Saturday, May 28, 2011

I'm Back (Again)

Dear Internet,

I know what you are thinking, "Oh she's depressed again and when she comes back she's going to tell us about how she's sorry and how she hasn't cleaned her house or answered phone calls in ages.  And how she swears it will be different this time because she'll talk about it, and take her medicine, and do yoga, and all around become a better person, and blah I've freaking heard this crap before blah blah."

Well you're wrong.  I wasn't depressed at all. 

No seems I've solved that little problem and have moved on to what now.  What now that I've graduated grad school?  What now that my money is running out?  What now that my roommate is gone and the whole world is open to me?  What now, Internet?

Answering that question has consumed a considerable amount of my time.  Time that I've spent making lists, and writing resumes and cover letters, and cleaning out my junk drawer.  Because there's really no excuse not to be organized just ask Martha Stewart.

And while I haven't found the answer to that particular what now question, I found a lot of other interesting things as I cleaned out and rearranged my life.  Like my skinny jeans, green smoothies, fantastic friends, my backbone, and my sixth grade diary. 

I promise I'll tell you all about them.  But for now I need to find myself fast asleep.

I love you and I miss you.


Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Stopping the Crazy Train

Dear Internet,

It's 10:30pm on a Wednesday night and I just did the craziest thing.  I got up off the couch.  Put my face on.  Dug through my clothes.  Made a mental note to do laundry.  Settled on something subtly sexy.  Unlocked the door.  Then turned around.  Kicked off my shoes.  And plopped back down on the couch.

I was going out to see a boy.  A man rather.  A man who treated me badly rather, rather.  All because my life is sort of falling apart right now and I'm pre-programmed to beat the hell out of dead horses.   To grasp at straws.  To reorganize the kitchen cabinets.  When shit hits the fan. 

Turns out I'm not the only one.  We're masters of distraction.  Of avoiding pain and seeking pleasure.
We're also hardwired to crave connection.  Love.  Belonging.  And we'll go to great lengths to get it.  Even getting up off our lazy asses in the middle of the night to see a boy.  A man.  A man who treated us badly.

Luckily, I stopped myself before I numbed the chaos with drinks and smiles.  It would have been bad had I walked out that door.  Because sometimes finding connection with others isn't worth losing the connection we have with ourselves.

Love you,

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Decisions, decisions

Dear Internet,

I had an existential crisis in the underwear aisle at Target last night.

Yes, the underwear aisle for those of you who know me well.  For those of you who don't-on any given day there's about a 70% chance I'm not wearing underwear.  What?  This is a blog.  Over sharing and inappropriateness is its raison d'etre.

But back to my crisis.  As I stood and looked at all the choices, I was overwhelmed.  Cotton.  Lace.  Boyshorts.  Thongs.  Too much.  Too little.  Even Goldilocks would have had a hard time figuring out which $5.99 pair was just right.

Part of me is tiny black french whore of a thong.  While another part is most definitely polka dotted cotton brief.  So how do you decide?  In world of so many choices which woman am I?

It's a question I ask myself a lot these days as I'm on the eve of a major transition.  Everything has become an exercise in dichotomous thinking.  Grocery shopping.  Full fat pizza or gluten free, free range, organic lentil soup?  Deciding on jobs.  Over worked career woman or stay at home mom? Putting on my face.  Au natural or painted red lips?  Getting dressed.  Jeans and t-shirt or skirts and fuck me pumps? Dating.  Long term or one night stand? Deciding where to live.  Old country home or apartment in the city?

I get stuck sometimes because I love all those things.  I do yoga religiously but often have one too many glasses of wine.  I own Manolos and Toms.  Cotton and lace.  I contradict myself.  I am large, I contain multitudes. 

So deciding which one is just right is hard because I want it all.  Want them all.  Want a life big enough to hold eating a whole tub of Ben and Jerry's while watching chick flicks in boyshorts.  And eating five star meals in a designer dress, killer heels, and a black thong.

Last night, I bought both pairs of underwear.  I figure I'll decide as I go.

Right now?  I'm not wearing either pair.

