And of course, there are a couple of cute boys in the class. Nothing creepy weird here! They are young. Way too young. They are like little guppies.

But they have this sense of freedom that accompanies their new college status, so they feel it's fun to flirt with me. I don't respond (inappropriate). But it's funny and slightly flattering, never the less.

Here is where the perfect storm cell develops.

Yesterday I began my period (ouch and yuck). Grading has been monstrous. It was so tempting to go home and sleep. But that is no longer an option. Suddenly over the past year, cellulite has speckled my upper thigh in places I didn't even know could carry fat deposits. So like a trooper, I decided to work out. No Zumba, because it would have been too exhausting. Instead, I felt a nice walk/jog on the treadmill could do it.

Because of my red cycle, I put on the frumpiest sweats I had. They are comfy!

(Sassy? Naughty? Nope, the only thing my bottom was saying last night was tired and saggy).

So while I'm huffing it on the treadmill, a young, cute bunny hops on to the machine next to me. I am hit with a surge of jealously, but am too tired to let it feed my warped sense of competition.

 After 20 minutes I go to the magazine rack and think, "Hmmm, maybe I can indulge in celebrity gossip and do the bike." 

All of the sudden I hear, "Nooooo. Professor Lastname, is that you?"

I turn in slow motion to my right, and see my very tall, very fit, cute, and very good A student from the college smirking at me. I feel frumpy, fat, and completely taken off guard. What is he doing here? Doesn't he know he can't see me in my personal life? Not fair! 

My response was less than charming. All I could say was, "I gotta go. I gotta go." I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror and I am bright pink (matching my sweats).

He - at the oh-so- mature age of 19 - had to console me! "It's okay Ms. Lastname. We're all here working out. I am as bad as you." 

In my head I am thinking, No. You actually worked out. I merely took a leisurely stroll on the treadmill. But it was an incline. Inclines count for something, right?!

We say "bye" and then as I head out, I notice that cute, sprinty, perky bunny who was on the machine next to mine hugs him. She is his girlfriend. Perfect.

I wonder how things will be Monday. I must apologize for treating him so rudely, and make sure he doesn't feel bad. But lesson learned. The next time I want to work out, I'll just pop in a DVD at home and let Jillian Michaels shred me up in the comfort and privacy of my own living room.

The Greatest Generation

Tom Brokaw had it right when he said the men and women from the 1930s and 1940s are America's greatest generation. Guys were brave, and funny, and smart, and knew how to make a woman feel special. This isn't just Hollywood nostalgia talking. I have proof!

(I would go limp too, if some hot sailor planted me a Victory smacker. Free from the forces of evil and indulging in celebratory passion? Never let it be said I don't take my patriotic duty seriously!)

As a guest speaker for my 4th period class today, I invited one of our local veterans from the American Legion to come and talk about his experiences in World War II, and the atmosphere of the United States during that time. All educational.

When he was done, I signaled for the class to applaud, and then I thanked Mr. Spano for his service to the country and willingenss to share it with my class. Just as he was about to leave the door, he turns to the students and says, "I wish I had teachers like her when I was in high school. I know I would have gotten better grades because with a figure like hers, who wouldn't want to pay attention?"

My mouth dropped, and some of my male students snickered. My female students did the "Awww, isn't the old man cute?" face. I had to quickly take things at hand, though at some level I was flattered.

"Thank you, Mr. Spano. I can assure you my students do well for themselves. Have a great day!" I said that last part overly spritely, as I practically shoved him out the classroom door, making sure he felt appreciated.

And then you know what he said? It was embarrassing, but really sweet all rolled up into one. "You're a looker, and you're a lady, too. That's what we fought for, and it was all worth it." Then he winked and sauntered - yes, sauntered - down the hallway.

It took me 5 minutes to get my class back on track. That battle, as always, was tough. But thanks to Mr. Spano's visit and his delightfully wicked flirting, it was all worth it ;)

Trick or Retreat

First - Happy Halloween, all you glamorous ghouls!

(Left to Right: Melanie, Rachel, Me, Ann. Aren't we hot?!)

Second - Never, Ever, EVER go on a Halloween charity date. I don't mean the good kind of charity - like a cancer benefit or something like that. No. I mean nice but slightly nerdy relative of an esteemed neighbor, but not really a friend, finds you bewitching (yup! totally went for the pun!) and rather than say no, which would be the humane thing to do, you say, "A Manchester Monster Bash? Never been, but it sounds like it could be fun..."

I know what you are thinking. But in my defense, it's kind of flattering to have a guy be so taken by your presence that he wants to ask you right then and there. I mean, honestly. There's a little chivalry in there. Right? Maybe?

Well, I don't even know where to begin. Do I start with the fact he, Craig, picked me up in a herse?

(His friend is in the funeral parlor business, and let him borrow his "sweet ride." Yeah, if by sweet he meant the lingering smell of lilies left over from the last procession.)

Though this was a Halloween party, I didn't want to wear a costume. I came close by wearing all black, and rimmed my eyes in black kohl.  I HOPE his outfit was a costume. He wore a tie. One of those ugly 70s ties. And a polyester blend shirt. Tucked into khakis. It was scary. 

But nowhere near as scary as the Monster Bash itself. Now, I am no stranger to lame-o parties and dances. But this...this...it made my prom night 2.0 with CH seem like a night at the Ritz.

This Monster Bash was hosted at a hospice care facility! Yeah! His grandmother wanted to see him, and since she was part of the activities committee, told him the evening would have been a great opportunity to "celebrate the holiday and bring a girl along." 

What?! And he decided a herse would be the best mode of transportation to an old people's home?! And he thought anyone under the age of 75 would find this as a great first date?! 

I give it to Gladys (Craig's grammy), the donut and cider table was delectable. But doing the boogie with the living dead was not an experience I want to repeat, at least not for the next 60 years.

The most frightful part, however, wasn't even the venue itself. Right guy, right circumstances, it would have been fun. No. The real horror story is that Grammy Gladys was under the impression that I was Craig's fiance. And that circulated faster than the Flu virus. Did Craig do anything to stop the madness? Ha! He actually went around promising Grammy and the crew invites to our May nuptuials. 

