Aunt Skelly had a Date

I went on a date tonight.  Your Aunt Skelly went on a real live date with a breathing man who asked her.  I laughed at the right moments, I answered questions in a witty yet still self-depricatingly human way....and all in all if I were to be given a grade by the dean of dates, I sure as hell would have made his list and passed with flying colors.  And ya know what??? It was freakin exhausting- and by the way...it's only 11:22 PM.  I am 25 years old and I should feel young and carefree. I should probably be dancing on a bar somewhere or exiting a cab with my beaver hanging out for all of the Meatpacking District to accidentally glimpse.  I shouldn't have to even answer to a dean of dates...I should BE the dean of dates.  But I can't.

It's kinda how I feel on New Years Eve - making it the worst night of the year.  I'm not here to ramble about the usual complaints like the clusterfuck in any given city or the debacle over who you are gonna press your mouth against at midnight because you're single and everyone at the party is taken or gay.  I don't like New Years Eve for the same reasons I don't like Friday and Saturday nights.  I'd rather be in my bed with a Manbooker Prize-winning novel and a bag of M&Ms.  I'd rather be watching an ironic cartoon in my flannel pajamas, but yet I feel pressure.  I don't want to be a sex kitten at a club competing for the guidos' attention.  I can't stand first dates with men who picked me up at an underground hipster bar named "Home Sweet Home" ...a place that looks more like the den of the guy from Silence of the Lambs than a place to get buzzed with over-privileged 20-somethings.  And YET. Sometimes...most times...I feel totally alone in my anti - young-fun-time sentiments.  I just want to be 79 years old so I can watch Boy Meets World re-runs in peace and not feel guilty for wasting my perky breasts and small wrists on a gallon of ice cream and Ben Savage in all his 11 year-old prime.  I AM A SQUARE. Maybe next time I'm tempted to accept an invitation to an overpriced bar with a man I met while ironically dancing to the hits of the 80s like they are our jam...like we can actually remember rocking out to them while pooping our diapers and teething...maybe I'll be more inclined to be myself and tell him no.  Tell him that I like my retainer too much and I have to take my fish oil pills by 11 -- that I'm halfway through Season 2 of Bob's Burgers and even though I watched season 3 first, I'm still super invested and super busy.

btw...if you're reading this and any of the above sounds remotely attractive to you...hit me up.  I have a fantastic list on goodreads.com we can chat about and a Hulu Plus membership I mooch from my homosexual ex-boyfriend.

Woof.

I felt a little stuck a few months ago.  So I adopted a dog like any normal, level-headed broke chick living on the ghetto side of Greenpoint, Brooklyn would do.  What would my oversized frames and fixie bike be without a French Bulldog?  Except I wear oversized glasses because I have chronic dry eye - a super sexy disease that always seems to come up on first dates between my glass of What's Your Cheapest White Wine and the local fried organic artisan grass-fed jalapeno appetizer (welcome to Williamsburg).  I also don't own a bike, but I'll sometimes pretend like I do while I shoot the shit with the chain smoking hipsters outside my office - commiserating about how awful the weather is for riding conditions.  I'm actually terrified of getting hit by a car or tipping over at a stop light or eating shit in front of real cyclists - and you know that matching elbow and knee pads would ruin my street cred. The closest I've been to a bike in the city is my ex's.  He would wear his fancy lock around his waist while he walked it around like a prized fucking poodle.  He neglected to tell me it got stolen 6 months post-purchase, and when one night I suggested he cruise over on his 2-wheeled companion - unaware it was under Amber Alert - he called me an asshole.  After I offered to put up signs with a reward he decidedly didn't speak to me for 3 days.  This is the same man who posted a photo on Instagram of the rare designer label in his $1,500 sweater using a Lo-Fi filter with the caption, "gotta stay warm somehow".  Don't worry, projectile vomiting is a normal side effect.

When this terrible excuse for a human left my life, I turned to a dog.  I've always had a connection with dogs.  I've talked to more dogs on the streets of this city than humans, and I can say with eloquent conviction that dogs are my spirit animal, our celestial stars align and like they just get me, man.