I'm hoping one day I'll find someone who adores this about me.  Not just my lack of underwear but my love of so many different things.

For the time being, I appreciate my wonderful friends who laugh and roll their eyes as I stammer out my opus on underwear in the middle of Target's aisles (I'm looking at you, B).  And I'm thankful for you Internet, you're always so good at letting me tell you my most private of things.

Love you all,

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Spring Cleaning

Dear Internet,

I moved my easel to the storage room.  Putting a puja in its place.

Once upon a time ago I was an artist.  Went to art school.  Studied in Paris.  Drew in the Louvre.  Had a nose ring.  Purple hair.  Discussed Les Demoiselles d'Avignon as being a seminal work in the Modern Art movement.  It was who I was.  How I defined myself.  An artist.  Made it easier to be weird.

But then I grew up and life happened.  My sketchbook traded in for a paycheck.  My paints drying up as I slogged to work everyday.  But I kept my easel in a corner of my house.  Passing by it.  Watching as it collected dust.

It was like a crutch I depended on long after my leg healed.  A prop in the corner telling me who I was.  Explaining to people.  Oh that girl-she's a little odd because she's an artist.  It gave me an excuse.  Made things easier.

But as I've evolved.  Grown into an adult.  A graduate student.  A yogini.  A reader.  A writer.  A friend.  A daughter.  A mentor.  A therapist.  A cook.

I realized I didn't need it anymore.  It kept me stuck.  Limited me to this one slim definition of myself.  So I took it out.

And is it scary to get rid of something that for so many years defined me?  Yes.  But my god the space it opened up to become so much more.

What can you get rid of that is no longer serving you?  What spaces can you clean out so something better can come in?


Sunday, March 13, 2011

A Spoon Full of Sugar

Dear Internet,

Sundays have always been melancholy to me.  The ebb of the weekend being over but not quite the full on flow of a new week.  It's a quiet middle time I often spend alone.  Which leads to rumination and navel gazing at times.  Especially when I should be doing something else, like studying for the comprehensive examination I have tomorrow.  But why do that when I can sit and ponder the everyday struggle man must endure?

Which leads me to my own struggle-to take antidepressants or not to take antidepressants...

I come from a long line of depressed and anxious people.  Hippies too.  People who thought if it wasn't bleeding or you weren't dying then you suck it up and get over it (which is funny considering they were all medical professionals).  My mom once refused to take me to the ER when I broke my arm.  Stating that all they were going to do was wrap it and tell us to make an appointment with the orthopedic guy in the morning.  As there was no way he was coming in in the middle of the night just to set a fractured arm.  Plus, it was too swollen anyway.  So, she put an ace bandage around it, fed me four ibuprofen, and sent me to bed.

If a broken arm didn't merit immediate treatment how could my feelings?  Things that don't bleed.  That you can't definitively measure or see or quantify.  So, I suffered.  I dealt with my moods swings.  The crushing sadness.  The heightened anger.  The best ways I could.  Which wasn't good.  I hurt a lot of people (just ask most of my exboyfriends) including myself.

Because swimming in pancake syrup is hard.  You can't see where you're going.  You get no where fast.  And no one is ever strong enough to pluck you out.

Then one day I just gave up.  I'd had enough of the ace bandages and over the counter meds (i.e. alcohol and sex).  I decided that what I had was real and deserved some actual treatment.  So, I started swallowing pills.  And talking about my feelings.  Running.  Committing to my yoga practice.  And eating well.

And just like that it wasn't syrup anymore.  It was water.  Crystal clear water.

Sure it gets choppy sometimes.  And I lose my way.  But it feels a hell of a lot better than what I used to fight against.

Do I sometimes look at that pill and roll my eyes?  Do I want to be able to do this on my own?  Yes.  But I've tried that way and failed.  And isn't life about joy no matter how you find it?  Even if it is in something you have to swallow with a glassful of water everyday?

I promise to be more joyful tomorrow, lovelies.  But I just wanted you to know that it's ok.  Fuck Tom Cruise.  Do whatever it is you have to do in order to have the life you deserve.  And you deserve the best.