Over my dead body.

How Elsie Got her Groove Back

I know. It has been a really, reaaaaaaaally long time. And I am sorry. It's just that, well, there is no good reason except that I didn't want to. I got completely wrapped up in the Summer O ' Me and then school started and then the next thing you know, it's the end of October and you realize that not a single post has been filed.

So here's the skinny:

• still a hopeless romantic
• still looking for Prince Charming
• still annoyed with the weight scale (I gained 4 pounds. In one week!)
• still praying her mother sees her as a fully-functioning adult woman and not a 12 year old girl
• still antagonized by CH
• still happy with life over all

I promise not to abandon you again. And anyway, this Friday I somehow got suckered into going to a Halloween party in Manchester. Here's a little insight into me: I don't like Halloween.

 Mostly because I don't like scary things, and this time of year is crawling with all things frightful.  I think this goes back to the time I was 11, and a neighbor (an adult, might I add) dressed as the Grim Reaper leaped out of a coffin in his front yard as I was walking up the front walk with my friends, and chased us all the way down to the lamp post across the street, and only stopped because Mrs. Shingeldorf shepherded us onto her veranda, consoling our hiccups and tears with hot cider, while simultaneously scolding Vin, a.k.a. the Monster of Death, for frightening little girls and shouldn't he be ashamed of himself!

 That is EXACTLY what Vin looked like. Can you blame me for being scarred?

So, I digress. You can bet this Saturday there will be something to read about. And why do I get the nagging feeling that this is going to be my scariest Halloween to date? Even trumping the Grim Reaper fiasco? Even trumping the suddenly large size of my thighs?!

Put on a Happy Face

And that begins with good facial products!

This is going to be super short today, people. But, I HAD to come on and post something, but I didn't want you thinking that I had gone and runaway or died or something. Promise, will be much better at posting from now on.

Anyway, been a dedicated Fresh user for 3 years now and I know you'll love them too. A bit pricey, but soooooo worth it. My face glows every day. A favorite facial wash (and you can buy it at Sephora if you don't have a Fresh boutique near you):
Soy Face Cleanser.

Your face feels brand new. It feels lovely, and deliriously happy, and well, fresh. There is a whole line of Soy Fresh products - shampoo, moisturizer, etc... I promise, it won't disappoint.

But, if you buy it and break out into puss-welts and a rash, don't sue me. I am not a doctor. Chances of that happening, though, are pretty slim.

And, since we are on the subject of disclaimer, Fresh did not pay me or anything. I am just an addicted, er, devoted consumer :)

Talking Like a Brit

Bahahahahahaha! I just finished reading Bridget Jone's Diary. Again. It's like Pride and Prejudice. It just gets better with each read.

I can't pick a favorite line; she had so many good ones. I think I just love how Bridget is so relaetable. When I shout outloud into the book, "Why,  Bridget? Why? Why are you trying to make confit?" I don't feel so dumb doing it because I am not shouting warning to a fictional character but to me, at some point in time or another, when I dream up a ridiculously impractical idea, set about to do it, and then wonder why it failed.

And the funny thing? I keep on doing stuff like that. Just like Bridget. All women do!

That's why we love her. And her mother is the woman we love to get frustrated at. Oh! And stupid Daniel. And how about Mark Darcy...bahaha. Diamond-patterned sweater. Ha! (Read the book to know what I mean). Still, the perfect hero for Bridget.



There's only one downside to reading Bridget - for the rest of the day all of my thoughts are in a British accent. I feel both posh and pretentious at the same time. I also get surprised with a dose of modern reality. British people actually have normal lives. And that's always a little disappointing to realize.

Anyway. I got a great idea, all due to Bridget. Why not start a book club? But rather than try to be hoity-toity smarty, just really read the books that book club girls really want to read anyway. Romances and Chick-lit! Great idea, me!

Cheryl and Melanie agree, and because these are usually quick reads, we can meet about every two weeks (which we do anyway). But this time we'll have literature to gossip about, and not coworkers/neighbors/family.

Love!!!

Any suggestions? I am thinking the newest one to come out by Amanda Scott - should be out in July.

Plus, it'll give me a good excuse to buy it and not feel embarrassed at the counter. "Oh, it's for the book club" and the clerk will say, "Ohhhhh," (because book clubs make ANY reading legit) and I won't feel like an uneducated, unwanted, unromanced singleton.

I am very educated.

No Pain, No Gain

First things first: Sorry for not having posted in a week. Last week was finals, then graduation followed by the All-Night Grad Party, of which I was a chaperone. (No, CH was not there). By the time Saturday rolled around, I was exhausted. And Sunday was Father's Day, so you know how that goes.


Remember how I mentioned that I want to take full advantage of Summer? Come what may, I'll embrace it? Well, I'm embracing.

This weekend I am going to a friend's beach cottage on the Sound. Melanie's place is in Stonington - swanky, cute village next to Mystic - and I couldn't be more thrilled! Good friends, great atmosphere, history all around, and cute, rich New Yorkers.

 (My favorite light house in Stonington)

Wait, men will not enter the equation. This is the Summer-O-Me.

And Me said yesterday that it's time to shed the winter coat and get groomed. Pedicure, check. Manicure, check. Legs waxed, check. Bikini wax...what?

I don't know what I was thinking when I told Karen (the salon owner of Pretty Girl and the only person whom I allow to rip hair from my legs) "Sure, why not?" when she asked if I wanted the Beach Body Beauty special.

Perhaps this image came to mind, and I was momentarily deluded?

Maybe Koreans have a different idea of personal space and modesty. Or maybe, after seeing one Girly Zone, you've seen'em all and nothing phases you (kind of like being a gyno). But whatever it is, I was in complete and total shock when suddenly, Karen goes, "Too hard. Take off."

And before I could say, "Take off what?" my panties were pulled down to my ankles and hot wax had gripped onto me, and then was mercilessly ripped off.

"Ahhh!"

