Relationship 101 or; Valentine's Day is for Beginners

As I sit here, rifling through Facebook and engaging in similar Internet debauchery; wondering how the hell I'm supposed to introduce the topic of love and relationships in an "advice" setting -- considering the chance that I may be way out of my league, overreaching, or generally "out of line" -- I somehow rifled my way to this image:

 

Unless you've sustained a lasting head injury in the past week or so, you're likely to be aware of the pending holiday. It's time once again for us experience the excitement and inevitable despair of Valentine's Day. Allah help us all.

 

The above image might elicit a well of tears in some, a shower of rage in others, a long-standing tradition of apathy in a select few. I tend to vacillate between the former two, depending on how annoyed with Buddy Holly I feel at the current moment or how close I am to my period. Luckily for him, both Valentine's Day and the monthly tear-storm fall in the same week. You'll be sure to hear of the aftermath on Friday.

 

But I couldn't ask for a more perfect opening than this. The sickeningly sweet story of one man's ethereal devotion to his widow? You've got to be shitting me. Way to kill the aspirations of Every Other Man (or Woman) on the planet and their inevitably disappointed partners, guys. You've just ensured no one's getting laid this Thursday.

 

Forgive me, I don't mean to disrespect the dead or anything. Or my elders, which would send The Mother storming to change her will. What I mean to point out is, relationships like this take a long time to develop. 46 years, to quote Sue's tale. And anyone that's pining at their computers right now over all they have and have not -- the faults and flaws in their relationships, be them old or new or non-existent -- should take heart (pun intended) in the great tragedy and simultaneous blessing in this sentiment.

 

The good part is that there's always room for improvement. The bad part is that the improvement is up to you to initiate. Good luck.

 

A few years ago, shortly after Valentine's Day, The Mother was telling me about what my stepfather had gotten her. I was jealous and despondent that someone might have the foresight to think of me in such a careful manner, with all the flowers from her favorite place and the gifts and whatnot. But then -- and this is the best thing that's ever been done, ever -- she told me how she had secured her Valentine's Day be as awesome as it panned out. She had emailed my stepfather, with a list containing no more or less than a Google map of directions to said florist, instructions to accompany this gift with another at their shared favorite boutique and -- so as not to miss any detail and curtail any anxiety on the other party -- a copy of their bank statement and budget that would ensure the plan entirely feasible. You guys? My mother is fucking awesome.

 

I've shared this story with a few friends. A few have actually followed it up by sharing with their partners exactly what would make them feel good, to wildly successful results. It seems entirely unromantic, I'll give you that. But at the end of the day, my mother got exactly what she wanted and her husband felt fantastic being able to provide it.

 

Because look, here's the thing: the bottom line of a successful relationship is communication. That's not a new concept, it's fairly standard protocol. Or at the very least, we all know it but may have a harder time practicing it. The extent to which your relationship requires communication is on you -- it's on you to understand what needs discussing and what needs leaving alone. It's on you to dissect what needs dissecting, and let go of what you're unnecessarily holding onto. And until you can come to the place that values communication for both its talking and listening parts, you're probably not going to get what you want -- both on Thursday's impending disappointment or otherwise.

 

Laura and I have been talking about Valentine's Day intermittently in the last few days. We both understand that the holiday is absolutely a corporate-backed fraudulence. It exists to sell shit and to make you feel shitty. But as two women currently engaged in Serious Relationships, we both feel our partner's distaste for it while simultaneously desiring their participation. For those of you guys (or girls) that think your girlfriend is "one of the cool ones" that doesn't care about Valentine's Day: she's full of shit. You've been warned.

 

We shared the discussion with our boss. He's a guy that buys his wife flowers just because but forgot her birthday last year. Meaning, he's pretty typical. Laura explained it like this:

 

"I just want to be treated like he likes me at least as much as those girls that get stuff on Valentine's Day."

 

To which Dave responded:

 

"You've got to tell him in a way that makes him think you're nice."

 

I couldn't have said it any better myself. We all want to be wanted, and shown that this is the case. But we all need a little nudging, sometimes. And when you need to nudge, make sure it is done with as much care and attention as you know the relationship deserves. So tell your partner what you want. But make sure that when you do, you're also willing to listen.

