When we first got together, nearly ten years ago, my husband said something in Italian that not only had me way beyond “Hello” but was the equivalent of: “Let’s always bring each other flowers!” And for the most part we have. Lately, however, I think I’ve been bringing him dead roses. I’m not sure when I started with the first thorn and it really doesn’t matter. What matters is I again bring him “flowers”.

You might think this sounds corny (cue that sappy Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand duet) but the truth is those little things, those “flowers,” help make any bad stuff palatable. A fresh cup of coffee in bed each morning (he brings me one). Refraining from sounding like the Peanuts teacher (me), although, if accomplished, this would be the equivalent of bringing him the whole garden. But you get my point.

After any long-term relationship (and these days I think it’s safe to say five years or more) it’s so easy to take each other for granted, and neglect to do simple, romantic gestures (a quick, personal note or a leg massage after a grueling ride – he’s a cyclist); I used to do this. So what happened? Complacency? Familiarity finally bred contempt? I’m not really sure but it’s time for more flowers.

And so, in 2012, I’m shooting for 80 percent flowers/20 percent weeds. Hey, no one’s perfect. I’m just thinking more flowers, fewer weeds and who knows … Four-leaf clover?

On some subconscious level I still believe in unicorns.  No one who sobs through the last 15 minutes of “Elf,” at the sheer power of the Christmas spirit or reads the entire Harry Potter series start to finish only to start back at the beginning again has truly given up believing in magic.  And for that reason I still believe in love.  Like other magical things, though, it stays hidden away.  More fabled than witnessed in dating lore, we long to believe in it because we’ve heard the stories so many times we just can’t admit they might not be real.

It takes a certain amount of faith to believe not only in the idea of happily ever after, but in true love at all.  It’s probably how the term, ‘the one that got away,’ came into circulation.  After many failed relationships, broken hearts, or just bad dates, it’s at least comforting to look back with rose tinted lenses and imagine that although we don’t have love now, we at least had it once upon a time.  The dating scene is grim; at least it is in LA.  There are a lot of funny, intelligent, talented people who prefer to say, ‘f#@%,’ instead of, ‘make love,’ who see commitment as a threat to their personal success and intimacy as a blow to their hipster cover.  These people may weep through “Elf” in the privacy of their own homes.  But I doubt it.

Even relationships have lost their sense of wonder.  I used to look at happy couples as if inside a snow globe; happy, safe, and separate from the mess of the rest of us single wanderers on the outside.  But the snow globe always seems to spring a leak.  No one turns out to be as happy as they seem.  People harbor long resentments, or cheat, or roll their eyes too often, or just decide they’re done.  And maybe that’s just human nature.  Marriage itself is an old-fashioned notion, binding two people together so that no one had to face the world alone, especially women who couldn’t work or make decisions.  All that’s changed but marriage has stuck around.  Is it even necessary anymore?

Maybe it’s the magic that trips us up.  If everyone’s secretly waiting for that person who glows, for whom the music rises and the crowd blurs, who makes them speak the line in every romantic movie from the 90?s, “You feel like home,” then of course they’re going to keep the rest of the hopefuls at arm’s length.  They’ll keep that hip, ironic distance while their heart lives alone in a jar in a tower, like the rose in Beauty and the Beast.  And they’ll never know that the stories about love and magic were written by other people who couldn’t find it either.

When you break it down to a formula, romance is nothing more than mood lighting, soft music, and two people who somehow remind each other of a time when they believed in castles, giants, fairies, Santa Claus, magic, and love.  We’re all peering into each other’s eyes to see magic, but really looking for that person who used to believe in it.

by Erin Whitehead from Erin’s (Not So) Online Dating Files via OnlineDatingSites.net

And I’m not just talking about the things we’re talking about. While I don’t think we need to go all Victorian or completely Ward and June Cleaver, a little modesty and decorum in a coupledom might be nice.

Maybe some of you already exercise these two qualities. I know a lot of people who don’t (guilty!). Do you really want to see the man or woman you love flossing? On the throne? Flossing while on the throne?

Many advocate separate bathrooms. But what if you don’t have the luxury? Three words. Lock the door.

Think your man is in a rush to offer you those bedroom eyes after witnessing a “that time of the month” exercise? Think your woman wants to rock your world after hearing a million tiny (and some not so) explosions from various orifices?

In the media letting it all hang out and then some seems to be the rage. But in our zeal to be unconditionally “real,” I think we know and have seen too much.

There’s a reason the book is usually better than the movie. Imagination!

Sure, June and Ward appeared stuffy (I mean, really, high heels and pearls, dress shirt and tie for a regular weeknight dinner) but once they got behind closed doors I bet they sizzled. Or at least I’d like to think they did.

But could you really imagine sizzle if this were their dinner table scene? June: “Ward, please pass the … (gassss) oops! Sorry dear.”

I don’t know about you but I doubt Ward would be interested in seeing the Beaver anytime soon.

Oops, did I say too much?

By Pharyl Ilysha Weiner from TheLoveConsultants.com

The only thing worse than trying to find a guy at a bar is dealing with other women doing the same thing.

It was a typical Saturday night in New York City – my friend and I had decided to trek down to Russia (AKA the Lower East Side) and steer clear of the Danger Zone (AKA the blocks where we’re likely to see old, burnt out flames). Although we had been insulted by our cab driver when he asked if we were from Long Island, the night seemed promising as we rolled up to a country bar in our yellow Medallion cab. After confronting a man trying to cut the line and get inside – he allegedly thought the people in a single file, twenty-person line leading from the door were smokers – she and I walked into what would soon seem like a reality death match.