I love you all,

Friday, March 11, 2011

#36-Build a circle of dependable, creative, supportive friends, #102-Drink a bottle of Veuve Clicquot

Dear Internet,

I've never been the popular girl.  The one who tosses her perfect hair, and smiles with her perfect teeth, and has a laundry list of perfect friends so long she never gets to the bottom of it.  The one who has twelve bridesmaids at her wedding and was voted most likely to succeed by her sorority. 

No.  I've never been that girl.  I'm more the cool loner girl.  The girl with too many opinions.  Odd clothing.  Even odder music.  And a very small circle of friends.  Apparently because I'm intimating and unapproachable from what my bffs say.

Being that girl, the loner girl, is hard in the south where everyone has Greek letters and "sisters."  Even harder when you come from a long line of perfect women like I do.  Women who all are chairwomen of this and president of that.

That pressure, to be perfect and popular and fit in, is something I've always struggled with.  Wanting simultaneously to be that girl yet hating it and rebelling against it all at the same time.

But having a circle of dependable, creative, supportive friends is something I've wanted.  Longed for.  It's just been hard to find in a city full of people I have little in common with.  Because while I would like to be popular, I'd like to be popular with people I adore who adore me back.

And I finally did it.  It took me 28 years, but looking around the dinner table at my birthday party I realized I had become that girl.  My list might not be a mile long but my friends sure are perfect.

I couldn't help but crack open a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and toast to that.


Monday, February 28, 2011

Excuses, Excuses

Dear Internet,

Raise your hand if you read that article about why you're not married yet.  Yeah I know it's angry.  Funny.  Truthful.  Over the top.  Ridiculous.  Spot on.  I'm not here to argue or rebut or agree.  That's been done very eloquently here and here.

But it is a question I've been pondering lately, especially in light of my recent you're now in your late twenties birthday.  A birthday that here in the South means I might as well go ahead and get cats and sweatpants and live out my life as a spinster.  Because I'm now more likely to get struck by lighting than to get married.

So what happened? How in a culture that celebrates going to college to get your Mrs. degree did I fail at that? 

If I'm honest it is because I've been some of those things Ms. McMillan says.  But it's more than that too.  If I take a look back at my dating history I could have been married several times (The Duke, The Boyfriend, The Musician).  Just to the wrong person.  And I'd take a lifetime of dodging lightening and feeding cats over sharing I do's with someone who is a don't. 

Which brings me to this

Let's just recap the men I've gone out with since finding myself single shall we:
  1. Towel-a man so boring not even I could coax more than a yes no answer out of him.  And I have a history of being able to make friends with a signpost.
  2. Indian Man-he was already married, to his job.  And I didn't appreciate only meaning something to him once a week between the hours of 5 and 7.
  3. Old Guy-he jerked me around so much I had knots in my stomach at all times.  Not to mention that thing with the brownies and the note.
  4. Paramedic John-he thought what I did was hooey.  "People should just get over their stuff."
  5. The US Attorney-tattoos and indie rock were too counter culture for him.  He wanted J. Crew and a W sticker on a SUV.
  6. Steven Number Three-his job was training to be an ultimate fighter.  I'm democrat.  It would have never worked.
  7. Toy Story Three-he "REALLY liked me" but you know "wanted to see other girls too."
  8. The Psych Professor-his hair was longer than mine and he was getting ready to go on sabbatical to Holland.  I don't speak Dutch.
Not to mention the countless others I've turned down because they:
  1. Sent me a seven point outline of what they wanted to do to my shoes.
  2. Told me I was unoriginal and unstable.
  3. Talked in rhyming couplets.
  4. Lived halfway around the world.
  5. Or were otherwise rude, crude, uninteresting, or not at all my type.
So see, Internet, I've tried.  And yes, I've been a bitch, shallow, a slut, a liar, selfish, and not good enough.  But they have too.  Because we're all human.  And that happens sometimes. 

But what I'm looking for accepts that and sees past it.  And that's something I'm willing to wait for.  Because in the meantime I've found it in myself, my friends, my job.  My life.  I hope you have too.


Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Joy in Packages: Lust Edition

Dear Internet,

These are somethings that have made me very happy lately even if I only get to look at them from a far...
  1. Put this dress on.  Gather up your girlfriends.  Dance all night.
  2. Every girl needs to feel a little like Barbie sometimes.  Even though we all know you're waaay prettier than she could ever be.
  3. A perfect bag to lose your sunglasses in.
  4. Paris.  Food.  Love.  Enough said.
  5. The Red comes highly recommended by a fabulous gay man.  And who am I to argue with that?  Plus it makes jeans and a t-shirt so much classier.
  6. Track 7 is particularly delightful.

Finding Joy

Dear Internet,

There's a line in the poem that inspired this blog that I often overlook-"At times Joy is elusive-she seems to disappear even as we approach her."

Joy has been elusive for me these past couple of weeks.  And I've been hesitant to write about it because this blog is supposed to be about the good things.  The wonder.  The happiness.  The joy.

But that lack.  That slipping through my fingers.  Is just as much a part of my journey as the times when I'm, "in love with life, all of it, the sun and the rain and the rainbow."

But I tend to think you won't like me.  Or you'll stop reading me.  If I tell you about the rain.  What I forget is that sometimes it's the rain that connects us the most.  Gives us permission to fall apart a little.  Cry.  Scream.  And be ok about that.  Because maybe if I am brave enough to tell you about how I fell out of joy.  How I didn't take down my Christmas tree until February.  Or wash dishes for a month.  Or ignored phone calls.  Or wrestled with whether I should go back on my anti-depressants.  You'll feel a little less alone.  And joy can come back in somewhere for someone.

And really isn't that what this is all about?

So, Internet, I had a shitty month.  It happens sometimes.  But, thankfully, Joy, "wait[s] for us.  Her desire to walk with us is as great as our longing to accompany her."

If she's left you, know that you'll find her again too.  And in the meantime, we'll all be here waiting and cheering you on while you find your way back.


Thursday, February 17, 2011

Blushing and Bashful

Dear Internet,

Wow!  For the first time in a long time I'm speechless.  I'm rarely speechless.  I have red hair and a voice you can hear over ambulance sirens.  Quiet isn't something I often do.

But being mentioned by Maggie just floors me.  I don't know what to say.  Because I'm just going to go ahead and put it out there-that woman amazes me.  Girl crush doesn't even begin to describe it.  I admire her and the things she does for other women.  She's incredible.  And to have her link me.  And to have all you click over here.  Well that just tickles me pink.

Had I known you were coming I would have freshened up, made some sweet tea, and put out some snacks.  But my apology for not being prepared will have to do.  

I love you Internet.  And I love all the good things you do.  You're the greatest.


Making My Way Back

Dear Internet,

I had a Christmas tree in my living until last Sunday.  That's right.  A Christmas tree. 

Turns out I was depressed again.  Not debilitating.  Straight-jacket.  Kill myself depressed. That would be too easy.  I could just be committed and get it over with.

But no, what I struggle with is much more subtle than that.  A pull the covers over my head.  Hide.  Cry about commercials depressed.  A depressed that masquerades as being tired and cranky and a burnt out graduate student.

A depressed that I don't even notice until a friend comes over and says, "Why the fuck is your Christmas tree still up?"  And then suddenly all the avoiding phone calls, huffy exchanges with my colleagues, disaster of a house, and excessive Sex and City watching makes sense. 

Oh right.  This.  Again.

And then I have to dig myself out.  Wash the weeks old dirty dishes.  Hang up the clothes.  Call everyone back.

Take down the fucking Christmas tree.

Tell you I missed you and that I'll be back soon.


