Tag Archives: love

Dear New Year’s Eve

31 Dec

Dear New Year’s Eve,

Here’s the thing. You have got to be the most disappointing night of the year, bar none. And I go into you with such low expectations!

This is what we want New Year’s Eve to look like, theoretically. When we are ten or so. By the time you’re in your mid-20s, past experience with New Year’s has beaten you so far down you don’t even dream that it will be like this:

You arrive at the masquerade ball in a glittering dress, cut down to there and up to here, hair a cascade of curls, beaded mask not able to disguise the smolder of your eyes. A handsome waiter glides past you with a tray of champagne, which you lightly lift as you look about. A chandelier dazzles from the soaring cathedral ceilings of the ballroom as the band strikes up (you know how to dance). You whirl from the arms of one stranger to another as the champagne flows freely and the celebration brings in a new year full of promise. (All your girlfriends are there and you regularly swap meaningful eye contact about the men in the room and rush off to the bathroom, where you find your hair is still perfect and not a touch of sweat mars your perfect brow.) At midnight, the man who has returned again and again to take you in his arms and glide you across the floor returns. He is tall, dark, and handsome. He slips off your mask as the countdown begins, and kisses you softly, then madly, as bottles pop and voices rise in Auld Lang Syne.

You forget where you are and make out on the dance floor. Then boogie. Then make out some more, drink straight out of a champagne bottle, wake up with a wicked hangover and some questionable decisions behind you.

I’m all about it. Let’s do it. Anybody have a dress, band, man, ballroom, a couple hundred extras (duh the room has to be full or it doesn’t work), and some perfect hair I can borrow?

This is what New Year’s usually looks like:

No one will commit to all meet up in one place because everyone’s holding out for something bigger and better. Going downtown is too expensive and taxis are a pain in the ass to get and it’s dangerous to drive around on New Year’s. No one wants to do just do the “same old thing”. Or bar crawl. If you bar crawl or party hop, you’re just likely to miss the most fun forty-five minutes of any given party, which, to be honest, is about all most parties get. Finally, you block at a place “to start”. You appease everybody by assuring them that after you all meet up, you can all move on to someplace “more fun”. Half the people bail anyway, deciding the night will either be a bust and deciding to stay home with the cat or deciding at the last minute to go to “that asshole’s party I don’t even like but at least there will be a lot of people and booze there.” The other half show up and spend a solid amount of the time complaining that they want to go/be somewhere else. No one can agree on where. You all give up and walk down to the nearest dive bar. There are some people there, but not enough to satisfy that one friend who is always convinced the next bar will be better. Besides, s/he says, the music sucks here. You all walk down the street to the next bar. You get convinced to go downtown, against your better judgment. It takes an hour for the taxi to get the bar. It’s 11:30. It takes 20 minutes to get downtown, where you discover it’s going to be $30 to get into the party that doesn’t even look that awesome. You all argue about it and decide to pay, because it’s too late to get yourselves anywhere else. But it’s cash only. You’re in the 7-11 across the street getting cash back when it turns midnight. The sketchy guy behind the counter wiggles his eyebrows at you and you gag a little bit. Happy New Year’s, you mumble, as you hurry out the door. You hug your girlfriends. You wait three hours for a taxi and finally call your younger brother to come get you. He’s wasted and making out with his girlfriend. You’re sober enough to drive but you don’t have a car, because this was not how it was supposed to go.

Bummer.

Anyway, tonight I will go to my sister’s, where I will try to convince everyone to just stay there and not try to go downtown at the last minute to some party somebody heard something about. I will agree to walk ten minutes to the neighborhood bar which is having a no-cover old-school dance party. If even that is a bust I will eat more homemade carmel corn and play scattergories. And it will be fun.

And at midnight I will pop a popper. Which is really all I ask of New Year’s at this point.

Though, if anyone wants to plan a massive masquerade ball for next year…tell me now so I can start raising my hopes from the very low mundane place they now call home on New Year’s Eve. It wouldn’t do to go to a masquerade in my sweatpants.

HAPPY NEW YEAR’S, Y’ALL!

MM

Dear People Who Think Sex and Love Are Unrelated

12 Oct

Dear People Who Think Sex and Love Are Unrelated,

Well. I’ve got news for you! They are related!

Yeah, yeah, duh, you think, sex is messy and emotional and intimate, yeah yeah duh.

Let’s talk science. Ok, yes, right now I’m pretending to be a, um, whatchamacallit, a poet. That’s the one. But back in the day, I used to be more generally known as a “student.” This means I took classes on all kinds of things and occasionally retained some of that knowledge. Still retain, to this day. Not nearly as much of it as I would like. I’m not saying I’m old, I’m just saying my memory is shot because I’ve been counting out too many accentual-syllabic meters (sexy).

Let’s get back to the ess-ee-ex. We all know that’s why you’re here. Sex is sexy. Sex sells. Yada yada yada.

This is the meat of the thing: during orgasm, oxytocin is released. Oxytocin is a bonding chemical. To give you an idea of its power, I’m going to mention that it’s also the chemical released during uterine contractions during labor and is one of the chemicals that stimulates the “let down” reflex that produces breast milk.

