Dancin' with My-se-helf!

They say laughter is the best medicine. I say dancing comes in at a close second. Maybe it’s a girl thing. Or maybe it’s a ‘me’ thing, but there is nothing quite like dancing ‘balls-out’ (so-to-speak), by yourself. Sometimes, I just can’t help myself. Pent up energy, an unconscious solution to letting off some steam, or hearing a song that I just can’t help but move to; whatever it is, I instantly feel happy. And not happy so-so; I mean happy.

Tonight’s inspiration may have come from a combination of things... An annoying day at the office, pent up energy that wasn’t released at the gym, and/or driving back from Rita’s listening to Chicane (Don’t Give It Up). Either way, I danced myself sweaty and even in this cold weather bared down to my skivvies doing it.

I think even guys would dig it no matter if they never told anyone about it. Heck, maybe some do. Paul Brickman’s inspiration for the oh-so-famous Tom-Cruise-dancing-in-his-skivvies scene must’ve come from somewhere. Maybe his wife; maybe him. And for those of you (men and women) that haven’t tried it, I highly recommend you do.

You know the saying, “Dance like no one is watching”? Yeah, well, here’s your chance. Dim the lights. Pump up the volume. Annoy your neighbors every now and then while you’re still young enough to get away with it. Let your hair down. And have at it. Because tonight, it could be exactly what the doctor ordered.

It was for me.

A Way to Remember

I have a library full of memories. Good ones. Bad ones. And life. Life in between those moments that take your breath away and make you want to live in that moment forever and those you wish you could forget. Life: The ordinary, everyday workings of merely surviving. Time spent walking the dog, going to work, or making dinner. Time that is neither good nor bad, just spent. This is time remembered, at least in the short term, but does it translate into memories? I don't think of yesterday as a series of memories. But I remember yesterday. So what makes a memory?

Memories, for me, are defining moments or experiences that stand out from my everyday life; my ordinary minutes, hours, and days. The time during which I really feel alive; things and experiences that are extraordinary whether they be amazing or spectacularly awful. Not the usual night out with friends but the night with friends that really makes you feel something. The night that you know all of you will remember and never forget. Laughing until your belly hurts, first kisses, last goodbyes. Heartache, uncontrollable excitement, overwhelming sadness, and utter happiness; this is the stuff memories are made of...

I feel lucky in that I've been able to experience more than most. I have so many memories. Some full of heartache and sadness, but so many more fantastic, spectacular, great, and unforgettable minutes, hours, and days. I want more. I want to make sure that when my life is at its end I've really lived each and every moment of my life. I want a memory in every moment. I don't want the everyday in between time. Or I at least, don't want to think of it that way. Is it possible? Can every moment of everyday life really be that exciting? Maybe.

Big Fish. If you haven't seen it go rent it. It's life told in a way that makes memories in every moment seem possible. It's about choosing to look at and experience life in such a way that every day isn't so everyday or ordinary. It's imagination. It's life exaggerated. It's a movie about an ordinary life lived in an extraordinary way. It's a way to remember. And it's a way I'd like to learn to live...

How to Get a Tan, a Monster Bruise, and Have a Fabulous Time... All in 24 Hours!

Own a Jeep. Wait for a perfectly sunny and breezy Saturday and take the top off. Throw on a pair of boxers and a tank top and pack an overnight bag. Put some Led Zeppelin in the CD player and drive out to a cozy little house somewhere in the desert mini-mountains in the middle of nowhere, for a little R & R with some new old friends... Take the scenic route with the winding two lane mountain roads.

Reminisce. Pet the dogs, ride the horses, eat barbeque, drink, laugh; rag on your old boss. Play D.J. and make sure the music's loud. Dance. Relax in a porch swing and listen to the noise Cottonwood trees make in the wind. Tell funny stories.

When it gets dark, build a fire. Chop a dead tree trunk down and burn it. Break the branches of a dead bush and burn them too. When breaking the branches, don't forget to overestimate how much pressure it will take to break them. This way, you'll be sure your shin meets the brick lining of the fire pit. You'll have a funny story to tell your friends and a souvenir to go with it.

Eat more barbeque, help your drunken friends to bed, mix another drink, and return to the fire pit. Listen to more funny stories. Laugh. Listen to Led Zeppelin, Stevie Ray Vaughn, The Black Crowes, and Johnny Lang. Tend to your fire and watch the moon make its way across the night sky. Say good night, grab a sleeping bag, and crash.