"Don't be a baby. You good girl."

I shot an incredulous look. Precisely. I am a good girl. Shouldn't people buy you a few dinners and gifts first?

Rip. Rip. Rip,rip,rip.

"Oww. Karen, don't you think -"

 Riiiiiip.

"Ahck! Can I have a break? How much longer?"

"You Italian  - lotta hair. No breaks, line waiting. It's okay."

 Line waiting? Who would sign-up for this? And okay for who?

"Owwww!"

Rrrrriiiiiip. Rip. Rip.

A phrase from my childhood came to mind as I bit my lip in horror:
Suffer it with dignity.

I used to hate it when my mother would tell me that. "I don't want dignity," I would whine. "I want sympathy!" and then I would stomp off to my room in true teenage melodramatic fashion.

However, while laying on the torture table, I saw wisdom in the phrase. And speaking of torture, was I sure Karen wasn't North Korean?

To add insult to injury, I was being scolded by a five-foot-nothing lady as she ripped follicles from their homes. "You sweat a lot. Why? Stop it. Makes things harder."

Why am I sweating? Well...let me think...

Shortly thereafter, the terror stops. I take a minute to breathe, my muscles involuntarily tensing, suspecting a sneak attack at any moment. Karen walks to the supply table, and out of the corner of my eye I see a something reflect light.

Tweezers.

"Nooooo!"

 Karen shoots me the Evil Eye, since I startle her and make her drop them. "Don't be a baby. You want pretty Beach Body, right?" she asks, practically salivating at the opportunity to inflict more pain.

"I am sure it'll be okay, Karen. I mean, somebody will have to get awful close to me to notice what hasn't been tweezed down there."

She pursed her lips, thinking. I prayed, hoping she would set me free.

"And, you know, with the line out there..." I tried coaxing. Wherever that mythic line was.

"Yeah, alright. But still pay full price."

"Of course," I sighed in relief, hoping that I didn't sound too pathetic. I would pay double the full price, just to get out of the excruciating pain the tweezers would exact.

As I waddled out to the car - note to readers, if you ever do a bikini wax, don't wear tight jeans. Chaffing's a mother - I just kept hoping this would all be worth it. And though this is a Summer-O-Me, a guy better check me out on the beach this weekend. I did not go through all of that for mere indifference!

On the plus side, I feel neat and tidy.

Where the Party At?!

"Oh,oh,oh,oh...and all my giiiiiiirlsss, up in the cluuuuuuub..."

Remember that summer jam from what, early 2000? Here, let me refresh your memory.

 


It's okay. I had completely forgotten about it until it popped on the radio while I was out driving, doing my thang, yo. (Okay, okay. I'll lay off the thug style. But I just couldn't help it. Too tempting).

They don't call them oldies but goodies for nothing. I am proud to say, I turned up the volume and started busting moves in my seat - as well as a safe and responsible driver can - right there in the middle of traffic.

Yeah, people gave me looks. But you know what? I didn't care! I was having fun! A whole host of summer memories came back to me, and that's when it happened.

The Epiphany. (Cue in chorus of Angels.)



(Fine. A choir of adolescent British boys will do. I guess...)

Anyway. I realized that I am wasting my time. I am so busy trying to get Jackson's attention, trying to make something out of this, that I am losing the whole point of summer. And I am a teacher for crying out loud! I should know this.

The summer is not for playing by the rules. The summer is about taking a vacation. I need a vacation from myself. Staid, play-by-the rules Elsie will be back in September folks. Gettin' jiggy with it Elise is here to play! (Well, maybe not gettin' jiggy. That phrase kind of freaks me out).

But I will wear a bikini and not want to gouge my eyes out! I will stay out past 12:00 on a Friday night, and go dancing with my girls! I will meet lots of guys - tons of guys - and enjoy basking in their admiration! (Or at least dance with a few guys and not obsess over his feelings towards me). Yeah, reasonable, baby-step goals are good.

And who knows? Maybe I'll be wild and crazy enough to hit the Jersey Shore. You never know. A Guido or two, or a hundred,  just might be the distraction I need.

My World Cup Runneth Over

So when Jackson called me last night and asked, "Hey, a bunch of us are meeting up at The Drunken Toad to watch the USA vs. England game Saturday. Interested?"

I responded, "Of course I am interested!" all the while thinking, What exactly am I interested in?

The phone call lasted all of two seconds. My research went about 2 hours.


I can't believe how much I have been depriving myself all these years, by not ever following the sport. Have you seen the bodies on these guys? Holy Hooligans, Batman!

Just to get into the spirit of things, I have decided to post my top - five favorite things I have learned about the game, while researching.

And when I say "things" I mean really cute athletes. And when I say "researching" I just mean clicking on as many cute athlete photos as possible.

Ahem. In Descending Order:

     5. U.S.A. Forward (the guy who's in the front of the field), Jozy Altidore

 Okay, so this picture might not say that much, but I actually did see some footage of him play and WOWZA, has he got a physique on him. Plus, there's something kind about his eyes...

     4.  Vive la France!

Although I think Midfielder Yoann Gourcuff is the most handsome on the team, with his Abercrombie stare,

I think I'll have to give the 4th spot to his teammate and Goalkeeper, Cedric Carrasso.

Look at that smirk! I can almost hear him taunting, "Moi? Afraid? I can take all that you've got, cherie, and still teach you a thing or two about living!" I mean think about it; this man thinks facing down cannons flying at 60 - 80 mph towards his face is fun! A date with him, and I think I'll be bored the rest of my life.

3. German Defender, Holger Badstuber

I see a little Brad Pitt in there, don't you?


2. Italian Stallion, er, Forward, Antonio Di Natale

I think "Natale" in Italian means Christmas, or something close to that. How about finding that present to unwrap under your tree?

Drum roll please...

1. Portuguese Midfielder, Cristiano Ronaldo

Ummmm, remember that image of the ice cube, representing me from a couple of posts ago? Yeah. Someone should red card him, just for being too hot!