AKA it’s at least partially responsible for the instant, powerful bond between mother and child, that biology designed to ensure to the survival of offspring. I’m pretty sure animals don’t have it, especially insects, which is why they sometimes eat their kids. Just saying.

SO. This same chemical is released during orgasm, bonding you over and over again to your sexual partner. It’s the looooooooove drug. Also endorphines are released during sex and exercise and, let’s see, pain. Endorphins rush through our bodies, allowing us to respond with greater control and focus during times of emergency or distress. Or excitement. Which maybe accounts for this oft-used expression “falling in love.” Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

I’ll shut up now. My point is that sex and love are intertwined in not just mushy, emotional, therapy-type ways (which are totally valid and worth paying attention to), but also in science-y, body-produced drug-type ways, and the next person who says, “it’s just sex, I’m not going to get confused” is going to get an earful about oxytocin.

(Or maybe they will have read this, and that will be awesome, because why else do I type these things out if I’m just going to have to repeat myself later? Maybe I’ll just give them a little card with a link that says, “Read this” and like Alice in Wonderland drinks the thing that says “Drink This” (did her parents teach her nothing?), they will read this, and they will grow small or big, or in this case, wise and educated about the ridiculous topics I have absurdly strong feelings about. That I feel the need to share with the internets.)

Because it’s interesting. Also, if How Stuff Works has an article about it titled How Love Works …you know it’s important. And if you were wondering, “What is Love?” they have an answer for that too.

Finally! I’m so glad somebody invented the internet. And science.

Cheers,

MM

Dear Valentine’s Day

14 Feb

Dear Valentine’s Day,

I don’t have super-strong feelings about you. Honestly, my most passionate outbursts come because of my sister’s proclivity towards crafts– and therefore handmade valentines– forcing me to either participate, or look lazy in comparison by appearing with bought valentines at the family celebration. (Usually dinner. On or around Valentine’s Day. Sometimes our mom gives us socks.)

Let’s sidetrack and talk about crafts for a moment. Now, CRAFTS STRESS ME OUT. This is in capital letters to underline the absolute truth of the statement. I am not naturally inclined toward crafts, nor have I developed any skill at them. I am also a perfectionist. It’s a poor combination. So crafts– which we did a fair amount of, growing up, with two girls in the house and one of them being all about the craft project– are a natural enemy of the MM, found in many households across the world and likely to be sighted near holidays. Like…Valentine’s Day.

I would like to say, I did make valentines this year. The whole shebang. I used multiple pieces of patterned paper, and an elephant stamp, and a gold paint pen that has the smoothest flow across card stock you will find anywhere, and I flocked. (Save it, the joke’s been made.) I can’t actually remember what all I did because I seem to have blocked most of it from my memory and I’m scared to look at the ones I made in case I now hate them. And I only got one migraine and picked one fight!

My sister K likes to explain to me that she’s not actually good at crafts (bullshit) but she just likes them and therefore persists. And to some extent that’s true. I’ve seen her redo a hem or– this is still magic to me– pull a glued piece of paper off of another one without ripping anything and start over. But she’s still good at them. And the results are still better than mine. Cuter, neater, fancier, more all-around enchanting.

I will never be Martha Stewart.

I’ve accepted this. I still don’t hate Valentine’s Day. Or particularly love it. (See how I brought that around? Did you see that?)

A. To start with, you’re a holiday based primarily around chocolate. I won’t provide any supporting arguments. That stands alone.

B. There’s just no point in hating you! Okay, yes, I get it, you make people who are alone feel more alone and people who are not alone feel inadequate in their love for each other. Or in their ability to get dinner reservations. Same thing on February 14th. Which is stupid. I know someone who is drinking beer with a friend tonight. My sister, who has a boyfriend, is throwing a party for all her friends because she can’t stand the pressure of being in a restaurant with a bunch of people who are making out. Plus she thinks it’s gross. I am working, and will be celebrating Valentine’s Day later. As in, having dinner on some night of the year. Whee. (Just kidding, G, I am so excited.) My dad, as always, forgot to get dinner reservations, as did the people I nanny for. Both will be eating early in neighborhood haunts (thus allowing me to work early and then attend my sister’s party– thank you stereotypes of Men Who Forget Valentine’s Day). And they are real adults! Who could actually afford a nice dinner! Unlike all of us 20somethings!

In the words of Tim Gunn (this does not actually apply to crafts, no matter what he thinks, crafts are the devil’s spawn): MAKE IT WORK.

Love, hugs, kisses, and an elephant stamp,

MM

Dear Facebook Status Updates

12 Feb

Dear Facebook Status Updates,

You are dangerous, and should only be allowed in the hands of people who will not abuse you: aka people who will not use you as a Facebook function. At all, generally. Because you are either inane– “Sammy Toddan thinks it is cloudy outside today :( ” or waaaay, waaay too maudlin and personal.

Which, don’t get me wrong, is highly entertaining. Especially to my lovely and dear friend Eleanor who has a nose for the gems that can be found online as regarding other people’s lives. And she shares them. Which I definitely appreciate. As in the following Status Update Storyline she read to me this morning (names have been changed to protect those who apparently cannot protect themselves):

“Carl Winter Wilbaum and his wife are going honeymooning. From what I understand, Facebook does not extend into the mountains.” Relationship Status: Married.