 

 

 

 

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All Hail Zee Zygote

Because I don't feel like writing anything profound today, because my friends are funnier than your friends, and because I CAN:

 

My very talented, very raunchy, very twisted friend Sam wrote this sketch recently for her Second City class. I've had the pleasure of reading a few of her pieces in our writing group and to be honest, though I'm supposed to critique them each time, there isn't much I would change about the way she writes. She is a sick little chick and that is exactly why I love her.

 

I may also like it because my namesake's character is everything that I aspire to be. Though I'm pretty sure she was cameo-ing under my name. If you want to read more of her effortlessly dry and enlightening humor, visit her here. And if you decide you don't want to associate with me or anyone I know after this, I'll understand. So will she. Enjoy!

 

 

 

ALL HAIL ZEE ZYGOTE

 

CAST

Katherine – 30’s with a Texan accent​

Natalie – 20’s

Molly – 30’s

 

(Natalie walks into Buy Buy Baby whereKatherine is organizing racks and Molly is behind the counter texting)

KATHERINE

​​​(Peppy and obnoxiously cheery)

Hello there, darlin’. Welcome to Buy Buy Baby. How may my lovely associate and I help you this morning?

​​​​NATALIE

​​​(Confusedly looking around)

Uh, hi. So this is ‘Bye Bye Baby’?

​​​​KATHERINE

Mhmm, sugar plum.

​​​​NATALIE

Oh, well, I heard an advertisement on the radio and it said you guys, you know, ‘take care of babies’ here?

​​​​KATHERINE

Why of course, sugar plum. Are you here for yourself or someone else?

​​​​NATALIE

Me.

​​​​KATHERINE

Oh, well bless a binky!

​​​(Grabbing for Natalie’s stomach)

You are just the tiniest little thing, ‘aint she Molly?

​​​​MOLLY

​​​(Not looking up from phone)

The tiniest.

​​​​KATHERINE

You are almost as precious as a Precious Moments figurine. Much like my uterus is almost as hard and uninhabitable as a Precious Moments figurine.

​​​(Laughs)

​​​​NATALIE

​​​(Nervously)

Oh, um. Thank you? So, anyway, you can help me with this situation, right? I kind of want to just get it all taken care of, you know?

​​​​KATHERINE

Absolutely. First of all, my name is Katherine. And this is mycolorful colleague, Molly.

​​​​MOLLY

​​​(Not looking up from her phone)

It’s a pleasure.

​​​​NATALIE

​​​(Relieved)

Great. I’m Natalie. So do I need to fill out any forms or…?

​​​​KATHERINE

Sure, if you want you can fill out this mailing list application.

​​​​NATALIE

Oh, I don’t think I’ll be needing that. Hopefully this is just a one time thing.

​​​​KATHERINE

They send coupons. Who doesn’t need those?

​​​​NATALIE

Coupons??

​​​​KATHERINE

I know, ever since those extreme coupon shows, we’ve been sending ‘em out faster than a mommy on a breast pump.

​​​​NATALIE

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to judge, but who’d needs coupons for…

​​​(whispers)

…abortions?

​​​​KATHERINE

​​​(Gasps)

I beg your pardon.

​​​​NATALIE

…Why would you need coupons for abortions?

​​​​KATHERINE

Lord have mercy on a onesie! That mouth is pure sin. Why would you come in here and talk such terrible nonsense?

​​​​NATALIE

Because this is… And you said… Oh my God. This is not an abortion clinic is it?

​​​​KATHERINE

Jesus take the stroller! Of course it’s not! Why on Earth would you think that?

​​​​NATALIE

Bye Bye Baby? Like, G-Good Goodbye Baby? …I thought it was a play on words.

​​​​KATHERINE

Joseph, Mary, Elmo! It’s spelt B-U-Y Baby! As in purchasing.Retail.

​​​​NATALIE

It was on the radio! I didn’t know. Plus it said you guys take care of babies. I thought you meant taaakee caarre of babies.

​​​​KATHERINE

Oh my- I can’t even- Molly! Are you hearing this?