Wake up to the smell of breakfast and the sound of friends laughing. Hydrate. Eat breakfast at a 16 x 5 foot table made out of logs. Sit in the sun. Talk. Laugh. Listen to the sound Cottonwood trees make in the wind. Say goodbye to friends who leave. Talk. Laugh. Listen to the sound Cottonwood trees make in the wind.

Throw on a pair of boxers and a tank top. Pack your bag. Say goodbye to the horses, the dogs, and your friends. Put some Led Zeppelin in the CD player and drive home. Take the scenic route...

Repeat.

As Good As New? Or As Good As Old?

Five months after a brutal ending that left my friend's heart shattered, she got a call from the man who shattered it. For her, he is the ex-boyfriend and her heart has yet to completely let go. While at this point, she is unsure of what he truly wants, she is already considering what she would do, should he decide he wants to resume any form of relationship. I feel like she's not just considering what she would do (which I fear would be to acquiesce to his request), but hoping for the chance to do it...

What is it about the old when disguised as something new that is so irresistible? Is anything old, ever really, 'as good as new'? Or is it just 'like new' until it's old again? Inanimate objects can be repaired and restored to their original likenesses and functions. But, relationships that don't work need change, not restoration, in order to function. If the original didn't work, it never will unless the people involved change.

I'm twenty-six and know relatively little of such things, but what I have been privy to has led me to believe that people capable of real and permanent change are rare. I'd like to think I'm one of them, as I'm sure everyone would, but... I'm probably wrong. I don't mean to say the idea is impossible; just that it's highly unlikely, at least in regards to big change. I am capable of changing small things. I can change habits, my appearance, jobs, friends, locations, attitude, etc. But is changing any of those things really changing?

Changing who you are, is not changing what you do, where you live, with whom you socialize, or where you work. You can change all of those things and still be the same person. Granted it is possible that lifestyle changes may, as an aftereffect, change you, but can you really predict what kind of effect they may have on you? Can you, in any predictable fashion, change who you are just by changing your life?

On the other hand, one could say that all of those things define the person but personally, I don't feel that my life defines me. I guess that might seem a little strange when you think about it but that's why I think I have such a hard time answering, "Who are you?" I don't feel that adjectives can really tell anyone who you are, they just describe the way you are or the things that you do. It's a fine and almost invisible line, but I think it's there all the same.

So people can change their actions, locations, etc. but if they, as a person, don't really change, as most of us can't, then why is it we all seem to think the 'old' boyfriend, or girlfriend, or relationship, will be different this time around? Wouldn't it really just be pretending until the real us shows up again? Well for starters, we think we've seen it happen before; with our friends, our family, and others we know or have heard of... But what have we really seen?

Take for instance, my mother, and her significant other, Noel. They dated in college over thirty years ago. They reunited after my parents divorced and have been together since (over ten years). But back in the sixties their relationship didn't have any major flaws. They didn't last because my mother moved to California and they just weren't ready for anything more. That's not a flaw, that just timing. And, I think many of us mistake bad timing for relationship flaws.

My friend's relationship was not bad timing. It was flawed; even she'll admit to it. And yet, she thinks if he says he'll be different, he will. And, in turn, their relationship will be different; it stands a chance this time around. Is she really attracted to the 'new' boyfriend or is it that she just wants the old one; the same as she did before.

That's where the real person comes into play. She wants him. She doesn't want what he does. She doesn't want their relationship. She wants him. And he may want her. He may not want what she does. He may not want their relationship. He wants her. They know the 'new' is really just 'old'. They just need a reason, an excuse, to give the 'old' a try again because, while it's old, it's still their heart's desire and to deny it is more painful than the 'what if' that didn't work out.

So, what are they supposed to do with that? Well, I've been there and it didn't work out. But hey, while it may be rare, there's always the chance you could be the exception to the rule, so I say, go ahead and lay all of your cards on the table. Tell your friends and family to shut up and support you. Take the leap and hope you land in paradise. It's always possible.

And, in my opinion... It's always worth the risk...

Older, Wiser, and... Faster?

They say we as we get older, we slow down. Our bodies, our minds, our reaction time, our senses; they all get slower and duller... Well, Saturday night I watched as a nearly sixty-seven year old man took that theory and shoved it down their throats...

A professional drag racer now in the sport only for the thrill of it had the best race of his life twenty-nine years after he acquired the title of World Champion in 1977. Twenty-nine years; that's a lot of 'older'. And yet, somehow, on a dry and windy day in Tucson, Arizona almost three decades after he was named 'the best', he blew, even himself, right out of the water.

