Sunday, September 17, 2006

hahahahahhahaha.....

SO.... remember that crazy, psycho love thing?

it took.

i'm engaged! i am about to become a MRS, complete with name change, which is absolutely hilarious if you knew me when.

but whenever i think about this, it brings me peace. i love waking up next to him. i love standing in the kitchen with him. i love the silly bits, and the angry bits, and the ugly bits. everything in my life is deeper and richer because i get to share it with this person.

HELLS, YEAH!

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

be careful what you wish for

i bitched about "safe sex" right before i got blown out of my skin by the world's wickedest romance.

it's wild. i love this man so much that he's part of my breath. every moment of my day is full of him.

and how do you handle that? when you just want to do nothing all day but breathe his breath, how do you find space for your life? learning that is like learning to walk again.

mmm. crazy, psycho love. ain't it grand?

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

safe sex

i am entirely frustrated with the seductions of today. what seductions? everyone is so macho about it: “fuck buddies,” “friends with benefits.” what is that about? i am looking for one set of qualities in a friend or a buddy, and an entirely different set in a lover.

let’s be clear here: there are completely different allowances you make for friends than for lovers. your friend can bum around with you, looking nasty, mooching your cigarettes, and generally being socially unacceptable. in a friend, this is charming. you don’t have to observe the niceties with each other—you’re friends. in a lover, this would be incredibly annoying. it might even be grounds for breaking up… except that, of course, you’re not in a relationship.

a lover is in your life for one purpose alone: to get you off. where people go wrong is in supposing that this task is accomplished entirely in the bedroom. sex happens in the imagination. sex is all about testing your limits—finding out what thrills you. emotions, big emotions, are part of that.

these days, we’re all interested in safe sex—not just with condoms and birth control (which are great human developments), but with emotional safety (which is not). nobody falls in love screaming anymore. quit being such chickenshits! of course you’re not going to stay in love. of course it’s going to hurt to be rejected or to wake up and find that your Prince Charming has turned back into a frog. that’s the price you pay to ride.

before you take someone into your bed, you let them under your skin.

Saturday, December 18, 2004

hell really is other people. salut, jean paul.

what is it about the world that makes us so desperate to cling to others, and so desperate not to be clung to? in a perfect universe, we would be crystalline, in perfectly distanced linked structures, infinite in their variety and complexity. as it is, we’re some sort of primordial social ooze, flowing messily over and around each other. is it any wonder nobody wants that shit sticking to their shoes?

and yet we fear loneliness so much. what do we seem like, wandering frantically from the door to the lamp and back again, locking and unlocking the latch and flicking the light? we’re moths without the pretty wings.

what is the solution? cigarettes. a light in the darkness, a barrier and an invitation. got a light? puff of smoke in your face. get back. have a drag, pass it back and forth. closer. cough. and it’s out.

alcohol. at the bottom of a bottle, you can say anything. a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s … bullshit. just take another shot and it will all make sense. camaraderie. over in the morning. separated safely by the vast gulf of a hangover.

a computer. tag, you’re it. email/blog/messageboard/handle can’t get a handle on me, can you? logoff.

when is the day that i will look someone in the eye without wishing for dark glasses?

Sunday, December 05, 2004

god, i love making up email names!

i'm not going to have children, just email accounts. when you name your children, you have to stop at mary, john, or the universal chris. otherwise they'll get beat up on the playground (sorry, apple.) but with email accounts... oh, my goodness, the possibilities are endless!

there are the mary, john, chris names of the internet, god knows: kitten123456, princ3ss487, d00m92, whatever. (anything with a number in it or after it is the internet equivalent of tom, dick, or harry.) but you're not limited by the number names. you can go wackyfluffybutternuts! (that name, bizarrely enough, requires a number after it on hotmail. somebody email the original wacky and tell him/her congratulations.)

naming your email account is a big decision-- at least as big as naming a child. i mean, these days, your internet address is the first piece of contact information you give people. do you want el hottie in the bar to wake up in the morning and wonder what the hell ghb1141 is and who the hell wrote it on his palm? (and how he's going to get the corresponding backwards rendition off his face before work...?) on the other hand, do you really want your business card to have 4agoodtime@callme.com printed in the bottom left corner? it's all about context.

everyone has several email addresses in their lives, for several purposes. (sort of like, when you were a little kid, you had several barbies... Malibu Barbie, Prom Barbie, etc.) your email addresses should reflect their purposes-- don't give your Malibu Email to someone who's looking for Astronaut Barbie. or something like that. you get it.