​​​​MOLLY

​​​(Texting)

Yeah, huh.

​​​​KATHERINE

Are you even paying attention??

​​​​NATALIE

Listen, I guess I misunderstood. There was some severe miscommunication here so…I’m just gonna-

​​​(Starts backing out to the door)

​​​​KATHERINE

You can’t just leave!

​​​​NATALIE

Excuse me? Why not?

​​​​KATHERINE

Because! I need to protect my baby! I mean, our baby. I mean, your, your baby.

​​​​NATALIE

I’m so sorry! I have to go!

​​​​MOLLY

​​​(Finally looking up from her phone)

Hey, you might need one of these.

(Molly throws a hanger to Natalie. Natalie catches it and runs out)

​​​​KATHERINE

​​​(Crumbling to the ground)

Fetus Jesus! Molly, swaddle me! Binky! Gimme! Ga! Gooo!!

​​​​(BLACKOUT)

 

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Playing With Fire

Last night, swaddled in the enveloping warmth of a tightly-wrapped blanket, perched on the topmost step, staring into the vast white beauty of a winter's night as the stars twinkled above and calm settled over the earth; I clicked my lighter and let the flame tease my fingertips. The flakes of tobacco began to glow in the flame as its heat accelerated upward through the tunnel of my cupped hands, like a gust of wind over a mountain highway. At the peak of contact between ignitor and ignited, I gasped suddenly at the overwhelming heat rising from within its confined space. Breathing once more, I relished the rest of my evening ritual and returned inside. Gazing into the mirror as later I scoured the surfaces of my teeth, I noticed something:

I BURNED MY FUCKING EYELASHES OFF.

 

 

 

What the fuck, element of fire? After all that we've been through -- all that preparing of food, all those quiet reveries during a smoke break, all those THOUSANDS OF YEARS surviving as a species -- this is how you're going to repay me?

 

Granted, it's not so bad as to be immediately noticeable -- Laura only noticed this morning when I pointed it out -- but the difference in length from one set to the other is definitely there. Before mascara, the singed tips on my right eye curl under like a used-up newspaper. Devastating, some might say. My abnormally long eyelashes are a genetic gift from my father; one that attempts to make up for the round face and large backside they also bestow. No matter how much pizza-weight my face gains, my eyes will always be shaded in their heavy black curtains (hopefully, IN MY OLD AGE), keeping the attention away from less desirable attributes. They're the kind of things girls that grew up chubby and still haven't accepted their new bodies cling to.

 

It should be said that immediately after noticing my current situation of Eyelash Cyclops-ery, I considered taking needed money out of my non-budget to have fake ones installed. I continued considering it until thoughts of the falling-off moment overwhelmed all desire to synthetically modify my appearance. Because those things might eventually fall off into your morning coffee or something. And that's fucking disgusting.

 

The kicker in the end was the money, though. Non-budget or otherwise, I can't very much afford to go dropping 40 bucks on new eyelashes (because I killed mine), brow shaping (because once I'm there I might as well), and upper-lip threading (because shhhhhhhh...).

 

But seriously? Someone please come examine my closet and slap me for the above statement. How much time, energy and money do I spend consuming appearance-altering cloth ware that, even if I managed to burn holes in half of it over the same process, I would not need? How any times have I obsessed over a new pair of shoes, only to find them growing roots at the back of my closet months later? How many of us -- men and women alike -- worry more about the way we look than the substance beneath the Mac and H&M?

 

I'm guilty of all the above in varying degrees. On one side, I've been using lipstick as blush for a week simply to avoid having to go to the store. On the other, I spent grocery-money on thrifted dressed the other day. For what? To have that many more ways of looking like a walking cupcake?

 

I remember when looking good meant graphic t-shirts from Kohl's. I remember my first hooded sweatshirt when $50 Billabong from Pac-Sun was practically mandatory (I lost that one in a bathroom shortly after purchasing it). I also remember tying a red shoelace around my wrist, wearing Converse sneakers when girls didn't do that kind of thing yet, thinking black eyeliner could never be heavy enough and that my ass looked really good in smiley-faced pajama bottoms. I may look back at photos of these occasions with an expression similar to The Scream, but I remember them well enough to know that at the time I felt like The Shit.