I met a pup on the euthanasia list at Animal Control, took it under the pretense of fostering, realized I was delusional to think I'd be able to give away a face and tail like that, and officially adopted him.  I'm impetuous and impatient and I crave instant gratification.  I blame my millennial affliction.  And Snapchat.  But it brought me to Leo.  And Leo is great.  Sure he's left his dainty poops on my kitchen floor more times than Jason Derulo starts his songs by singing his own name, he's broken dishes, and he sneaks gum out of my purse like a crazed minty fresh junkie (I just need my chews, bro) - but in the midst of insanity he keeps me sane.  He keeps my mind off the shit-soaked city that's lurking beyond my third floor walk up, waiting to rob me blind of my money and my happiness.  He's a little ray of sunshine in my life of a-poor-excuse-for-a-hipster-that-doesn't-actually-want-to-be-a-hipster-on-second-thought.

And I'm WAY less hungover now that I have a living, breathing [pooping] thing relying on me.  So here's to my dog in the city.  You should come hang out with him sometime and talk him out of getting his own Instagram despite my raging disapproval.  Which reminds me that you should also come hang out because it's been a solid 2 weeks since I've had interaction with anyone other than a dog.

Sh*t, M*llennials

The term "millennials" has become an expletive used to describe a person roughly 18 to 28 years old.  "Millennials" instantly connotes a crowd of unemployed hooligans who spend their days laying on piles of daddy's money making cat memes with iPhones surgically attached to their bodies.  We're entitled little shits with an inflated sense of self who refuse to accept anything less than designer despite our $28K-per-year-before-taxes income.  Oh, and our personal lives are fucked.

If you haven't read the NY Times in the past week, then you might not know about a little app that's having a major moment.  Lulu.  As a woman, it connects with your Facebook and displays all of your male friends accompanied by a rating that was submitted by women who've dated them.  If you know me, you know that I'm often found hanging WANTED fliers on telephone poles looking for the elusive Chivalry or on a soapbox spouting about the modern man's misogynistic deals with the devil.  Young women have somehow lost the power that accompanies the dating game- despite having the curves and the hair and the hole - we are often still the ones waiting around for our phone to light up with name we're "dating".  And often times we really are just dating a name on a screen - our relationship defined, yes by our time together, but also largely by the thread of characters that allows us to stay connected wherever, whenever.

According to a recent article on Forbes covering the advent of Lulu, such an app means that we must have more shallow relationships and apparently we're also lonelier.  Maybe this is true - the popularity of other relationship-based apps like OkCupid and Tindr perpetuates the on-to-the-next-best-thing mentality.  With these dating apps, I've personally witnessed and experienced a vast difference in the reasoning behind use between men and women.  Women crave an emotional connection; men crave a physical one - and because of this, women will always lose.  Maybe older generations have a hard time wrapping their minds around the concept of relationships in 2013, but whether it's "acceptable" or not, it is what it is - which is why Lulu is the outlet women have been waiting for.  

It's not, as Forbes describes it, a revenge mechanism - it's simply a balance of power.  Let men abuse dating apps and let them sext multiple women at once - but we're not sitting silent anymore.  Men claim to feel violated, but it's actually just an attempt to justify their fear of being found out.  

Sorry we're not sorry about your 6.2 rating.  Play nice, sweetheart!  We're all watching.

Dirty Laundry

Monday night I was walking home in my neighborhood, fresh from a gym sesh when I saw my ex-fling’s best friend/roommate/potential life partner coming out of our laundry mat.  I haven’t seen my ex-whatever in a while and haven’t spoken to him in just as long, but when you live in the same neighborhood as one of these blasts from the past, you tend to be subconsciously on alert for any sign of them.  For example, I thought I saw the fling himself today on the subway platform and my body immediately prepared itself to kick the doppelganger in the calves and take off running for the exit.  I had no idea my innate response would include both fight AND flight.  You can be emotionally healed from a relationship and happy and moved on and dating a Ryan Gosling look-alike…hell you could be dating Ryan Gosling himself, but you still don’t know how you might react at the first sighting of a man who did done you wrong. 