Well, there we have it. Now I can hang out on Saturday, feeling confident that I know at least a little bit about the Beautiful Game. (And just by judging these 5, the person who dubbed Soccer with that name wasn't kidding!)

Agree with me? Think I left someone out? Think I am completely off? Let me know who makes your top 5 :)

"Bring It On"

Disney is magic. Disney can capture the whimsical dreams and secret princess desires of any little girl in any part of the world.

So is it any wonder that when this closet-princess was faced with an impending doom, a Disney movie scene was the first thing to cross her mind?

Imagine my onset of agita when, as Jackson and I were being seated at our table tonight (yay! he wanted to take me out for dinner and a baseball game!), none other than CH walks to our table and says, "Can I get you started on anything tonight?"

Somewhere in time, while the handsome 30-something year old caucasian male placed an order of drinks and appetizers, a pretty almost 30-something year old caucasian female stopped breathing, and her ability to speak, act or think coherently was over-taken by The Emperor's New Groove; a favorite of hers, and something her subconscious instinctively knew was right for the situation:

 


Thank you, Kuzco. Thank you for facing all-too-certain death with calm and dignity. Thank you for being that example.

Unfortunately, I don't thing I was quite so stoic or nonchalant about the whole thing. In fact, I am pretty sure I failed miserably.

How could I possibly focus on food, or even attempt deep - nay! - even flirtatious conversation with what could possibly be the man of my dreams when all the while, I know CH can round the corner with a plate of cheesy fries?! And worse, know that tomorrow I'll be drilled by him, and probably all of the faculty?

(Small tangent: Cheesy Fries, How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...)

And, even though I know it is part of his job description,  I don't think a waiter needs to check on the status of my drink, my food, my (dis)comfort every 2 minutes.

Yeah, I timed it. Not kidding. It's like CH had a special radar knowing when Jackson was going to turn the conversational mood from "light and easy banter" to "Hey, this girl seems interesting. I think I want to know her better" mode.I was so nervous that I don't think good conversation was possible, anyway.

To make matters worse, by the end of the meal (which I shoveled into my mouth as quickly as possible just so we could leave the dreaded place, looking like a starving heifer in the process, with Jackson wide-eyed and probably thinking, "Can her digestive system handle the speed of intake? Will she throw-up on me? Again?"), I practically yelled at both Jackson and CH when he oh-so-innocently - but I know better - asked, "Any room for dessert?"

"No! We don't want any dessert. We just want to get the check and go. Hurry up."

CH just was biting his lip, trying to hide a smile. Jackson sat across from me, in a mixture of shock, judgment, and disapproval.

Jackson: You know, if you didn't want dessert, "no thanks" would have covered it.
Me: I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. But can we just go? Please?
Jackson: Okaaaay. But don't you think you owe him an apology?
Me: What? To this waiter? No. No,no,no,no.
Jackson: What's wrong with this waiter? (And here I could tell he was really starting to get upset). Are you that much of a snob?
Me: Snob? Of course not! I am a very humble person. (I said this knowing that that is probably one of the least humble statements ever. I felt like such an idiot). I like waiters. I have nothing but respect for food servers. I -
Jackson: Prove it.
Right then, CH comes to our table with the check.

Jackson: (To CH) Thanks.
Me: (Spitting the word out like poison) Sorry.
CH: Exuse me,what was that? (Then he winked at me while Jackson bent his head to search for cash in his wallet. Oooooo he wasn't making this easy).
Me: (Deep, calming breath) Sorry. For rushing you.

He didn't say anything but smiled and grabbed the check from Jackson, then wished us a good night out as he disappeared into the kitchen. Or Hell. Wherever.

As we were walking out, Jackson threw his arm around my shoulders (a momentary feeling of joyful bliss), and jerked me back from the clouds with these little words:

"Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Oh Jackson, if you only knew what awaits me tomorrow in the teachers' lounge.

Climb Aboard the Crazy Train

Remember that Britney Song, pre-Federline and meltdown, "You Drive Me Crazy"?

(Ah, Britney. We miss you. Where is that sweet, virginal, mentally stable singer we used to know and love?)
  
Yes, well, it might as well be the soundtrack of my life. Only substitute the "You" with "I" because when it is my time of the month, and especially when it coincides with me meeting a really cute guy who seems interested in me, the Crazies are in full swing.

And that's where the danger happens. We all know, I am not exactly a suave seductress to begin with. But my monthly increase in estrogen just about kills romance in my life.

This is due to the fact that I get either highly snippity and irritable, or sulky and paranoid. It seems like poor Jackson (and poor me) have to negotiate around sulky and paranoid this month.

Mind you, it's not like Jackson even knows. I mean, we only have gone out once (it was rather magical), with hopes of perhaps ice cream or something tonight. So far, ho-hum normal. I know.

But it is not!!

Beeeecauuuussssse....he promised me to call me! And he didn't! And out of the other 3 weeks of the month, I would think this is fine because it's not like we are boyfriend and girlfriend, or even seeing each other. But instead, I am in hyper-sensitive, scan my cell phone's ID, check my gchat, stalk the man on facebook to see how many other girls he is flirting with, CRAZY mode.

I thought we had fun on Friday. Lunch was great - we talked as if we had been in touch for years. I mean, the man has read and likes Emile Zola for goodness sakes! Nobody I know has ever heard of Zola.

Between telling me, "I like it when a girl asks for real soda. None of that diet garbage," after noticing that I confidently asked for Pepsi with lemon, and Zola, I ask you, is it a little crazy to be picking out the bridesmaids colors? Okay. Maybe a little.

But it is not so crazy to be disheartened when he says, "Let's do this again. Call you this weekend," and then the whole weekend comes and goes and nothing. Not  a ring, not a text, not even a wall post.

I shouldn't care, but I do. I shouldn't feel rejected, but I can't help it. And I shouldn't be angry, but I am.

The one bright spot is that I can blame all this on the red wave, and hopefully by the time I am done on Sunday, Jackson will be a small blip of a penciled-in appointment on my day planner.