Sunday, January 30, 2011

Helpful Hints

Dear Internet,

Let's talk about sex, baby grammar, puncuation, and appropriateness.  Which in my book gets you one step closer to sex because it turns me on when a man can string two sentences together and is polite enough to use spell check.  And I don't think I'm alone in this.  So here are some helpful hints for those of you who online date like I do:

  1. If you reread your email before sending it and the words, "I'm a poet and I didn't know it," come to mind you should hit delete and start over.  You might find your ability to rhyme lass with something other than ass charming but chances are all you're going to get is laughs.  And not in that with you but at you way.  Not the first impression you want to make.
  2. Fishin.  Hutin.  Readin.  Are not words.  Go ahead and add that G at the end.  It makes you seem more sophisticated.  In fact, let's just go ahead and spell all words correctly.  If you have any questions about that there's a friendly little helper you can use-spell check.
  3. Are you on adult friend finder?  Ok, then send that seven point outline of what you want to do to her shoes.  If you're not then keep that one to yourself until you're a couple dates in.  Fantasies, desires, wants, fetishes, are not appropriate topics to lead with.  If I wanted to be hit on like that I'd just wear a low cut top and go to a bar.  But part of why I pay for a profile is so I don't have to deal with creeps like you.  Keep it somewhat classy until I get to know you a little better.  Then feel free to let your freak flag fly as high as you want. 
  4. Do not use your profile to vent about your ex.  We've all had bad breakups but we're here now trying to find our match.  Let it go.  And if you can't then maybe you should take your profile down until you can. Because that tirade you went on about cheating makes you seem like a crazy person.  And crazy people don't easily get dates.
  5. Post a picture.  Answer all the questions.  The truth is going to come out eventually anyway.  Might as well just find the courage to be up front.  Saves a lot of time and heart break in the long run.  Plus, it's better assurance that you aren't trying to hide a third eye or serial killer past.  And if you want to meet in person I've got to feel like you're safe.  Knowing what you look like helps with that.
And yes these are all based on real life experiences.  I'll have to tell you about them sometime because aside from being kinda sad they are funny.

What did I leave out?


Saturday, January 22, 2011

I am a Woman, Hear me Bitch

Dear Internet,

If you know me from my previous blog and I know some of you do.  I see my stats.  My referring sites.  Then you know over there I was pretty open and blunt about my dating life.  Maybe even a little too confessional.  Here I've really tried to rein that in.  Out of respect for the other involved parties.  For privacy. Discretion.  And a myriad of other moral ideals.  But I'm having a hard time keeping my mouth shut because some pretty craptastic things have happened to me recently in that area of my life.  Things that have made me pretty disgruntled.  Disenchanted.  Depressed.  About modern dating.

This study only added fuel to that fire.  Really, girls?  Really, boys?  Frivolous sex and porn.  That's what I'm competing against?

Sometimes I hate the feminist movement.  Can't stand Sex and the City.  Am annoyed by MTV.  Because part of what they've all tried to tell us is that modern women should behave like men.  Should have multiple sexual partners at once.  Should do sex without love and commitment.  And that if we don't.  If we can't.  Then we're weak.  Then something is wrong with us.  And I'm not sure I'm ok with that.

To me feminism is not about denying female qualities in favor of more stereotypical males ones.  It's about being a woman.  Reveling in that.  Delighting in that.  Celebrating it.  Because it's a hell of a lot different than being a man, but it's just as valid.  And I shouldn't have to down play my nature to be considered equal.

Different can be equal.  It just takes more work.

And I think we do that work a great disservice when we try to pretend love, and relationships, and marriage isn't important to us.  When we try to be one of the boys.  Because really that's not how we are wired.  And if you don't believe me just read this book.

I don't think it's less than to want.  To desire.  To expect.  Commitment.  Love.  Devotion.  A house.  A picket fence.  And 2.1 children. 

I think it's less than to settle for less than.  To give it up when what you really want is love.  To be ok letting a guy be in when it's convenient for him.  But out when it's not.

And sure I'm more than this.  I have an education (a damn good one).  And a career.  And talents.  And hobbies.  And some of you are ok with the frivolous sex.  Or don't want the children.  And that's fine.

But to me a full life is sharing.  Is being caught.  Because I'm a damn good catch. 

And it takes a hell of a lot of courage to admit that.  To say-not only do I want to be loved.  But I fucking deserve it.  And I won't act like I don't just so you'll sleep with me.  I'm better than that.  And worthy of more.

But those are just my two very angry cents.  I know you have your own.  And I love that.  Because that's what equal is about.  Letting people be different and being ok with that.