I call him my surrogate dad because he might as well be my father and I love him to death. He and my mother have been together for over ten years and together they epitomize what it means to be 'young at heart'. If you don't know him, you might look at him and think he looks his age, but the moment you meet him, you can look at him and never guess he was a day older than fifty.

At sixty-six one could assume, no, expect, that time would have taken its toll on the body and the mind. Outwardly, it has... He does not look thirty-six, he's got a bit of a belly, enjoys 'smooth' jazz, and occasionally needs a sentence repeated in order to hear it correctly. But, while in general he may have slowed down, he hasn't slowed down enough to act or feel his age 24/7...

A bit of background: Noel Zweigler races in the 'Pro' and 'Sportsman' classes of drag racing. For those of you unfamiliar with the sport I'll give you the basics as there's a lot more to it than most people, including myself before I met Noel, realize. In most classes, the race isn't necessarily who can make it to the 1/4 mile with the fastest time. There is much more skill involved.

Drivers are required to predict how much time is will take them to reach the 1/4 mile mark. This is called their 'dial in'. Once they've established this time, then the trick is to come as close to their dial in as possible without going faster. For instance, last Saturday, Noel dialed in at 11.94 seconds. One round he was paired with a funny car that dialed in at 8.38 seconds. Noel beat him. How? He has years of experience, his reaction time was unbelievable, he knew his car, and he understands how the weather affects its performance.

Noel was given a head start equaling the difference between the dial in times. But even if Noel had been driving the same funny car and had dialed in the exact same time as his opponent, he would have won. He took off from the starting line three thousandths of a second after the light went green as opposed to the twenty-three hundredths of second it had taken his younger opponent to get off the starting line. He ran an 11.945 seconds on his 11.94 dial in (a difference of five thousands of a second) while his opponent was off his dial in by about half a second.

Noel's overall 'package', or the combination of flaws in his prediction, totaled .008; eight thousandths of a second. That's pretty much unbeatable. I'm not sure I'd even flinch as quickly when startled; and I'm twenty-six. They say those that are young at heart are generally younger in mind and body as well.

I'll say this: Noel's made a believer out of me and I sincerely hope when I'm his age, I'm still able to experience moments, however brief, like his on that Saturday night in the middle of the desert when sixty-six and thirty-six became one in the same...

The Little Jeep That Could

It’s not a truck. It’s not a car. It’s not an SUV. It is the original SUV. It’s a real Jeep. Not a Cherokee. Not a Commander. Not a Liberty or a Compass. It’s a Wrangler… It descended from the Blantam Blitzbuggies, the Willies, and the CJs…

My Jeep has let me drive on 3 ½ tires for 50 miles and run on fumes for 30. It’s summoned an incredible amount of strength to get me up a hill entirely too steep for its little engine, and on two tires, to help me avoid imminent danger and it’s protected me from personal injury twice. Not to mention, everything else it’s done. It has carried me to all of my favorite places and to see all of my favorite people. It lets me drive it around even when there is no destination. It tries really hard, and succeeds, to be really cute, fun, and accommodating to all of my friends and even my pets.

Despite suffering a big loss over a year ago it kept on truckin’. It has let me use it to teach two people to drive even though the process was painful. It’s been rained on, drooled on, slept in, scratched, sun burned, frozen, crashed, beaten, dehydrated, starved, yelled at, kicked, and pushed to its limit. All of this and it has asked for almost nothing in return.

After giving me 102,000 miles it was unable to continue, though eager to do so I’m sure, without some ‘R and R’ (repairs and rest). It didn’t require much however, and cost me relatively little. The last few months my Jeep has been buckling under the pressure I put on it. It got me thinking about what it’s done for me and what I’ve done for it. So now, at 168,000 miles, it’s ready for round two of ‘R and R’. This week, my little Jeep is getting a mini overhaul. It deserves it. And, I think it deserves a public proclamation of love from its owner. This is it…

Jeep, I love you. I always have and while I may have taken you for granted, I always will. I wanted you the second we were introduced. I promise to treat you better from now on. After all, other vehicles may be cushier, cost less, last longer, and go further on less fuel, but there is no other as fabulous as you. You can take me places most others can’t, you give so much of yourself and expect so little in return, and you even look good when you’re dirty. You are there for me when I need you and make me so very happy. You always could, you can, and I know you will…

American Inventor. American Dumbass.

