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By Katie Gard, April 10, 2013 6:00 am

Image by Jose Luis Pelaez Inc

A few years ago, on a rare, non-sweltering summer evening in the sandhills of North Carolina, my husband and I sat on our back deck with a couple of grilled steaks and a couple of micro brews, watching our dogs play in the yard and talking wistfully about our hopes and our dreams.

Actually….

I talked about my hopes and my dreams, while Justin sat contemplative and content. I was fishing for something.

My incessant babble was, most likely, a plea for commiseration. “I’d like us to take a year off and travel the world when you retire from the Air Force. I mean, you’ll only be 38, and that gives us enough time to save. We could go anywhere. See anything. And then one day it might be nice to just buy a ramshackle beach resort on the coast of Nicaragua. You know, get away from all of these pressures and learn about what’s really important in life. I could run the hospitality end of the business since — well — I actually like people, and you could… I don’t know… be in charge of breakfasts. It could be fun for a couple of years! We could learn SCUBA and hike volcanoes and adopt a pet monkey.

….

“Haven’t you always wanted a monkey?”

Justin gave me a smile and a slight laugh and gazed across our confined patch of earth, where the dogs wrestled in the dirt amongst the patchy grass and paw-carved holes.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to run a sustainable eco resort for rich people in Australia?” I asked, trying again. ”You know, back when I first started studying environmental policy and sustainability, and then I quit school and had all of that time to think — I was going to move to Australia because that was one of the few places with schools offering degrees in sustainability. Can you believe that? Now it’s a trend. Sustainability. I totally should’ve jumped at the head of that horse when I had the chance. By now, I’d be like the leading guru on self-sustaining eco resorts. With yoga. And we’d raise our own goats. Way Down Under. Or wherever. It felt like nowhere was too far away from home, you know? I finally realized my life was in my hands.

…

Continue reading 'Maybe There’s A Reason He’s Not Listening'»

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By Katie Gard, April 25, 2011 6:00 am

Image by Robert S. Donovan via Flickr

Ladies, have you ever complained about the insensitive boyfriend who couldn’t pick up on the fact that you were having a bad day, even though you told him you were fine?

Gentlemen, have you ever been called a conceited ass for thinking a girl was going to sleep with you, when she came over with only platonic intentions in mind?

One of the (decidedly few) merits of being a married, 28-year-old waitress with a college degree is that it brings me in contact with people who would otherwise fall well outside my social sphere. From the “regulars”–the middle-aged men who sit on the same bar stool night after night and literally wither away lonely hours via Jim, Jack or Crown–to the slurring, unsteady newbie drinkers who haven’t yet learned their limits, this place is a veritable variety pack of personalities and life experience.

The bar employs an exceptionally popular young bartender I’ll call Jack. Picture a 23-year-old with the confidence and charm of a Wall Street banker, combined with the interest and curiosity of a world-traveling nomad. Plus, he’s adorable. If Kurt Cobain’s ghost had a love child with Justin Bieber, the irresistible little nymph would undoubtedly resemble Jack.

Although I find myself immune to his trademark charisma (probably because he’s wisely never pointed it in my direction), women of all ages are simply elated when they find themselves attached to Jack’s arm for an evening. Over the months, I’ve become desensitized to the false-smile introductions of the various women he escorts into the bar on his nights off, knowing the poor girl whose limp-noodle hand I was shaking would likely be sitting by her phone all day tomorrow, waiting for a text that would never leave Jack’s fingertips.

Surprisingly, a bedraggled Jack arrived unaccompanied one night, plopping himself down on one of the lonely-man bar stools and mumbling about a girl.

Finally, I thought. Someone actually got to him.

Continue reading 'Why Can’t Men Learn To Read Women’s Minds?'»

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By Katie Gard, February 14, 2011 6:00 am

Via www.strangezoo.com

I’ve never been a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. Yes, I always said that back in the days when I was perpetually single. But surprisingly, my take on the whole thing didn’t really change after finding myself in a serious relationship, then engaged, then married.

The cheesy cards, the naked Cupid butts, the hearts… oh god, the hearts. I abhor hearts. Anyone ever notice that the shape kind of looks like a naked Cupid butt? I think they planned it that way.

Yes, that heart butt is disturbing. Isn’t it?

Even when I was a little girl, I was never really into hearts. I didn’t draw them to dot my i’s, and I certainly didn’t buy any heart-shaped jewelry. A high school “boyfriend” once bought me a heart-shaped necklace. I wore it (I mean, come on, the gesture was sweet), but I didn’t enjoy it.

The only kind of hearts I really like are the edible chocolate ones that come in accordion-crinkled paper cups.

But anyway, my (very unoriginal) point is that, not only is V-Day far too commercial, it’s far too forced. It squeezes everyone into a one-size-fits-all heart-shaped box of torment, and I’ll be damned if Kurt Cobain didn’t know exactly what he was talking about when he wrote that song.

So one year, after Justin and I got engaged, I suggested we get each other goofy gifts for V-Day. Since we had an upcoming wedding and honeymoon, there would be more than enough romance to keep us swimming in gag-worthy giggles and meaningful looks and candlelit dinners for the remainder of the year.

In a stroke of what I deemed to be sheer genius (and five years ago, it wasn’t being worn by every other guy you passed on the street), I bought him this shirt: Continue reading 'The Valentine’s Striptease That Almost Broke My Neck'»