“Carl Winter Wilbaum is it’s over. Talk to Christina.” Relationship Status: Divorced.

“Carl Winter Wilbaum is sorry. Our business is our own and not everyone on facebook. We do love you and will talk to you individually.” Comment from Nate: “um…..yeah…..i think that is in order soon.”

Real Life Comment from G at my dining room table (as in, not on the nebulous interwebs of Facebook): “Was he ever a normal person? Did he always excessively update his Facebook like this? Maybe the situation with his bride resulted in some sort of mental breakdown.”

At which point we figured out that Carl joined Facebook after he got married. As purely a format in which to express the emotional state of his marriage? The point is that, not only are employers now on Facebook, I know moms who are on Facebook. We’ll get into that and the resulting hilarity another time. And Carl is on Facebook! Everybody is on Facebook.

It’s like a giant waiting room outside a therapist’s office, where we all are trying to guess why the other people are there. Well, your status says you feel like broken glass and your relationship status says you’re single now and that boy over there is kissing a sherpa (literally, there is a picture of your boyfriend kissing something wearing fur and his status says he’s in Nepal) so maybe he’s gay? And moving to Kathmandu? And you, your status has said deee-ruuuunk for the last two months, and now you’re vacationing in California for six weeks? Hmm.

Resulting in such limited information as Jackson bought a bunch of chickens and a vespa and lives with his grandmother now. In Santa Barbara. Which is awesome. Congratulations.

At any rate, I would like to close by reminding you where we started: you should not be used lightly, Facebook Status Updates, and perhaps should not be used at all.

Consider this a PSA. And please, please, everyone keep your sex life and marital issues contained to your blog.

Cheers (and Carl, I hope everything works out for the best),

MM

Dear Woody Allen Movies

29 Nov

Dear Woody Allen Movies,

Okay, well, I hate Annie Hall, and I don’t really want to talk bout it beyond that. Diane Keaton drives me crazy. She’s this strange amalgamation of helpless and indignant that results in a continual shrill expression of white woman, neurotic victim-ry. And she does it in all her movies, so I can’t really blame Woody Allen, but I can try.

And I think Woody Allen is a dirty old man (obviously). Actually, he’s kind of a continually shrill expression of white man, neurotic victim-ry.

I don’t think he’s funny.

Though I do like Everyone Says I love You, possibly due to the fact that my sister made me watch it over and over again as a child. To be fair, I also didn’t like Dirty Dancing until something like the tenth time I saw it (as she also ensured).

But it’s hard not to love Everyone Says I love You, because well, it has everyone in it, kind of like The Outsiders, and they literally are all saying I love you. While singing. Pretty poorly. And dancing. Pretty clumsily.

Plus, almost everything seems to end in exclamation points. And the lines include these gems:

Goldie (of course Goldie Hawn is in it): You couldn’t decide if you wanted to be a psychoanalyst or a writer!
Woody Allen (with a little too much truth): So I compromised: I’m a writer and a patient!

And: I haven’t touched my treadmill in weeks! 572 weeks! That’s eleven years.

Goldie, of course, is a wealthy, guilty, liberal Democrat who gives speeches about how she thinks we should have open prisons! And the inmates should be allowed to do their own cells with their own personal decorators!

But of course it’s creepy as hell, because Woody Allen seduces Julia Roberts—which, first of all, are you kidding me? But also, he manages it because his daughter is best friends with Julia Robert’s psychotherapist’s daughter, and has been spying on her sessions. So DJ (daughter of Woody Allen) fills him in on all of Julia Robert’s favorite, unfaithful, romantic fantasies. Like, “don’t forget to blow on her back, between her shoulder blades, it makes her crazy.” Gah!

Anyway, it’s hard not to kind of love a movie with Natalie Portman, Edward Norton, Alan Alda, Goldie Hawn, Drew Barrymore, Natasha Lyonne, Gaby Hoffman, and entire lists of people whose only character title is “Groucho Party Dancer.” Yes, that’s right, I know how to look things up on IMDB.

So mostly because of Everyone Says I Love You, I gave in and went to go see Vicky Cristina Barcelona this year. Mostly, I think that Penelope Cruz was absolutely beautiful. And Woody Allen is a creepy old man, and I don’t get the obsession with Scarlett Johansson. Okay, I get it, and I don’t understand it. I really just think it’s a fixation on her lips. And her boobs. And butt. Like I said, I get it. But I don’t understand the claim that she’s a good actress. I did like that David Denby in his New Yorker review said her sexuality is more developed than her personality.

What can I say? I’m not into you, Woody Allen movies. I get enough white liberal neurosis served up hot daily. (Except for Everyone Says I Love You. Excuse me, Drew Barrymore is about to cheat on Edward Norton with the criminal Goldie invited to her birthday– “he’s rehabilitated!” In case you were curious, Drew Barrymore says, “Very interesting. I’ve never been kissed by a sociopath before…”)

SWAK,

MM

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