My mission to be Hollywood royalty

I've been told more than once that I should "lower my standards and expectations" when it comes to men.

At first, it offended me. I took it as an insult to my looks or personality (hot and sassy) and was wildly confused. However, I was taking this piece of advice all wrong. What they really meant was that my standards and expectations usually fall in one category... CELEBRITY. And, apparently, that is setting the bar too high.

I'd like to take this moment to say thank you for your advice and concern, and you're probably right. But no way, Jose. My ambitions remain as high as ever.

I don't think there is anything wrong with concentrating the majority of my man-catching energy on the one percent of the American population. But for the record, I'll take a European. Mrs. Pattinson has a lovely ring to it.

Truthfully, my romantic history is composed largely of celebrity crushes. Let me break it down for you.

5 years old: Johnny Depp
In 1993, "Benny and Joon" was released. It was that year, I fell in love. Though my frontal lobe was approximately 18 years away from being fully developed, I was positive I would marry him one day. To be honest, my frontal lobe is now fully developed, and I'm still kind of holding out on this one.

8 years old: Patrick Swayze
I don't really know what I was allowed to watch "Dirty Dancing" or if I was actually even allowed, but I watched it and there was no turning back. This movie was and is a huge hit with the women in my family. My cousins and I used to say we were "Patrick Swayze-Crazy". Some things never change. Miss you, boo.

9 years old: Leonardo DiCaprio
"Titanic". No other explanation necessary. I was first in line in 1997, and I'll be first in line in 2012.

10 years old: Devon Sawa
You may not remember this one, but my heart does. You may remember him as Casper after Christina Ricci put him in that machine that made him a real boy for like 30 min, and they kissed? Or maybe in "Wild America" with Jonathan Taylor Thomas (King Heartthrob of the time, but far too mainstream for my eternal hipster attitude). Or you might remember his bare butt in "Now and Then"! It was quite scandalous at the time.

Junior High: N*Sync

Pretty much any member of the band at different intervals over three years. But particularly Lance Bass, who turned out to be gay. Pretty much sums up my life...

High School: The mash-up years
These were the years where I became adept at juggling many celebrity crushes. I realized that I was limiting my potential if I declared my love for only one Hollywood hottie. A girl had to have options! However, these four years were comprised mostly of Adam Brody. Yum.


The above is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my celebrity love life. Just as girls wish to be princesses, I wish to walk down the red carpet at the Oscars while my handsome Hollywood husband shows me off to all of the adoring paparazzi.

You might call me crazy, but don't expect an invitation to my post-Golden Globes soiree.

Crush, crush, crush.

"When you hop on the love train, you are buying a damn ticket to heartbreak. Hell, you're buying a ticket to be run over by the damn thing. More often than not, you are not going to end up in Candyland."-Amber Oldham

I'm not very good at having a "crush". Before you say "What?! Like, omg, everyone is good at having a crush", you should just know that YOU ARE WRONG.

Horribly.

Completely.

Seriously.

WRONG.

Some people are really, really kinda awesome at the whole "crush game". And, apparently, there was a class? Maybe? In elementary? And I friggin' missed it.

Unbeknownst to MOI, a crush does not entail creating an entire alternate universe in your head where everything is hipster and wonderful and totally-Nicholas Sparks minus the inevitable death thing. No. Apparently, it's a little flirting and maybe a couple of emoticon texts. For example: "Hi :)", "XOXO :P", and, of course, the extra-special winky face that is usually just awkward when I attempt to integrate that in my repertoire.

So, to recap, I'm not good at crushes. Another fairly decent explanation as to my ineptitude could be the fact that my crushes are generally directed at three types of guys: The Douchebag, The Clearly-Unattainable Hottie, and, oh yeah, CELEBRITY.

Oh yes, so few people are quite as masterful at convincing themselves that John Krasinski is totally going to leave his beautiful, successful wife for me after our serendipitous encounter at a quaint coffee shop in SoHo. Not that I've thought about it or anything...