I’ll admit she and I go to this bar for two reasons: the country music and the favorable male to female ratio. It’s a sausage fest, and any woman who has ever been there knows it. Men congregate in groups of five, and we all know how impossible it is to overlook good looking men when they come in multiples. Sigh. Anyways, on this particular night, she and I didn’t go to the bar with the intention of meeting anyone. Despite some specimens that made initiating conversation tempting, we refrained but not by choice – by force.

The smell of beer and “Lose Your Love” playing in the background must have made other women forget that they were adults and not college sophomores because they acted all of nineteen. Since when are death stares to total strangers appropriate? And when did purposely elbowing people as you walk become acceptable? My friend and I were being attacked – attacked by other women who were desperate for some loving. It was an unfair battle – she was in stilettos and I just wanted the DJ to play Pat Green.

As I downed one seltzer and lime after another, and she her cranberry vodkas with a splash of pineapple, women ambushed us, “casually” pushing, clearly staring at, and blatantly talking to their friends about us. Women scrutinized us from across the room. It was unbelievable! I’m sorry, woman in the black halter top showing way too much boob, if you felt like the guy wearing the orange hat and blue button down was the man of your dreams, why didn’t you get off your chair, cross the room, and say something eloquent – like “hi?” Seeing as how you decided to wait for him to notice you in the hundred-twenty seven person crowd, I’m allowed to ask him for a napkin without you shooting laser beams at my head.

Ugh, women.

At one point, I feared three women were going to intentionally spill drinks on my fabulous camel-colored, Coach boots to mark their territory. They were capable. Seeing as how I avoid situations where women act as catty as humanly possible, I decided it was time to leave the bar and keep my outfit in check – none of the guys were worth taking one to the boot for anyways.

The night got me thinking though, why are women so awful to each other? Are women naturally that evil? Um…I should say no, but yes, some of them are. For the most part, dating induced competition is behind the cloud in judgment that turns daddy’s girls into Satan’s girls. Apparently, one Matthew McConaughey look-a-like is enough to make a woman come out swinging. I know we’re all fighting over a limited population of men, but really? Put down your boxing gloves, buy your drink, and have a good night. I repeat, put down the gloves. If you’re meant to meet your future husband after he gets off the mechanical bull, there’s nothing I, nor any woman, can do to stand in your way of eternal happiness with Cowboy Roy.

The foolproof way men are now picking up women at the gym.

I don’t go to the gym to prance around in black spandex and a lime green sports bra, trying to get the attention of every bandana wearing man at my gym. I go to the gym to work out and sweat so hard that even I wouldn’t want to sleep with me. It’s not a time for awkwardness or self-consciousness, and although I’ve been known to have some conversations with men I find completely unattractive (they’re safe), it’s not a time for dialogue. To me, it’s a time where I think about how I plan to look in a bikini four months from now, glance a bit too long at specific male representatives using the cable weights, and mind my own business.

Apparently, not everyone chooses to follow my master plan.

While listening (and maybe lip singing) to “More Than A Feeling” on the stair climber the other day, I was accosted. I mean it – accosted by a man old enough to dine with my parents – sorry, mom. He swaggered up to my machine as I tried to face front, but after ten seconds, I couldn’t ignore the staring man to my left. Removing my headphones was the first mistake, which was immediately followed by the second: engaging in conversation. I was naïve to think he wanted to talk about anything other than my plan for the evening. It took him nine flights of stairs to ask me out, which roughly equated to three songs I could have enjoyed instead of being forced into conversation.

Although I’m fully aware that men pick up women at the gym, I’ve never been approached in the midst of a workout. I was flattered by the gesture, amused by the man’s confidence, and completely taken back because I couldn’t use any of the defense mechanisms I typically use when approached by an unsolicited suitor. Think about it. When a woman is approached at a bar or on the street, she automatically has three excuses to use when blowing off a man.

She can pretend to get text or phone call, stare at the phone, and pretend something incredibly important is happening.

She can pull a White Rabbit and be late for a very important date.

She can ignore the man altogether, act like she didn’t hear him speak to her, and keep walking.

I’m not proud of women for using these excuses, but we do – all the time. I thought we could use at least one of the three in any situation, but this little gym incident has proved otherwise. When a woman is working out, she is completely stripped of her typical diversion strategies.

She doesn’t keep her phone with her, so she can’t pretend to get a phone call or be reading/drafting something.

She can’t pretend to be late for anything because she obviously set aside time to be at the gym.

She can’t get off the machine and walk away, pretending not to notice the man is standing next to her.

This got me thinking – for men, picking up women while they’re working out is the perfect plan. We’re stranded, and they’re guaranteed to have our attention. It’s genius!

Most first meeting scenarios give men a limited time to sell themselves to any woman. A man can barely say “hi” as he passes a woman on a crowded street corner let alone engage in any kind of conversation. Yet, when he approaches a woman working out, it’s an entirely different story. She’s not getting off the machine until she’s reached her allotted calorie burn. That can give him up to an hour to win her over. An hour! I may not be a fan of getting trapped on the treadmill or bombarded on the bike, but even I can’t deny the brilliance of this strategy.

In this instance, however, the mastermind behind this tactical approach couldn’t get me to accept his “late night” invitation. He finally got the hint that I wasn’t interested when I claimed to be free spirited and have no idea where I’d be in the next fifteen minutes, let alone in five hours. What can I say? A girl has to have standards.

By Pharyl Ilysha Weiner, via The Love Consultants