Saturday, January 15, 2011

Holding Up My End of the Deal

Dear Internet,

I'll never forget when I rounded the corner and saw you standing there flipping through the racks of sheets.  It was the prettiest I'd ever seen you.  You looked happy.  Comfortable.  Something that hadn't happened in months.

You smiled when you saw my face.  Said you knew it was me because of the way I walked.  You showed me your freshly painted nails and new wig.  Then made me tell you which ones I thought best matched the curtains.  Would be the softest.  Because you couldn't stand the idea of cheap and scratchy being the last thing you felt.

You laughed and joked.  And told the checkout girl when she complimented your hair, "It's a wig, but Lord knows I paid enough for it I'm calling it my own."  

I remember that day because I was able to briefly forget.  You weren't a woman with cancer.  You weren't dying then.  You were just someone shopping on a random Tuesday in June.  Someone buying toilet paper and dog food.  Like regular people do.

You would have been 57 today.  So, I bought a cake and made some chicken salad.  I'll watch To Gillian on her 37th Birthday tonight.  And I'll whisper to you-Do I tell you enough?  Do I tell you too much?

And I'll wish you were still here so I could tell you at all.  So, I could meet you at Target and pick out new dishes.  Or buy deodorant and shampoo.


Thursday, January 13, 2011

Lyrics I Like: The Decemberists

Dear Internet,

It happens to me all the time but I'm always amazed when it does.  When the perfect thing I need drops right into my lap.  This album is that for me right now.  This year hasn't exactly gotten off to the best start and blasting this on repeat has helped.

Songs I particularly love because of their relevant lyrics:
  • Don't Carry it All- "...and you must bear your neighbor's burden within reason/and your labors will be born when all is done/and nobody nobody knows/let the yoke fall from our shoulders/don’t carry it all don’t carry it all..."
  • Rise to Me-"...I am going to stand my ground/you rise to me/It will blow you down/I'm going to stand my ground..."
  • January Hymn-"...maybe I should just let it be/and maybe it will all come back to me..."
You should listen to it.


Tuesday, January 11, 2011

How to Fight Fair

Dear Internet,

Sometimes you get your panties in a wad.  Steam comes out of your ears.  Your blood boils.  You spit nails.  Other times you have to deal with someone else's steam, or blood, or spit.  But you don't have to be uncouth when you find yourself foaming at the mouth.

Here are some rules I try to follow when there's heat under a collar:
  1. Everyone just really wants to be heard.  So, zip your lips, nod your head, and give it a go.  When you can hear what's under the screaming you're more likely to be nice.  And no one can resist you when you're being charming.
  2. But try not to scream.  Take a deep breath.  Walk around the block.  Punch a pillow.  And bring it down a decibel.  You're much more becoming when you aren't so red.
  3. Don't bring up that one time, when he did that one thing.  True ladies really do forgive and forget.  So just stick to the issue at hand.
  4. As much as you want to call him a good for nothing scoundrel no good can come of that.  Bite your tongue and keep your swear words to yourself.
  5. If you get stuck say-I feel....when.... or go for broke and offer up an I'm sorry for...
  6. Lastly, a well timed joke or cute observation can do wonders for the conversation.  But be careful about how you play this one, ladies.
What did I leave out?


Monday, January 10, 2011

A Musical Time Line of My Love

Dear Internet,

There are some songs that are so intrinsically linked to the men I've loved I can't hear them without gasping...

The Southern Gentleman
He was captain of the soccer team.  Tan.  And beautiful.  He sailed and swam and I thought we'd get married and have two little girls.

We went to the river, to the beach, cooked dinners, drank beer.  It was easy and we were young.

He thought this song was perfect for me.  It became our joke.  Something he would sing to me while smiling because I was reckless and he was safe and that fascinated him.  Like striking a match just to watch it burn.

Meet Virginia-Train

But it couldn't last.  We were just kids after all.  Shortly after he went off to college, he broke up with me.  I listened to this and cried myself to sleep.