An invention… Similar to a cape, but it wraps around the whole of your body from shoulder to toe. Inside, a plastic pouch into which men can relieve themselves; handier still is the funnel device for women. After nature's business has been attended to, the pouch is sealed and the 'cape' folded (pouch inside) neatly into a small duffel bag with a shoulder strap. This; this is what I get for accidentally tuning in an hour early to watch what is now, a rarity: A whole hour of quality fictitious television, otherwise known as ‘Commander in Chief’. I watched ‘American Inventor’ for about four minutes; long enough to witness the unveiling of the invention and promptly gag.

Never mind the pee bag over your shoulder, the fact that you just took a whiz in public (and while sober), or even the idea that there is probably a public toilet somewhere inside of a one mile radius around you; let’s think about what you’d look like on a busy street, at the bus stop (the example given by the hopeful inventor), or elsewhere in public. Ready? Let us visualize: You’re walking. Nature is calling. You stop, pull your pee cape out of its baggy, drape it about yourself and, to the public’s eyes, fumble in and about your crotch area while you stand still for however long it takes to relieve yourself. You disrobe, pack your urine into your pee purse, and continue on your way.

Ridiculous. Stupid. Almost creepy. ABC was kind enough to squander five minutes of my life by airing the segment; a complete waste. I know the producers of these reality programs realize the American masses are inane and slow-witted, but really? Aren’t they only encouraging the dumbasses of America to continue in their unconscious pursuit of mediocrity, ignorance, and ineptitude? Could the network not have found any more interesting and at the same time more intelligent programming?

‘American Dumbass’ may rake in more money than a program on the History Channel because the public just can’t seem to get enough of pee capes, cat fights between two people who can’t even name our Vice President, and the enthralling romanticism of ‘The Bachelor’. But, I’d like to think that if television as an aggregate offered only intelligent programming, the whole of America would eventually be forced to learn something, and maybe, could even learn to write and speak correct English. It is a lofty goal, I know, but one that I believe could be reached should the media, teachers, and parents make an attempt to right the sad state in which America finds itself.

The media plays a large role in prohibiting any change. Even commercials drive me batty. Take for instance Sara Lee, the pastry giant. Their slogan, “Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee” is a DOUBLE NEGATIVE! Now this may not have a great effect on those who know and use correct grammar. I can appreciate how that statement may appear and seem more definitive than, “Everybody likes Sara Lee”. But, most people are dumb and don’t realize the statement is grammatically incorrect. And this organization is putting it in print! Guess what? To the mentally challenged that’s basically saying it’s is; they just don’t know any better.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve even heard people, whom I deemed at least of an average intelligence, using ‘conversate’ instead of converse. That one’s a personal and not-so-pet peeve. I can’t stand it! I think the whole phenomenon started with some rap song and the whole f’ing world jumped on the band wagon. In music, I can forgive grammatical errors because, well it’s music and accurate grammatical phrasing can be impossible. But, it drives me insane that Americans are so ignorant, a song can make ‘dumb’ even dumber.

Ugh.

The Dryer, The Witch, and The Wardrobe...

The information you are about to read may shock you, but fear not! I shall get to the bottom of this mystery and deliver the offending culprit… I must begin with a bit of background…

I believe in the Sock Monster. I have repeatedly been duped by this dastardly thief, but have dealt with the consequences as I have been unable to find any incriminating proof or for that matter, the suspect himself. This, I fear, will be a battle I fight for an eternity and I am prepared to deal with this annoyance forever if I must.

I was not however, prepared for or even aware of, the witch that appears to have taken up residence in my dryer. I fell victim to her last week, and at first, did not realize I had encountered my new enemy, but today I have been preyed upon again. I wish to warn you all; she is a vicious and cunning enemy. Unlike the Sock Monster, who attacks in a most bothersome yet insignificant way, she attacks with full vigor and wreaks havoc upon your wardrobe…

I have ‘lost’ two pairs of pants, a bra, and a favorite shirt to date. It is infuriating, to say the least, and I plan to right the situation. My wardrobe is shrinking and she is to blame. I know, you’re thinking it cannot be true. But I assure you, it is the absolute truth; I have considered all other possibilities…

If I lived with other women, I could perhaps conclude my clothing had been arbitrarily borrowed, but I live with men. I could conclude I have merely misplaced my ‘missing’ clothes, but I have searched high and low and in every other direction for them and have come up short. If I were crazy I could conclude I have lost my mind and am simply imagining I own articles of clothing that I do not, in fact, own. But I am not crazy, contrary to many-a-friend’s testimony given during rounds of joshing. So, where does that leave me? In a state of confusion and horror for I believe the witch is on the prowl and has begun to attack others…

A friend of mine recently ‘lost’ her favorite pair of jeans while at the laundry mat. The jeans were taken directly from the washer and placed in the dryer. When she retrieved her laundry, all was accounted for but the jeans. She double checked both the washer and dryer and like me, came up short. She blamed unlawful citizens. I agreed, sighed, and shook my head in disappointment. Maybe we misjudged the situation…

For now, I am angry, perplexed, and determined to unearth this wicked criminal.

