Hollywood runs on love. Every TV show and movie involves some kind of romantic entanglement and every magazine cover is flooded with photos of happy and not-so-happy couples. Considering that all I know of romantic love comes from what I’ve seen in the movies and on television, it should come as no surprise that I have some very skewed ideals when it comes to prospective partners.

Recently a representative for a company that cleans floor mats and uniforms hit on me, and when I say hit on me I mean flirted with me so shamelessly that even I, the girl who could find Don Juan frustratingly vague, could deduce his intentions.

As he leaned across my desk and complimented my hair and told me how it was a travesty that I’m not yet married and downright unbelievable that I don’t have a boyfriend, I startled myself with the realization that if he should ask me out on a date, I would probably say yes.

Why was this quick, flickering thought so stunning? He doesn’t fit the idealized image of the perfect man that I had always carried with me, That’s why.

He isn’t the boyishly handsome, slightly dorky but smart and snappishly funny romantic comedy male lead that I am subconsciously waiting for, nor is he anywhere in the ballpark. He is far from boyish with lines threatening the corners of his eyes, his cornball lines do not snap, any dorkiness is overshadowed by his over-exercised body (he is muscled enough to warrant the term ?beefy?) and?shudder?he has the distinct orange glow of one who tans. Truth be known, I have an unfounded mistrust of all men who tan. Sorry, George Hamilton.

Ross and Rachel, Harry and Sally, these are the modern age’s archetypes of romantic love. A funny and charming man falls for a lovely, beguiling woman. So perfectly matched are they that the term soul mates is bandied about but alas, the hero and heroine must blunder through hilarious misunderstandings and heart-rending tiffs (enough to fill two and a half acts) before finally realizing what the audience knew all along: they are in love.

I wish real relationships could be that simple.

Imagine a world where that cute guy you’ve had your eye on likes you back and everything you say to him is witty and charming. Also, You’re always lit in the most flattering way and a fan is hidden out of sight in order to tousle your hair just so.

In real life my experiences with men have been far less sweetly romantic and more awkwardly tragic.

For example, there was my third grade crush who I believed too childish to be ready for my affections, or anyone else’s.

Like a Mack truck careening out of nowhere, one day in the hallway of our elementary school, he offered a little gold-painted ring to a painfully pretty classmate of ours, committing himself to her with such passion as to put grown men to shame. I was, and remain, gobsmacked.

That was the first time, and by no means last time, I considered that I was the problem. That I had indeed chosen the right boy but that I was not the right girl?that I was not wanted.

Cut to middle school, where I alternately pretended the Backstreet Boys were my boyfriends and gleefully waited for high school. Even Screech had a girlfriend on Saved by the Bell and if one show gave an unerringly accurate depiction of high school, it was Saved by the Bell.

High school was not what I hoped it to be, although it was an improvement over all the years before it: boys were actually talking to me now. One boy in particular stood out; let’s call him Joe.

Joe went out of his way to talk to me. He asked to borrow my notes, he asked for help with homework assignments, he got me in trouble for talking in class. He was funny and weird and perfect. And he had a girlfriend.

My friends, as friends do, assured me that Joe really did like me and the moment that he and his girlfriend broke up, he would be mine . . . Who could’ve figured that they would date all through high school with me pining all the while?

What was different about Joe as opposed to the crushes that came before him, including the Backstreet Boys, was that I could talk to him. I wasn’t a shy, mute mess with him. Yes, he gave me butterflies in my stomach and I would blush just from seeing him but I was myself around him and he seemed to like me even still.

I should’ve taken that as a boon to my self-confidence but, like any other teenage girl, I managed to interpret it as a slight. If he liked me as much as he seemed to, why wasn’t he leaving his girlfriend? Why wasn’t he asking me out? Why was our time spent together confined to the four walls of the classroom? Why wasn’t I enough?

Much hasn’t changed over the years. I find someone to spend weeks or even months yearning for only to have things fizzle out or, more depressingly, stop just as quickly as it started?often by finding out the guy had something or someone else entirely in mind. Again, I am just not enough.

Have I given up on my ideals in favour of harsh cold reality by envisioning myself with the hackneyed cleaning rep? Am I ready to stop chasing the men who fit the basic structure of my dream man in favour of one who looks like a muscled orange?

You may think I’m being a bit extreme here, equating a single date with a man I find unattractive as a fundamental shift in ideals and ambitions, but take it from a girl whose total list of crushes in her entire life (not including the Backstreet Boys) numbers under 10, that even picturing myself with this beefy fellow is highly disconcerting.

Maybe, I thought as I gawped at Mr. Orange, I’m enough for him.

After he left, and the hazy glow of finding out someone thinks I’m hot dissipated, I began to wonder, is he enough for me?