 

But look, here's the thing: at this point in my life I do spend more time than I ever have on how I look. I believe firmly that to take time and care on yourself means you value yourself -- or if nothing else that what you present on the outside reflects how you feel on the inside. I dress well because I feel well, and if maybe sometimes I don't feel all that well I can draw on the exterior to enhance the interior. We're not all perfect beings. We're going to be superficial sometimes.

 

Most mornings I wake up with approximately half the amount of time I actually need to get ready. My hair usually makes its way to the top of my head because for fuck's sake it's easy, and I tend to think it brings some of the roundness out of my face. Sometimes I wear a dress and sometimes I wear jeans. Sometimes Buddy Holly exasperates on the couch when I get ready and sometimes I don't shower for a week. Either way, I usually feel pretty good about myself. I do believe that our outsides should be a reflection of our insides. But I assert that when the outsides detract from what's going on inside, it's time to take a breather for a minute. Far too often we let everything that's outside of us take over -- the accumulation of stuff and things and more and more and more -- and no matter what you want to call it, it's essentially just a distraction. A distraction from everything we don't want to feel or admit to that is suffocated by as much stuff as we can cram into our tiny, individual spheres.

 

It's a toss-up. I know where my simple desire to look nice ends and obsession begins. I toe the line frequently enough to warrant a good eyelash-singeing reminder. I count it as making up for all those years spent in unflattering jeans and graphic t-shirts. Today boiled down to priorities. My eyelashes will grow back. And if anyone notices in the interim? Hell, I'm all about a good story.

 

Happy Friday, folks!

 

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The Evolution of Glitter, Part 3

 

 

 

Someone, please take me back to a time when I didn't know what Lost was. Or, a time when I didn't have Netflix and the ability to watch the entire series consecutively without ever having to leave the couch. By my calculations, I'll get back to standard productivity by Never.

 

That's why today's update on the Evolution of Glitter will spare us all the awkwardness of me trying to explain it. All you need to know is that now I have eyes. And they might even stay where they are. Now to continue frying my optic nerves.

 

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Fourth Boobs and The Middle

Considering I stayed up until 2 AM two nights ago watching the entire second season of New Girl, it's safe to say that I thoroughly miss having roommates. Except when I remember the pink hair dye in my sink, mountains of unwashed dishes, creepy Skype-relationships and that none of them were awkwardly endearing men with janky plumbing skills. Also when I remember that time I lived with my ex-boyfriend and the toilet didn't flush for two weeks and we almost tore each other's throats out and then we broke up.

 

I watched the epic Poignant Moment between Jess and Nick approximately five times that day, in exactly the way I watched the Poignant Moment with Pam and Jim repeatedly seven years ago; and the Poignant Moment with Allie and Noah two years before that. Oh, and let's not forget when Nichola and I were lusting after Ashton Kutcher's Poignant Crying Scene in Just Married -- in eighth grade. Who else thinks that hot men crying is the hottest thing ever, ever? And that watching hot men cry and then carry their woman up a flight of stairs while simultaneously ripping of their clothes makes you want to reenact that very scene in the very near future? And maybe if you've got someone to reenact it with, you feel kind of warm and fuzzy about them in the climax of said Poignant Moment?

 

That's how I was feeling all day, until I went to grab my headphones for a nighttime stroll and found them Not Where I Left Them. After a search of any other possible resting place, I found them Nowhere. Why? Because Buddy Holly.

 

It took me about two seconds to envision a scene in which said boyfriend wakes up late for his train, frantically makes the bed (APARTMENT RULE), STEALS my headphones and dashes out the door. This highly accurate summation owes credit to the absence of one ipod. One that had been resting on my entertainment center for approximately one month before -- and in conjunction with -- it and my headphones suddenly went missing. Even Michael Phelps could put it together.

 

Luckily for him and his manhood, we were meeting for dinner and I was only conscious of this Great Piss-Off for about ten minutes before being reunited. But please ask him about my face when he pulled them out of his pocket. Please, just ask. I'd like to see you shaking in your boots, too.