And you? Beware the witch!

Moonlit Habit, Gary Stevens, Dress Slacks, Good Friends, and Wristband Tans...

Moonlit Habit caught my eye even before I’d ever set eyes on her. Her name jumped out at me on the page in my program. It was almost four o’clock, there was the slightest of breezes, race eight was soon to begin, and the sun was shining in a way that tinted everything with a deep auburn color. It was the kind of day that should have had its very own soundtrack. The kind of day seen on a movie screen accompanied by music, perfect for each and every moment…

Before Saturday I was a virgin when it came to horseracing. Well, almost. Technically, two years ago the L.A. Fair introduced me to the sport, but I was able to experience only forty-five minutes of bliss. I’d been wanting more ever since. Saturday, I got it.

I have yet to bet on a horse race. Surprising I know, as I appear to be quite the little gambler in Vegas. Perhaps the difference is in the thrill of it. In Vegas, the thrill comes from the potential of riches. At the track, the thrill, while I imagine could include the potential for riches, comes, for me, from the competition; not between the jockeys but the animals themselves. It may be corny or cliché but competition really is all about heart; and in that sense, I find it inspirational.

If you’re wondering, yes, I loved the movie Seabiscuit, but no, this blog was not inspired by it, though it does reflect my feelings about the idea. And, I think any day spent in the company of good friends and around true inspiration deserves a special place in my ‘memory library’.

My friend Lisa was there when I experienced my first horse race (it was her first as well) and she was there again for the second round. We had heard KROQ was to be at Santa Anita Park, The Great Race Place, serving microbrews for a mere five dollar entrance fee and figured it’d be a great weekend to get back to the track, bring a few friends, and stay the whole day. After our IDs afforded us our wristbands we discovered KROQ’s microbrews were seven ounces and $2.50 a glass in addition to the five dollar entrance fee. We opted for the Clubhouse and wine.

We spent the day in the sun, drinking, laughing, eating, and cheering. Some of which was spent in the company of Gary Stevens (he’s even shorter in person), the real jockey who played ‘George the Iceman’ in Seabiscuit. The dress code, the company, the horses, and our resulting wristband tans; it was a good day…

None of us bet, though we each ‘won’ a race. Moonlit Habit won race eight and for a moment I thought about what I would have won had I bet. Had I been in Vegas, I would have kicked myself. Strangely enough, I had no regrets about not betting on her. In the end, it wasn’t about winning, but about good friends, good times, and heart.

It was a day I hope to relive again and again…

Déja Smell... Again Please!

Tonight, I was inspired to write this blog when the smell of a perfume I hadn't worn in a while, brought me back to an all-nighter that my friend Anne and I had pulled in high school, procrastinators that we were, or are, I should say. During a study break we decided to break out my swim gear and wear it over our clothes for shits and giggles. I think my perfume had somehow spilled on my swim bag, hence the smell. I'm sure it was a 'you had to be there' memory, but all the same, it was a night that we laughed until our bellies hurt. I laughed out loud tonight when I thought about it.

I smelled my perfum tonight and relived a memory from a thousand years ago. I have termed this an occurance of 'déja smell'. The following are other occurances throughout the past week. It's been a smelly one...

Last week, I was driving to work the morning after a heavy rain and the desert smelled amazing. Even if it was just for a second, I found myself back in Tucson, in the year 2000, driving in my Jeep (sans the top) back out to the far East side with my friend Tennille. A monsoon had hit earlier that day and the smell was fabulous and pungent. We were out in the middle of nowhere driving along a road toads like to frequent late at night. The toads were everywhere along the road. We were listening to one of our favorite 80s compellation CDs, singing, and laughing every time I dodged a toad. The memory was nothing significant, nor was our night that night, but we had a blast. And driving to work that morning, I got to feel that all over again.

A couple of days later, while walking to my car through a small patch of 'garden' outside my doctor's office, I suddenly found myself back in 1997, in Pasadena, late at night, walking down a pathway hand in hand with my boyfriend, on our way to his pool house. I had been deliriously happy. The feeling from that memory stuck with me all the way home.