The Writer
He wore black turtlenecks and horned rimmed glasses.  We discussed Kerouac over red wine.  We dreamed of leaving our families.  Of breaking the rules.  Living off the land.  And growing old together.  It was tumultuous and passionate and full of fights. They way we thought artists should love.

When it was good he said he was going to sing this to me at our wedding.

Crazy Love-Van Morrison

When it went bad, I curled up in bed and listened to this album on repeat.  Specifically this song.  Because the irony that I was actually a painter was not lost on me.

Painter Song-Norah Jones

The Fling, The RA, and various other unnamed sins
They were brief.  And uncommitted.  Fueled by alcohol and late nights.  Mostly fun until they weren't. 

Do You Realize-The Flaming Lips

All is Full of Love-Bjork

Forty Days and Forty Fights-Badly Drawn Boy

Blind Love-Tom Waits

They all ended as such things do.  And when they did, they were only worthy of a few tears and my classic "breakup" song.  I usually played it for the week because by the weekend there was always someone new to briefly love.

Untouchable Face-Ani DiFranco

The Boyfriend
He was the first significantly older man I'd ever dated.  He had curly gray hair and wore trousers.  My parents did not approve.

He drank too much, yelled too much, made love to me too much.  He took me out dancing and to the country club.  We had little in common and rarely ever really talked.  But we were content with convenience and lust.  And for awhile, it was enough.

He'd wake up early, put this album on, and piddle around the house while I half slept tangled in his sheets.  And as the sunlight laid across my bare shoulders, I'd watch him through the cracked door humming and happy.

The King of Carrot Flowers, Part One-Neutral Milk Hotel

When he started talking about marriage I packed my stuff.  And while I knew it was for the best, I still mourned him.  But only when driving around in my car.

Samson-Regina Spektor

The Duke
I loved him.  There was going to be a ring.  Then all that changed when I had to leave Paris and care for my dying mother.  Our relationship and its ending much too complex for only a few sentences.

But lying in bed, looking at the Eiffel Tower, he would whisper this album to me.  I would smile and giggle and hold his face in my hands.  Content I'd found my one.

Surfing on a Rocket-Air

When we met our tragic end-and it was tragic-there was no music.  Only the sounds of beeping hospital machines, burning cigarettes, and desperate transatlantic phone calls.  Nothing was big enough to hold my grief.  

The Musician
It was good.  It was bad.  It was too long.

But when he first heard this song, he cried and hugged me.  And for a moment I really believed that he loved me.

Paris 2004-Peter, Bjorn, and John

When I woke up in the middle of the night and kicked him out, I didn't mourn.  I went out dancing.


The Old Guy
I've written about this before.

It started big and quick.  I thought I'd found another one.  Because he lit me up just like The Duke did.  We wrote each other love notes and stayed up texting.  He took care of me when I was sick.  And kissed me in all the right places.  We made plans.  I thought about being his wife.

He said this song made him think of what seeing New York with me would be like.

Taxi Cab-Vampire Weekend

After he left me brownies and a note basically saying-I can't, don't hate me-I cried in the shower to this song because I felt like I really had wasted my (second) chances at true love.

We Dreamt of Houses-The Awkward Stage

Do you have songs like this?  Ones that punch you in the stomach with remembering?  What are they?


Sunday, January 9, 2011

#112-Buy a Dyson

Dear Internet,

It's sleek.  It's expensive.  It's been in museums.  And no I'm not talking about Anna Wintour's sunglasses.  I'm talking about every hipster's wet dream-the Dyson vacuum cleaner. 

For a long time I thought it was the only redeeming part of having to register for wedding gifts and something it'd take me years to obtain.  But it turns out when you have a dead mother and a father who shows his love through extravagant Christmas gifts, you don't need a ring.

Just the balls to ask for the 500 hundred dollar thing.  So, I did.  And come Christmas day Santa delivered.  And I started cleaning.  It's been two weeks and I haven't stopped.  Because what they say is true.  This vacuum is the bee's knees.  The cat's meow.  The dog's bollocks.

And getting it got me one item closer to completing my life list.

Cheers to that.  And being able to vacuum the dog.

This year is going to be so clean.