What made Ross and Rachel and Harry and Sally so perfect was that they were perfect for each other. They had that magical spark, that mystical balance of chemistry and biology; they could not be any more or any less perfect for each other.

Sure, I could go out with this man and all the while have my fingers crossed hoping someone better came along. Or I could do as I’ve been doing and wait for the perfect match.

It may be a naive, romanticized, and lonely choice but if it took Harry and Sally 12 years to get it right and if Ross and Rachel managed to find each other after decades filled with miscommunication and famous hairstyles, at least I know I’m in good company if I don’t settle for second best.

Perfect romance may only be in Hollywood scripts, but how will I know for sure unless I wait to see how my third act turns out?

Recently, at a children’s Christmas party while I was dressed rather elf-like, I came to a realization regarding Christmas, a realization I am none too pleased with, and feel I need to air my grievances to you, the representative of Christmas. (Yes, I am aware Christmas is really Jesus? holiday but, as He has not provided the world at large with his mailing address, I am sure you will be well equipped to handle my concern in His stead).

Christmas was made for children?a fact I have come to find discriminatory and illogical.

Why save the best, most magical day of the year for children when they are the least likely creatures imaginable to appreciate a day of complete and joyous peace, not having had to participate in the frenetic buildup to said magical day? How can they possibly appreciate the peace of Christmas morning when they have not had to elbow their way through shopping malls during the Christmas sales?

Even your elves have surely known a hard day’s work leading up to Christmas, Santa, and they are magical elves.

Like your elves (at least, how they are portrayed in the movies), we adults must slave through the necessary prep work to make for a festive season. We must purchase and wrap the gifts, we must do the cooking and baking, we must do the cleaning and decorating. Christmas isn’t all too Christmasy when You’re on the plus side of 12.

I am putting my foot down, Santa. I will take no more blatant neglect. Have you forgotten that you are more than just the patron saint of children? You are also the patron saint of lawsuits lost unjustly. (Really? That’s just ridiculous.) And most importantly, Saint Nicholas of Myra, you are also the patron saint of unmarried women?that’d be yours truly, mister?and I think this year you should send some attention my way.

Before you even start to object: yes, I know It’s been nearly 20 years since I last wrote to you, nearly 20 years since I last believed in your very existence, so I’m probably not your first choice of someone to do a favour for. But I am appealing to you on behalf of all adults, not solely myself, so please at least consider what I am about to propose (although, if you’d like to throw a little extra special something my way, I certainly wouldn’t object).

How about this year we have an old-fashioned, magical Christmas? You know, like how it is in the Christmas specials, with your elves making the gifts and you delivering them, already wrapped, while everyone is asleep.

I think this is an excellent idea. Not only will it do wonders for the overall morale of humankind but, in an economy as tight as it is right now, I’m sure your elves would appreciate the job security that manufacturing toys for billions would provide.

I understand that you are about two thousand years old and you may not be as spry or as jolly as you once were. And I’m sure with global warming devastating the North Pole you have bigger concerns than delivering presents, but think of all the good attention you could receive by giving the world one truly magical Christmas! (By the way, can’t you do something about global warming? Yes, I may be confusing you with God right now, but I still feel It’s a valid question?you are a saint after all. I imagine the saints are a bit like the X-Men, what with all their unique abilities. You do have special powers, right? Knowing when we are sleeping and when we are awake alludes to some form of telepathy.)

I can picture the headlines now: ?Even with home in peril, Santa delivers.? Plus, no one would let Santa go homeless. If you just step up and confirm your existence once and for all, money couldn’t be thrown fast enough at global warming research groups to ensure the homes of you and the elves were safe for another few thousand years.

If none of the above appeals to you, could you at least consider advocating a role reversal as to who is responsible for the Christmas chores?

Every year adults go out of their way to give children magical Christmases so it is only fair that, once in a while, the children should step up and treat the adults. If you and your elves are unwilling to provide the world with a traditionally magical Christmas, could you possibly mandate that children are responsible for the gift buying and whatnot?

To their credit, kids do have to suffer through endless cheek pinching from elderly relatives and countless photos during the Christmas season (often while wearing highly embarrassing holiday-themed knitwear). So I don’t see how a few days of shopping, wrapping, decorating, and cooking can be any more scarring than that.

I look forward to hearing your feedback, Santa. While I’m sure that my ideas may not appeal to you at first, given time and further conversation I’m sure we can work something out.

Merry Christmas,
Alana

Recently a representative for a company that cleans floor mats and uniforms hit on me, and when I say hit on me I mean flirted with me so shamelessly that even I, the girl who could find Don Juan frustratingly vague, could deduce his intentions.

As he leaned across my desk and complimented my hair and told me how it was a travesty that I’m not yet married and downright unbelievable that I don’t have a boyfriend, I startled myself with the realization that if he should ask me out on a date, I would probably say yes.