Yesterday, I was going through an old duffel bag in my closet. Apparently I had tossed a bunch of crap in it when I last moved. Among other things, I found an old swim cap. The smell brought back the memory and attached feelings of the day I beat my best time in the 100 meter breaststroke.

Today, walking out to my car at 6:30 am, the smell of dew and desert transported me to Lake Powell in 1998, where we had parked our houseboat for the night. Those of us going water skiing were up early for breakfast before hitting the lake. The campfire, friends, family, and the most beautiful scenery on earth; it was like I was there again.

They say that of all your senses, your sense of smell is most strongly linked to memory. I find it incredible that something as simple as a smell can take you back to places and feelings so long forgotten. When I experience déja smell, it's almost like reliving the memory that results, however briefly. I have flashbacks that result from déja vu or even a picture, but those are merely flashbacks; that's just remembering. Déja smell is really so different. The only other memory trigger that comes close, for me, is music. I get to feel the moment, not just remember it.

Déja smell gives new meaning to the phrase, 'Take time to smell the roses' doesn't it? When you do take the time, you might get more than just the smell of a rose. Kind of makes you want to take a deep breath and a big whiff.

What if Dr. McDreamy really isn't?

I was discussing Grey's Anatomy, a rather fabulous drama on ABC Sundays, with a friend and fellow addict of mine on Monday. Our discussion got me thinking about a few things. My friend 'Jill' mentioned she sometimes found it hard to watch because she couldn't help comparing Dr. Shepherd, or as he is affectionately known, Dr. McDreamy (played by the ever-so-HOT Patrick Dempsey) to her ex-boyfriend 'Jack'. And yet, she watches every Sunday; religiously.

Why do we watch? Why are we addicted? I, myself, have compared my exes to Dr. McDreamy or similar characters. Hasn't every woman? Dr. McDreamy is everywhere. He is 'Big' on Sex and the City, 'Dr. Kovach' on ER, 'Ben' on Felicity, and similarly, 'Ross' on Friends, and 'Seth' on Deadwood.

If you're unfamiliar with these shows, I'll just give you the basics. They all feature relationships to which every woman I know, including me, says they can relate. The relationship scenarios are as follows: (1) The guy who truly loves the girl, but due to circumstances beyond his control, can't be with her, (2) Guy who loves the girl but can't quite admit it to himself and therefore anyone else, because of commitment issues, he's scared, etc., and so can't be with her, and (3) Guy who loves the girl, she loves him, but they can't quite get it together.

I have decided to call this the 'Dr. McDreamy' syndrome. Notice that none of the scenarios entertain the idea that they just didn't want to be with the girl. Are our relationships really that similar to those on our favorite shows? Or is it just easier to believe they are? My friend Jill broke up with her boyfriend Jack a few months back. Her break-up didn't come too long after I'd been through a break-up. Needless to say, we'd spent many-an-hour discussing each other's relationships. Jack didn't want anything serious. She wanted to know it was, at least, possible. He couldn't give that to her. He did say he cared deeply for her. My break-up was very similar.

Both of us believe we were relationship number two: Guy who is in love, but can't admit it or follow through due to commitment issues, etc. It seems now, regardless of whether or not we still long for them, and even after one could say that we've both been proven wrong, that for each of us, in our own way, we still feel there is enough evidence to support what our hearts really want to believe. There were signs, things that couldn't have been mistaken for anything but 'true love' right? What I find truly interesting, is that I know both of us think the other is wrong. Dr. McDreamy applies to our relationship and ours alone; the other is obviously a gross misuse of the 'Dr. McDreamy syndrome'.

Is it possible we're both wrong? What if Dr. McDreamy really isn't? What if, we need these shows to get through our break-ups? I guess it would depend on how one defined love. I believe that 'love' would have conquered all of the issues plaguing the 'relationships' we follow on TV and yet, just like her, find it hard to believe that our exes didn't love us. What if we just need to believe it wasn't us? It's not that they didn't want us; they were just scared or couldn't get it together?

Maybe Dr. McDreamy really does exist, but if he does, how would we really know? I think, even after the fact, even when we're 'over it' we still don't like to acknowledge the alternative: They just didn't want us; not really. Shows like Sex and the City and Grey's Anatomy, with Dr. McDreamy characters help us to ignore that alternative. Because, in the end, Ross ends up with Rachel, Carrie ends up with Big, and I'd be willing to bet, Meredith ends up with Dr. McDreamy.