Now onto the true men who never disappoint me: Ben and Jerry, Cherry Garcia. Yum :)

Let's Do Lunch

Have you ever heard three more beautiful words in your entire life?
(Well, short of "I love you.")

That's right ladies and gentleman. Tomorrow, I, Elsie Lastname will be going on a lunch date with Jackson Keverly. This is the stuff dreams are made of!

For the curious, Jackson looks pretty much looks like Channing Tatum's twin, only with black, wavy hair and ears that don't stick out:

Now, I know this is only lunch and not a dinner and a movie date, but cut me some slack. I was the one doing the asking out, let's not forget. It was all by way of reparable damage. And not wanting to pressure him, I figured lunch is a nice juncture of "I'm Sorry-ville" and "Can I have your babies?"

If lunch goes well - and I think well for Jackson means all of my food stays inside of my body - then maybe he'll want to duplicate the happy experience. Maybe. I hope.

(Dreamy Sigh)

He was so sweet about my calling, too. He even offered to pick me up at my school, but I didn't want to risk my students seeing me get into his car...and, not that I really care what CH has to say on the subject, since he is apparently all flexy and limber with Yoga Christine, but, I wouldn't want him asking me any questions either.

So I politely declined and said we could meet at this cute little cafe  - Peaberry's. (If you ever go, and have gone all Eat, Pray, Love, order the Oreo Brownie. You will not regret, and you'll want it forever. Promise.)

But this is where he got really cute! He goes, "Okay, Elsie. We can meet, but I'm paying." To which I replied, "What? NO! This is my way of saying I'm sorry for, you know, throwing up all over you."

Then, oh my gosh, I almost melted for the second time today. He chuckled and said, "If it means that much to you, then I'll settle for splitting. But promise me one thing."

Me, all curious, "What would that be?"

In a very sexy, mock-stern voice, "If I even see you think about ordering anything with Mayo, I'm bolting and sticking you entirely with the bill."

Then he laughs, and I think, This is too amazing to be true. He is cute and charming. Am I in a Disney movie?

If I am Cinderella, let's just hope that if I do end up losing anything tomorrow, it's my ability to concentrate, and not my actual lunch. Those things are like lightning, right? They can't hit the same girl twice!

Miracles Really DO Come True

Alrighty, I don't have much time because the school newspaper kids will be filing into my classroom any minute but I HAD to update you guys. More to come later tonight.

Are you ready for it?

Jackson. Keverly. Left me a voicemail!!!!

And it wasn't angry! Yaaay!

(I know, I am a little exclamation point happy, but it is the only punctuation mark that can properly express how I feel right now).


This, verbatim, is what it said:

"Uh, hi, Elsie? This is Jackson. Jackson Keverly. I just wanted to see how are you holding up from Monday. No hard feelings, and hope you are feeling better. So, I'll be around for another week. Give me a call if you get bored. Okay, so...hope to hear from you soon. Bye."

Yup. That deep, sort of gravely voice got me so hot and flustered I had to cross my legs.

This is me right now -

Well, the students are coming in, so I gotta get it back together. What do you think? Should I call him tonight? Would that be too eager? How about tomorrow? He waited a couple days...should I? Enough! Must focus on students. Paralyzing indecision later...

Ominous Happenings begin with Potato Salad

I am not even going to segue this:
I threw up all over Jackson Keverly!!

Potato salad, you are dead to me. Never again will I be enticed by your carbolisciousness.

Yes, and if this post sounds like a complete diatribe of self-pity and woe is me, well, can you blame me?

How would you feel after seeing the man of your high school dreams after a hiatus of seven years, and when it looks like the stars are finally aligning and maybe, just maybe, an innocent, non-committal yet I'm-slightly-into-you invitation to the coffee house is about to happen, you start to taste some potato salad and suddenly without warning all of that mayo and potato goop spews right out of your body and lands smack on your Adonis's Ralph Laurn Polo!?!?!?

Whyyyyyyyyyy, Love Gods, why?

And if that weren't devastating enough, both my mother and his mother ran up to the two of us, club soda and a flurry of paper towels in waving arms.

My Mom: Oh my gosh, what happened?
Jackson: I think I'm going to throw up...
Me: I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry (x 100)
Mrs. K: Oh dear, oh dear. Club Soda, Elsie? Jackson, take off your shirt!
Me: (In between the "I'm Sorry," ogling his cut abs). Oh. My. Gosh.
My Mom and Mrs. K: Do you feel like throwing up again?!
Jackson: Somebody get Elsie a bag quick!
Me: No, no. I'm okay. Now.
My Mom to Me: How could you do this? (As if I wanted to throw up on the man).
My Mom to Mrs. K and Jackson: She really is usually more gracious than this. (As if I were a rebellious teenager, purposefully out to ruin the family picnic).
Jackson: Whatever.
Mrs. K: It's okay, Sandy (My Mom). There's so little we can do to control these things. (Hellooooo. I'm still here!)

At that point Jackson and I were ushered into the house, where he showered and changed.

I was forced to lay down on the couch. And because they were out of ice, since it was all in the coolers outside, was forced to lay a package of frozen peas on my forehead, and was told not to move.

"Really, Elsie," Mrs. K explained, "you don't want to be playing softball or anything like that, not with the way you are feeling."

And that would be completely mortified with a side of "can I go hide under a rock."

I stayed on the couch for about another 20 minutes, then decided to leave a nice note for Mrs. K and texted my mother that I would be leaving. Then, with the air of one admitting defeat, got into my car and beelined it for the solitary comfort of my apartment, where I promptly hid under the covers, hoping that things would look better in the morning.

They didn't. But they do smell better.

Summer Lovin'

I absolutely adore Memorial Day Weekend. It's the unofficial start of summer!!! And with it comes the accompanying sense of freedom and whimsy that is akin to Christmas, but a lot more carefree.

Carefree is the word I'm  living by this weekend. Which is why I am not going to stress at the 14th Annual Keverly Cook-out/Softball Game/Soccer Match, unlike past years. My family and I have been invited ever since I was 13. And though they were always fun, my carefree levels were always tempered by the presence of the Keverly's oldest sons, Jackson and Tyler.