Why was this quick, flickering thought so stunning? He doesn’t fit the idealized image of the perfect man that I had always carried with me, That’s why.

He isn’t the boyishly handsome, slightly dorky but smart and snappishly funny romantic comedy male lead that I am subconsciously waiting for, nor is he anywhere in the ballpark. He is far from boyish with lines threatening the corners of his eyes, his cornball lines do not snap, any dorkiness is overshadowed by his over-exercised body (he is muscled enough to warrant the term ?beefy?) and?shudder?he has the distinct orange glow of one who tans. Truth be known, I have an unfounded mistrust of all men who tan. Sorry, George Hamilton.

Ross and Rachel, Harry and Sally, these are the modern age’s archetypes of romantic love. A funny and charming man falls for a lovely, beguiling woman. So perfectly matched are they that the term soul mates is bandied about but alas, the hero and heroine must blunder through hilarious misunderstandings and heart-rending tiffs (enough to fill two and a half acts) before finally realizing what the audience knew all along: they are in love.

I wish real relationships could be that simple.

Imagine a world where that cute guy you’ve had your eye on likes you back and everything you say to him is witty and charming. Also, You’re always lit in the most flattering way and a fan is hidden out of sight in order to tousle your hair just so.

In real life my experiences with men have been far less sweetly romantic and more awkwardly tragic.

For example, there was my third grade crush who I believed too childish to be ready for my affections, or anyone else’s.

Like a Mack truck careening out of nowhere, one day in the hallway of our elementary school, he offered a little gold-painted ring to a painfully pretty classmate of ours, committing himself to her with such passion as to put grown men to shame. I was, and remain, gobsmacked.

That was the first time, and by no means last time, I considered that I was the problem. That I had indeed chosen the right boy but that I was not the right girl?that I was not wanted.

Cut to middle school, where I alternately pretended the Backstreet Boys were my boyfriends and gleefully waited for high school. Even Screech had a girlfriend on Saved by the Bell and if one show gave an unerringly accurate depiction of high school, it was Saved by the Bell.

High school was not what I hoped it to be, although it was an improvement over all the years before it: boys were actually talking to me now. One boy in particular stood out; let’s call him Joe.

Joe went out of his way to talk to me. He asked to borrow my notes, he asked for help with homework assignments, he got me in trouble for talking in class. He was funny and weird and perfect. And he had a girlfriend.

My friends, as friends do, assured me that Joe really did like me and the moment that he and his girlfriend broke up, he would be mine . . . Who could’ve figured that they would date all through high school with me pining all the while?

What was different about Joe as opposed to the crushes that came before him, including the Backstreet Boys, was that I could talk to him. I wasn’t a shy, mute mess with him. Yes, he gave me butterflies in my stomach and I would blush just from seeing him but I was myself around him and he seemed to like me even still.

I should’ve taken that as a boon to my self-confidence but, like any other teenage girl, I managed to interpret it as a slight. If he liked me as much as he seemed to, why wasn’t he leaving his girlfriend? Why wasn’t he asking me out? Why was our time spent together confined to the four walls of the classroom? Why wasn’t I enough?

Much hasn’t changed over the years. I find someone to spend weeks or even months yearning for only to have things fizzle out or, more depressingly, stop just as quickly as it started?often by finding out the guy had something or someone else entirely in mind. Again, I am just not enough.

Have I given up on my ideals in favour of harsh cold reality by envisioning myself with the hackneyed cleaning rep? Am I ready to stop chasing the men who fit the basic structure of my dream man in favour of one who looks like a muscled orange?

You may think I’m being a bit extreme here, equating a single date with a man I find unattractive as a fundamental shift in ideals and ambitions, but take it from a girl whose total list of crushes in her entire life (not including the Backstreet Boys) numbers under 10, that even picturing myself with this beefy fellow is highly disconcerting.

Maybe, I thought as I gawped at Mr. Orange, I’m enough for him.

After he left, and the hazy glow of finding out someone thinks I’m hot dissipated, I began to wonder, is he enough for me?

What made Ross and Rachel and Harry and Sally so perfect was that they were perfect for each other. They had that magical spark, that mystical balance of chemistry and biology; they could not be any more or any less perfect for each other.

Sure, I could go out with this man and all the while have my fingers crossed hoping someone better came along. Or I could do as I’ve been doing and wait for the perfect match.

It may be a naive, romanticized, and lonely choice but if it took Harry and Sally 12 years to get it right and if Ross and Rachel managed to find each other after decades filled with miscommunication and famous hairstyles, at least I know I’m in good company if I don’t settle for second best.

Perfect romance may only be in Hollywood scripts, but how will I know for sure unless I wait to see how my third act turns out?

So life-altering was the denial-of-service attack against the micro-blogging site that the Wall Street Journal (the Wall Street Freakin? Journal) published articles on not only Twitter’s outage (and Facebook’s similar disruptions) but also interviewed celebrities on what the outage meant to them as well as asking its readers what they got up to in those Tweet deprived hours.