so, i think there may be a huge market in email name books. i mean, come on, there are a jillion baby name books out there, and please-- there are apparently only about 10 acceptable baby names on the planet: Katharine, John, Mark, Ashley, etc. at least, nobody ever names their kid anything else. and if you're lucky, you'll only need to pick a baby name once or twice in your life. (if you've already worked your way through the C's on your way to Zoe and Zed, please stop. the planet's crowded.)

email names, on the other hand, are endlessly and culturally-acceptably variable, and you will need many of them throughout your cyber-life. so, i've decided that an email name book would be a great little toy.

here's a sample. i think this will eventually be the section on Email Names Mocking Pop Culture (pass them out at smoky hipster bars and gallery openings):

betterthanbrando (i'm already using this one, but ain't it cool? muah!)
sophietuckerlives
whokilledmarylin (or) monroestrikesback
emmagoldmansrazor
trudywasapoet
toklasbrownies
kissingdylanthomas
schroedingersgerbil
poorpoorhemingway
dancingwithclara

and the list goes on...


Tuesday, November 30, 2004

girl power redux

So I’ve been spending a lot of time reading girl-power self-help books lately. Not grrl-power; girl power, the kind spelled with pink type. This movement definitely has a central theme: You are a FABULOUS sister-princess-diva-kitten-goddess-bitch (with a heart over the i) and you should clearly paint your nails, go Shopping, and manipulate the hell out of every man in sight because after all, that’s what they’re there for, honey darlin shugah pie.

You’ve got to admit, there’s something great about world domination, Barbie-style. I love the idea of Machiavelli as a sweater girl. But, after many long nights experimenting with bubble bath and pink lipstick, I have come to the conclusion that the powder puff path to power is not for me.

I am going to start my own girl-centric self-help movement. Instead of being a Sister-Princess-Diva-Kitten-Goddess-Bitch (with a heart over the i), I believe I’ll be a Maiden-Aunt-Dowager-Duchess-Valkyrie- Lady-With-All-Those-Cats-Goddess-Bitch (no heart; I think the extra hyphens make up for it). I haven’t decided whether to be FABULOUS yet or not. I’m really looking for something less verbal-sequins and more comfy. Maybe frumptastic would look good in all caps….

As a FRUMPTASTIC Mai- damn, that title is really unnecessarily involved, isn’t it? As a Frump Queen, your life will be gravy. Frump Queens are exempt from all personal grooming except the clean stuff and the fun stuff: you can paint your nails if you want, but you never have to shave. Frump Queens don’t have to Shop, worrying about sizes and styles. We stick to buying snarky T-shirts off CafePress and blowing paychecks at Half Price Books. Frump Queens really don’t give a shit about manipulating men; just talking to them is much less work. The only things a Frump Queen needs to manipulate are a corkscrew and a dildo.

I am just now codifying the basic tenets of Frump Queendom, but I am not its founding mother. Oh, no. I boldly go where many lovely ladies have gone before. Consider Sophie Tucker, Moms Mabley, Katharine Hepburn, Dorothy Parker, Gertrude Stein. As you can see, Frumpdom is not a state of dishabille, it’s a state of mind. The point is not to be unglamorous, but to be cool as shit whether you’ve got your makeup on or not. You don’t have to sparkle, you don’t have to smile. You can spend five days in your pajamas and still throw a helluva party on day six. You can be exactly as powerful and perfect in your brother’s old sweatpants, talking dirty politics, as you are in your mom’s pearl earrings, talking about how you’re “not really a feminist.” And while last night’s hot date was probably kickass, you can choose to stay home tonight with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and a bottle of Monopolowxczyws, and you’ll still be sexy. It’s all good.

Join me, ladies! Throw off the tyranny of the drugstore beauty-aisle and quit worrying about how to get a man, get ahead, or get a buck. Just sit back and do what you feel like doing, and it’ll all come together. Break out the fuzzy slippers and let the revolution begin!

Friday, October 15, 2004

Action, reaction, action. Life on the inhale is a constant tickle of adrenalin that makes your ribs hurt and your spine ache. Exhale... slow, treacherous descent into melancholy stasis. s u f f o c a t ***** HA! I knew I was forgetting something. And round and round she goes.

In the moments between the end of the exhale and the beginning of the inhale, you can get lost. The moment at the end of every exhale is like a minute-by-minute reminder that we really don't know what the hell we're here for or what all this tangled-up grunting in between born and dead is actually about.

It's best to get on with breathing pretty quickly, all things considered. Those moments when the world goes pixellated are not things to share with the general public. They're even less something to be savored in private; the "moment of existential dread" could have been called "happy bunny time," but it wasn't, now, was it?