 

This is the difference between all the Epic Poignant Moments we're fed through our eyes and the actual heart-singing, heart-pulling, heartbreaking Loves we feel as human beings drawn to other human beings. It is what ignites my weekly lady-wine nights, allows for political conversations with my father, fuels posts like this about my mother, and keeps all of us coming back to those same moments of impracticality on the screen. It is the difference between two people separated from each other by a mother's fear and two people separated by a grudge over a pair of headphones.

 

Because look, here's the thing: love is neither as great nor as trivial as anything you've witnessed. Simply, because you must feel it to understand it. No one can tell you the power of a first kiss, nor the death -- and I mean that literally -- in true heartbreak.

 

CLICHE, cliche. Sure. But in the middle of the excitement in the beginning and all the disappointment at the end is everything in the middle -- the meat that takes so much effort and care to chew through. The middle is everything, in exactly the way a McDonald's bun has no nutritional value. It's no secret that Buddy Holly and I have been through our fair share of Middle lately. I know you remember that melodramatic post I wrote about us breaking up, and then getting back together, and then breaking up again...we're better now. I owe that to the great effort we both put forward in being the best filet mignon we can be. It's not easy, and anyone that tells you it is is full of shit. And you can tell them I said so.

 

One night very early into our relationship, Buddy and I were engaged in...things. Unbeknownst to me he mistook my abnormally protruding ribs for their fleshy northern neighbors. A few weeks later, he actually told me about it. I knew then that he was someone I wanted to share a lot more awkward moments with. This evening he made me dinner and we shared a Poignant Moment of our own. We've created a relationship out of the middle, one from which I don't see myself emerging for a long time. And you know what else is a middle? Ice cream. In ice cream sandwiches. So like, Suck It, Nicholas Sparks.

 

 

 

 

***In other news...if anyone else is interested in knowing more about how to overcome a partner mistaking their Fourth Boobs for Real Boobs, I'm considering adding a relationship + advice column to the blog. Any takers? Any masochists? Just kidding, we all are!***

 

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First World Problems

I want to write a memoir. A memoir of a 24-year old. A memoir with self-deprecating overtones interspersed with the self-righteous and a generally lackluster plot line. Someday, that memoir will divulge the secret wisdom of writing in bars and avoiding MRSA without ever buying band-aids.

And then I fell on the ice again (bringing the score of Molly vs. Sidewalk to 0-2) and Buddy Holly asked me if I had any band-aids to which I responded, "no, I usually just tape some paper towel on my finger when I cut it making eggs."

Considering those two little factoids and the following photos depicting my secret domestic ineptitudes, I'd say my ego's about even for today. Manic-depressive? Surely not.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My apartment is cute, goddammit. You have to SEARCH for this shit. And I am not ashamed. Except maybe about scooping garbage out with my hands. Commence self-deprecation.

 

 

 

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The Evolution of Glitter, Part 2

This is the second installment in my masochistic process of documenting a painting. I'm still not sure if we'll ever get to the point of completion, because at the moment I want to tear the canvas in half. But if you want to read part 1, check it out here.

 

 

 

This is the part I was dreading. It's like the time when a child stops being cute and hasn't yet become beautiful again -- or mediocre, average, presentable or whatever -- usually right before the discovery of braces, flat irons and tweezers. This is when a painting stops being exciting in its newness and potential and begins the long, sloppy road toward completion. It feels a lot like the years I spent with fanged teeth and a unibrow.

 

I knew when I dedicated to documenting a painting that I would spend more time agonizing over its adolescence than admiring its emerging beauty. That's because most of the time it takes a lot of shoddy brushwork, wonky color schemes and awkward areolas to get to the point. There are mistakes to remedy, compositions to pin down and eyes to be brought down from the top of foreheads. And the incessant game of ping-pong my ego plays with itself.

 

There's nothing like seeing your vision be beaten to a bleeding, disproportionate pulp to bring you back down to reality. That's when my ego takes to her sick bed. But then, when the paint starts to wrap itself around an actual human form, she peaks her head out. We'll talk when the fever breaks. And when my eyeballs are in the right spot on my head.

 

 

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