Why? Because let's just say that it took a few years for this little duckling to turn into a semi-gracious swan. I swear, when the artists at Pixar created the character of the dentist's niece in Finding Nemo, it was because someone had somehow rummaged through my family's photo album and used me as inspiration. No joke.

(Pardon any cook-out pun, but eating a hamburger was no picnic back in those days.)

With Sophomore Jackson and Senior Tyler surrounded by their entourage of equally cool and self-assured friends, I hated feeling like the mandatory tag-along, or charity case friend. And it's not like anyone ever said anything, but you kind of get the hint when you are the last person to be picked as a substitution for the softball game.

Well this year is different! This will be the first time since my Junior year of high school that Jackson, Tyler, and I will be at the cook-out. I have to say I'm pretty excited.

Maybe it's because my teeth are finally straight, or I learned how to do my hair. Or maybe it's because I am happy to reacquaint myself with old friends. Or maybe it's that I'm much more confident with who I am as a person at 27, than I was during my teen years.

But whatever the reason, I heard through the grapevine that the Keverly men have a sweet-tooth. Well have I got some sugar for you!

(And that's not a double-entente. Mrs. K called asking if I could bring a dessert, and I can make one killer trifle. Just ask the faculty members at my high school.) Hopefully the whipped-cream, berry and lady finger goodness will let me be on the actual playing team, and not substitutions this year. A girl can hope, right?

*If you want my recipe, I'd be happy to share. Just let me know!

Yoga Stresses Me Out

I do Yoga. Any work-out that has a required nap-time at the end is okay by me. Sign me up!

So when CH approached me (and everybody else who was in the teacher's lounge, but I like to think he may have glanced a second longer on me) about his roommate being a new yoga instructor, and needing people to come check the class out, I said, "Sure!"

I figured scouting out a new class might not be such a bad thing, despite my apprehensions.

Wait. What apprehensions?

Things to know about Elsie: I have some crazy, irrational stereotypes and prejudices when it comes to Yoga. And even though I know it makes me crazy, and they can be totally unfounded, they've yet to steer me wrong. Hence, The Yoga Rules.

1. If middle-aged and older man are attending the class, try and be as far away from them as possible. Men in shorts, spandex, and accompanying grunts and groans + "flexy" positions do NOT = Zen.
2. Unless the instructor is actually from India, don't take the class if the instructor is male. It's hard for me to focus on breathing when all I can keep thinking is, "Why are you teaching Yoga, and not doing a "manly" sport?" (I know. It is wrong. I chide myself just thinking it. But, it is what I think, every time). 
3. The level of crunchy-granolaness can be determined by the level of natural human odor at the start of class. The smellier, the crunchier. Pick up your mat and find peace/serenity/enlightenment elsewhere. It is much easier to listen to the nuances of the Universe when your nose isn't shrieking in pain and abuse.

It is because of these rules that once I find a Yoga class that fits the criteria, I never stray.

Except for today, much to my chagrin. I was preparing myself for the fact that I would be taught by a man. But there was no way I could prepare myself for what actually happened.

By the time I got to the Farmington Valley YMCA, it's 5:30 in the afternoon. I called ahead, and they said that a Yoga class would be starting at 5:45. Great!

I bounce into the studio, settle my mat, and before getting into breathing, decide to get a sip of water from the fountain in the hallway. Happily, I see CH. And then, the unhappiness ensues.

Me:"Hey, you ready to start?" (I gesture into the studio).
CH: "Oh man, thanks for coming! (Insert brilliant smile). But you missed the class. Chris's was the 4:45, not the 5:45. We just finished."
Me: (Trying to play it cool.) "Oh no worries. Sorry I couldn't meet your roommate, though. Hope he had a good turn-out for his first time."
CH: "Yeah, Chris was pretty happy with how it worked out. It looks like they're giving her a morning session starting next month."
Hold up. Did CH just say "her"?

Before I could fully wrap my head around that crushing little pronoun, a living, breathing, Pantene Pro-V commercial, complete with flowing blond hair, materialized before my eyes, and playfully tossed CH car keys, with an appropriately sexy, smooth voice asking, "Ready to go?"

This Amazon was Chris? Where was the crunchy, granola, wimpy Yoga instructor I had prepared myself for?

I had imagined this:

(EEEEEWWWWWW)

And instead got this:

(

(BAAAHHHHH!!)

And like a puppy eager for a treat, CH skipped (yes, skipped) after her without so much as giving me a second thought. I got a quick, "C-ya tomorrow, Else," (a nickname which I hate) and that was that.

As for the crunchy granola instructor of my mind? He was waiting inside the class, and as I planted my sith(?) bone into the mat, I noticed the gray-balding head of an overweight gentleman in front of me, and my nose sensed the overwhelming lack of deodorant infusing the entire essence of the room.

  Karma has a sense of humor, so it would seem.

Feeling Hot and Nerdy

I am not going to lie to you. I am 100% Nerd, and proud of it! (Which is why the fact that CH asked me out - sort of - Friday night all the more perplexing. Oh, and though I've seen him briefly these past two days, we haven't had time to talk. Maybe it's for the best...)

So back to nerddom.

My cousin sent me this link today:hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com
It. Is. AWESOME!!!

And it confirms my nerdiness because A) I agree with everything Allie has to say regarding grammar. People! The apostrophe is our friend! and B) I am always, in some small way, scouring the universe for ways to help my students understand the basic fundamentals of communication. This Blog post is like SchoolHouse Rock, version 2.0. Check out my favorite episode here. Wooooonderfuuuuulllll. (I am actually singing that word out loud).

Plus, you'll fall in love with the Alot. I promise.
Who wouldn't love this face?


The Alot's expression of near pain and awkward paralysis gets me laughing every time. But now it's got me thinking...have I ever made a man I was dating feel Alot of pain? Hmmm...Topic for next post: Crazy Single Girl Insecurities that Probably Ought Never Be Contemplated, But Will End Up Being Dissected To Death, Because She Is a Girl After All.