Is this how important Twitter and Facebook (and to an ever smaller degree, MySpace) have become? That without constant contact with friends, family, and the random people you have allowed to be your friends or followers just to bulk up your numbers, we achieve a collective level of loneliness or loss of purpose so great that it reaches newsworthy proportions?

Maybe It’s a good thing I suck at social networking.

I, like millions of others, have both a Facebook profile and a Twitter account but I must be using them incorrectly. Unlike everyone else, I do not check either account obsessively or even regularly. I barely post anything, have few friends on Facebook, and absolutely zero followers on Twitter.

I’ve never been much of a joiner so I never had any interest in MySpace or any similar websites before last year. I never participated in any extracurricular activities in high school nor did I attend a great deal of school dances (I would have considered participating in more than just my core studies if my school had offered more than just sports or the Michael Jackson fan club by way of extramural activities. I find this to be quite telling of both my school’s priorities and my high school experience as a whole); the dances I did attend, I spent the hours making fun of people while safely sitting at the back of the bleachers. To me, not being on Myspace was a point of pride. Much like having never watched Titanic, I was secure in the knowledge I was unlike every other girl my age. And then Facebook came along.

Facebook was appealing to me in a way MySpace wasn’t: if I joined Facebook, I would finally get my sister to shut the hell up. If I got one more email requesting that I sign up or one more snarky comment from her saying that I couldn’t see her latest vacation photos unless I logged onto Facebook and added her as a friend, I would’ve gone on a homicidal spree.

At first, I admit, I loved Facebook. I loved adding silly comments to people’s photos. I loved posting notes. I loved receiving friend requests. But all too soon, the honeymoon was over. The honeymoon being, of course, when I toed that line in the sand where you reach the limit of your real everyday friends and have to begin hunting for the people you haven’t seen since grade school just so you don’t seem like the only loser on Facebook with less than a hundred friends.

Sadly, I reached my limit at six (I’m not including the family members I dutifully added as Facebook friends, my mother’s friends she insisted I add as friends, or the people I added as friends but kinda wish I hadn’t and can’t think of a way to kick them off my friends list without them noticing; those folks push my number up to a measly 30).

At first my fingers itched to add more people as friends, to scour other people’s pages adding acquaintances as ?friends? while poring over school yearbooks and employee lists from work just to bump my numbers and make me look cooler to the people who don’t already know me well enough to know I only have a handful of friends. I was desperate. I felt that my lack of ?friends? was a judgement against me as a person. I felt like I had failed at a website.

Even still, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I would be turning into exactly what I’ve grown to hate about Facebook?the desperate poseur.

They not only have every person they attended high school and college with listed as a friend but also the parents and siblings of those people. They check their Facebook throughout the day, at work, at school, even ignoring the people sitting right beside them to do so. Witnessing this extreme level of socialization feels very much like sitting back on the bleachers again, watching everyone else dance.

A small part of me is jealous that they have pseudo-relationships I don’t have, but I’m mostly glad that I don’t have to try so hard. I have come to accept my pitiful, hermit-like existence both online and off and while I like and appreciate the easy connection Facebook provides, like hell am I going out of my way to foster any kind of extraneous friendships.

If you haven’t noticed by now, I am not so much a social butterfly as I am a social slug. I am perfectly capable of being social?at times I could even be called ?pleasant??but I would much rather be at home alone watching television than I would at a bar surrounded by strangers. I am a big fan of interpersonal connection but not if I have to go out of my way for it. Obviously I’m not alone in this and That’s why I think people lost their minds for two hours on August 6.

Unlike its precursors, very little is required from you to enjoy Twitter. Having ?followers? does not have the same connotations having ?friends? has. Your Twitter following is not a representation of your social life but rather who happens to find your 140-character non sequiturs amusing or, even more accurately, sufficiently time-wasting. Twitter offers a connection to millions of people and their millions of thoughts with none of the hassles of poking, giving gifts, or adding comments.

Twitter is for those seeking to connect much more than Facebook is. Facebook is about the presentation, the photos and the ?friends.? Twitter is about the quick news flash, the random thought, and what you just ate, which is much more revealing than any photo album of you getting smashed at the bar could ever be.

While my hermit-like way prevents me from being a frequent and followed Twitterer, I understand why the Twitter-less felt so deprived. Twitter is no different than reading notes scrawled on a bathroom wall; it is proof that someone has been where you are and left their mark before fading back into the ether. Whether that note was left for you alone or for a million to read, it is a unique link that has bonded you to someone who could very well be millions of miles away.

You have read someone else’s thoughts and maybe, just maybe, understood them better for it. For some that loss of connection was surely profoundly lonely, but what do I know? I suck at social networking.