And then there's the Unattainable Hottie. And I'm not saying that to fish for a "you're so pretty" compliment because, frankly, duh. I know I'm hot. What I'm talking about is that guy that is seriously so hot it's like he rolls around in burning coals. It's like his face isn't even real! That guy. That's the one I fall for.

Finally, we come to my kryptonite. Douchebag. If there is a jerk in a 20-mile radius, I will sniff him out like a bloodhound, and claim him like Columbus "discovering" America. Which means I will drop some polio on you, skank. That heart breaker is MINE.

Are you beginning to see my point?

Friends say it's because I don't want to get hurt? I don't really count that as a valid argument because I'm not some kind of Twilight-obsessed masochist, and I'm pretty normal in the fact that I don't particularly enjoy having my heart stomped on. Doesn't feel good. Not one bit.

Really, I don't think my problem exists solely in the fact that I'm attracted to all the wrong men. No, I think it has more to do with the ugly, horrible awkwardness that inhabits my body to its core whenever I'm around a guy that I like. If I could paint a picture of what these fun little interactions looked like, I would make millions as the Tarantino of the art world. Weird and just scary. Like conversations about Serta mattresses and frozen dinners. Mmmhmm.

And then there's the obsession thing. And the minor stalking that I just can't seem to control. Yep. That ALL happens inside this sick little mind. I carried a burning torch for Justin Timberlake that seriously almost stood the test of time. I was convinced he was "The One" from about 5th grade through sophomore year. And, to be honest, he could still eat crackers in my bed.

So, there ya go. My dirty little secret. I can't crush. And if you are aware of some training classes, I'd be most appreciative.

Be vewy quiet; I'm hunting... BOYS

November is here. Ahhh, sweet November. These glorious 30 days bring so much wonderment to the world. Including:

-Halloween is over, and they'll finally quit playing that damn Paranormal Activity 3 trailer.
-It's finally socially acceptable to start listening to Christmas music, and I've got my eye on a juicy new She & Him album and, of course, the new Justin Bieber.
-I will spend literally hours snuggling coffee and listening to cute boys play acoustic guitars on YouTube.
-I will write many, many letters to Santa asking for aforementioned boys.

But most importantly, the real showcase of this month, is NO SHAVE NOVEMBER.

Urbandictionary.com defines it as "The month of November in which you don't shave any hair of your body but instead you grow more bestial, brutish, and manly."

I couldn't agree more, but it goes by another name in the Woman World: Man-catching season.

That's right, ladies! Our own official sport has arrived! For one solid month, those lovely male faces will be enhanced with rugged, manly beards and bodies clad in flannel. For 11 months we pine for MEN - not boys. And now, they have arrived.

Thus, this is a month we should all be taking very seriously. As much as we would like to just lounge in Starbucks and watch those precious beards twitch as they pore over their MacBooks and swoon when whipped cream clings to those hair particles above their lip...

Sorry. Sidetracked. Anyway, back to business. Don't get distracted! Many a boy was claimed and lost during this month. Don't fall victim to distraction.

I've been asked the question, "Does No Shave November include girls?"

Yes. If you want to end up without a Christmas cuddlebuddy and spend the holidays gorging your way through sprinkled cookies and spiked eggnog! But if you want to catch you a honey, shave ya damn legs. We have 11 months of the year to slack. This. Is. Not. One. Of. Them.

In fact, just as game-hunters prepare their shotguns and crossbows to take down Bambi's mom, we need to build up our arsenal. Here's what you'll need.

-Man-Catching Clothes. Pull out your best threads. Leave the sweats at home.
-A full social calendar. You won't meet a boy sitting on your couch unless you're into screen names like BigBootyLuvr69.
-New hair, new you. Time to call up that hairdresser. If you're like me, those grays aren't going to lure in the big fish.

What's the last thing you need? Passion. That's right, ladies. Visualize the prize, and go for it. As Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights so adeptly coined, "Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose." As I so adeptly coined, "Go catch you a damn man, ladies."

Go forth and prosper.