Reaching First Base

Sorry for not filling you guys in on my date with CH sooner! Prom didn't end until 12 on Friday night, and then we (chaperones) had to wait until all the kids left the building, did the bathroom/closet checks, so on and so on. By the time CH dropped me off at my apartment, it was 1:30 and, well, we talked (really, talking is ALL we did) outside my door for about another half-hour, so really, when all was said and done, I didn't crawl into bed until 3 a.m. and Saturday was a sleep-in/grade papers/enjoy the spring weather sort of day, which leads me to now.


So, okay. I decided to go with my black dress and red heels after all. It was too late in the game plan to make any switches, and besides, that dress really accentuates my best features - my waist and collar bones. CH was punctual, and luckily, by some miracle, I was actually ready on time, too. (Perhaps some unconscious sense of gym teachers running drills like German Clock Work or something...). At any rate, when I answer the door, my knees almost buckle with the shock at seeing CH in something besides a polo shirt, whistle, and khaki shorts. If I were a random woman meeting him for the first time ever, I would be beyond pleased. In a simple gray suit, blue button-down dress shirt, and yellow/gold tie, he was all sorts of yummy. And you know something? For the first time I noticed the color of his eyes: hazel-green. And he has a shy smirk, which I discovered right after he complimented me on my outfit. Nothing eloquent here. "Nice dress" is far from Shakespeare, but it worked.

I was still slightly nervous while he walked me to the car (some black sports car that I think Subaru makes),even though pleasantly surprised with how well he could clean-up. A) I couldn't get into full "date" mode because I wasn't sure if this was just a colleague thing, doing something practical and B) Even though he was good eye-candy, we couldn't just stare at each other like cows chomping on our dinners at Ruby Tuesdays. And though "nice dress" made me blush, it wasn't promising by way of scintillating conversation.

Never fear, folks! My supremely honed-in skill to ruin a moment/embarrass myself quickly broke the tension once I sat in the car...and ON MY CORSAGE!

Yeah, can you believe it? He bought me a corsage. Cute!

Well, when I say I sat on my corsage, what I am really doing is lying for the more embarrassing thing that happened instead. Noticing that my derrière was about to obliterate the lovely red rose wrist display, he reaches to pull the box from under me. So the box gets pushed out just in time with his left hand, but right hand gets pinned. And with the seats lower than I calculated (WHY do you design them so low, Subaru?!), I plopped down into it with an UNlady-like thud, rather than the grace I was so desperately hoping for.

He yells, "Ow!"at the same time I shriek, "Ack!" He gently lifts me off his hand, and curls his right hand fingers in and out, in and out a few times while I apologize profusely.

In the movies, we would look at each other, laugh, then both know that this completely embarrassing start would let each of us secretly know that "he" or "she" is the one, while he says something charming to diffuse the situation, and I do some sweet gesture to show off my naive yet alluring femininity. But this is real life.

What actually happened was a few seconds stretched into an awkward eternity of looking anywhere but at each other. CH shoved the corsage box onto my lap, saying how his sister told him to do it, and my butt is a lot firmer than it looks. Ummm, thanks?

So yes, after that start, silence at Ruby Tuesdays wasn't sounding so bad. We managed through dinner okay. When in doubt, talk about administration and trouble-maker students as common bonding. It never fails. Plus, being a coach, he needed a game plan for the night's chaperoning duties. A good deal of time was spent on that, not to mention paper napkins with x's swerving around o's with what was presumably the dance field, er, I mean floor.

The Prom was actually fun.And by the time it was over, and he dropped me off at home, we were laughing and talking about things outside of school. Not much, mind you. But the sort of stuff we should have talked about at Ruby Tuesdays. Where'd you grow-up, go to college, etc.

Will there be a date number 2? I wouldn't count on it. He's right handed, and I don't think he wants to risk injury to his throwing arm again. But will there be smiles? Yeah, I think so. And with that delicious little smirk, with a teeny little dimple on the right cheek, I could have a lot worse being thrown at me while on cafe duty. :)

Always a Chaperone, Never a Bride

I am EXHAUSTED!

It has been such a long day - school, department meeting, manicure, prom committee last-minuteness...And as if that schedule wouldn't have me begging for bed, the added stress of going on a date with Coach Hines has been swirling through my mind all day! Things got so bad, that I purposefully took the longer way around the school to get from my 3rd period to 4th period class, just so I wouldn't have to pass by the gym on the off chance that I might see him. That adds an extra 2 minutes. I timed it.

What was I thinking yesterday?!

Chaperoning this prom was already giving me extra anxiety. It's my first prom since high school, and though it isn't MY prom, I am still expected to be a part of it. I have to dress the part, act the part, blah, blah,blah...Kind of like being in a wedding party. It's fun and exciting, but as bridesmaid you know it's not about you. The attention (rightly so) is on the happy couple. But you still end up with a massive amount of hair, pictures, make-up, and everything else that needs to complete the look of somebody else's dream day...not to mention all the cash that goes into it.

So that was my mindset for tomorrow night. It had been since I was told in December that I was assigned chaperoning duties. I needed to pull-off "bridesmaid." Got it. No problem. Can do.

I planned on wearing something similar to the dress at the top of the post.You know, cute and formal, yet teacher appropriate. I was going to dress it up with some jewelry and a killer pair of red heels.

But now! But now. Is it too dowdy or too much for a date? I want to appear fun and sweet, but I also have to be professional. Would a lighter floral print be better? Will I have the time to find one?!

AND!! I just realized we will be driving in. One. CAR! So what message are we sending to the student body? Are we dating? Is that even allowed? Do I want it to be allowed? What if the night completely sucks and I don't want to spend another second with CH, let alone let him drive me back home at the end of the night? OR WORSE. What if we actually find some smidgen of chemistry and the whole prom atmosphere brings on major nostalgia and at the end of the night, when he drives me home...you know where I am going with this. We are supposed to watch and make sure the kids don't get knocked-up. Who will be watching out for me?!

No, no. Don't get the wrong idea. I am NOT that sort of girl. But you have to admit there is way more than the usual first date stress happening here. I have a professional image to uphold, too. But I also need to let him see the non-teacher Elsie. Urgh.

One thing is for sure. I definitely plan to eat happily at Ruby Tuesdays, AND order dessert. As part of the planning committee, I know what the refreshments are and I can definitely pass on those!

Did Coach Hines Just Ask Me Out?

Okay, so for any of you who know that MAD TV skit, Coach Hines is possibly the best character they ever created. He is the quintessential, stereotypical high school gym teacher and he rings true because, well, every high school in America has a version of him in some way, shape, or form.

Well, the high school I teach at is no exception. We've got a Coach Hines instilling the fear of God in our student body as well. But I've never actually spoken with him. What does a former Division I (or is it II) Lacrosse Champion, wrestling enthusiast, and GNC card carrying member have in common with me? A Jane Austen admirer, grammar enthusiast, and a Borders card-holding A.P. English teacher?

It's both our turns to chaperone the Sr. Prom this weekend, that's what.

At any rate, I am not sure how Coach Hines (no real names here)knew that I wasn't bringing a date. He probably figured that chaperoning a bunch of hormonal eighteen year olds is as lame a first, or even fifteenth, date idea as I did, and assumed I have the good sense of not bring a non-educator into the fray. Or maybe he just decided to take a chance. Whatever the reason, the actual asking was so low-key yet excruciatingly awkward that I had no idea that he was asking me out until we had set a time and meeting place, with no chance for me to back out.

Here's how our conversation went this morning, 3rd period, ver batim:
CH: *Knock at the door*
ME: Come in. (I was passing out my students' 19th century American Poetry exams, and couldn't get to the door as I was in the middle of the room).
CH: Sorry to interrupt, Elsie, er, I mean, Ms. Lastname. I didn't realize you were teaching this period.
ME: That's okay. Can I help you with anything?
CH: Yes. No. Well... (Two of my athlete students started snickering in the back). You got something to say, Belanger?
Belanger: No, Coach.
ME: Everyone, eyes on your own paper and no talking. (Turning my attention back to CH). You were saying, Coach?
CH: Yeah, this can wait. When's your free period?
ME: Oh, okay. Well, it's usually 6th period but I have a couple of errands that I need to run that I just won't get to after school, so was really hoping...
CH: (A little crest-fallen) Oh, sure, yeah. I get it. No big deal. No worries.
ME: But if it's important, I can step outside a second.
(He nodded and I followed him just outside my classroom door, giving my students the eye of death, should they even contemplate cheating).
CH: So Friday's the prom, and I have to be there and you gotta be there, so let's both be there.
ME: (In my head, I said, "Um, yeah, the law of physics dictates that we'll both be there." I decided to be polite instead). If you're worried that I'll back out and leave you with the responsibility alone, don't worry. I wouldn't be that cruel.
CH: No! No, that's not what I meant. What I mean is...we gotta eat, right? And then make sure these punks don't get knocked-up or anything.
ME: Riiiiight. I'm sorry, can you just -
CH: So I think Ruby Tuesdays is a good place for it.
ME: (Thinking "Getting knocked-up?")
CH:You can choose what you like and I get what I like. Then we'll head over to the school together.
ME: Yeah, I like Ruby Tuesdays.
CH: Good. Pick you up at 5. See you Friday.
Me: O-o-okay.

Then he spotted an 11th grader who's always causing some trouble, wandering around the hall, probably without a hall pass, and bounded towards the kid like a bounty hunter with a vengeance. I walked back into my classroom, where all the eyes were on me. I quickly deflected the attention by reminding them they only had 40 minutes to complete the test, or take a zero.

So yeah. I suddenly have a date, and I am not even sure how I feel about it. I'm not even sure HE's sure.He's attractive, and dresses a lot better than the MAD TV Coach Hines, but... All that keeps coming to mind is this Coach Hines skit, and a prayer that we can find SOMETHING to talk about while at Ruby Tuesdays. Yikes!

If Loving You's Wrong, then Baby...

We all know how that line ends, so I'll spare you.
(Awkward, nervous giggle. Pushing my hair back from my eyes, in what is hopefully a cute, flirtatious, yet not overtly-sexy gesture. I bat my eyes a beat or two...) We've all been there, too. The first date. Or - gasp! - the first blind date. The nerves, the anticipation, this ridiculously unfounded sense of all fate and happiness resting on this one evening of drinks and banter - you get what I'm saying. Why do we subject ourselves to it?

For the same reason I probably am subjecting myself to the same nerves, anticipation, giddiness, fear of rejection, etc., etc., that I am now doing with this very public blog - the need to connect, and the blissfully optimistic hope that, yes!, there will be at least one special someone who will one day say, "You know what? I like you. Want to do this again, and again, and again for as long as we both have agains and agains?"

Now, before you think I am a desperate cat lady who has locked herself into the old Victorian house that has been surrounded by rumors of hauntings and paranormal activities, or am a bitter fem-nazi who secretly resents the fact she has never been on a date and therefore crushes all men under her iron fist at the top of the career ladder, or am suffering from low self-esteem and am plagued with a billion doubts, I can assure you I am not. No, truly!

If you were to ask me, "Are you happy?" I could honestly and resolutely say, "Yes." And it wouldn't be fake chin-up resilience either. So that's enough out of you skeptics. There is nothing to be unhappy or unsatisfied with. I love teaching English, I love my friends, I love my family, I love my life! Period. Finito.

Except for one little thing:

Hi. My name is Elsie. And I'm an unapologetic Romantic. And this blog will chronicle my quest for true love, happily ever after, and a man who will cook me dinner and clean the mess he made cooking it. Snicker, scoff, sneer. I don't care. I'm in love with Love, and am ready for Love to love me back!

Simply Chic Blogs

Just wanted to say "thanks" for your great design work. You have captured my sensibilities perfectly! If you fellow romantics out there want lovely, free, and yes, chic backgrounds, go to www.simplychicblogs.blogspot.com. It'll set your heart a flutter.