Seeing the best friend of my ex-guy didn’t provide a kick in the gut or a wave of depression.  Oh no.  I immediately yelled his name before I could stop myself and was running over to him before he even looked up to recognize where the ambush was coming from.  My very first instinct upon approaching was to hug him.  I started walking toward him with my arms out while my brain screamed “STOPPPPP”.  I kept advancing.  I honestly don’t even know if this guy knows my full name.   I know his last name sounds like a wet sneeze, but that’s all I got.  I couldn’t even add him on Facebook if I wanted to, but I still felt it necessary in some corner of my being to gift him with an intimate hug.  Did I mention I was at this point in time drowning in my own sweat from my work out and the humid July night?  His hesitation only perpetuated my hug, and I wondered if at heart I am a truly perverse individual.  After partaking in the grossest, and quite possibly most intrusive, embrace of this dude’s 25 years on Earth, my mind went blank.  Not even another peep from my misguided intuition – even that would have been better than pulling away from a near stranger you just had in your sweaty death grip with absolutely nothing to say. 

I apologized for sweating.  He returned the sentiment.  He asked me how I was doing and I said, “sweaty” – a topic we most certainly covered .5 seconds prior.  In retrospect, when the best friend of your former fling asks how you’re doing you should probably tell him of all the amazingness you’re accomplishing.  Even if you’re often found in deep discussions with your roommate's cat, Rosie – tell him you’ve just been scouted for America’s Next Top Model from Tyra herself while brunching at PerSay.  Tell him you’re planning a trip to Peru for a month with your investment banker with a heart of gold boyfriend.  I don’t care!  Just use this opportunity to appear pulled together and every bit the amazing woman you are.   Instead I was wearing a field hockey t-shirt from high school with neon running shorts I bought for $3 at Walmart and the largest glasses I own which I had to constantly adjust from the aforementioned (and mentioned and mentioned) sweat pouring down my face.

After covering all topics relating to sweat - including a brief discussion on the inappropriateness of sweating in the dead of winter - he finally mounted his bike to put us both out of our misery.  As he rode away, we exchanged a long series of assorted versions of “bye” and I vowed to erase this encounter from my memory.  When I got home I gave myself a good look in the mirror to assess what the friend might report back to the ex. I saw my frizzy hair, drenched shirt, stubbly legs, and melting mascara... and I thought - "Damn.  My teeth are WHITE."  Suck on that, Elliot.  This chick has still got it.

a dysfunctional love letter

You tell me about a new favorite song and I cringe as you hit play -  Not because I don’t want it hear it - but because I don’t need another reminder of you floating about the world. I watch as a silent spectator while the music consumes you and I listen as you explain with eyes closed why the track is worthy of your passion...and I'm jealous of a song.  And you’re giddy and uncharacteristically open and I can sense your usual, carefully crafted façade fading. This is your version of intimacy, isn't it?  All I can do is watch as you unravel to a beat; stoic in my observation of this rare occasion. And it makes me wonder- do you ever feel like I do? Like you might explode at any moment for lack of expression or too much expression or just being inside your own brain?  Can I tell you those parts of myself?  I keep my cards just as hidden as you do and the result is two people who don't know enough, who take too much, who pretend to see. Who will never be together because of their quiet pride, but who will stay intertwined in their mutual addiction to a physical bond.

There are days I swear I’ll never speak to you again…caffeine ridden days that I wander and write and create and feel okay without telling you my every thought for the sole reason that my voice sounds better when echoing off you.  And then come the alcohol reigning nights when I drift back to the right side of your bed with your body next to me taking up so much more space in the world than mine. And your bigness in life overwhelms me and hushes me and seduces me.  I adore you next to me.  I crave you. Greedily you’ve dived into me…giving yourself but taking more; hastily grasping at pleasure or closeness or amour propre at eliciting the dig of my fingernails a little deeper into your freckled back.  I let you because I want that for you, I want anything for you that you want for yourself.  I want to give to you.  I want all if this despite the fact that I will fall asleep next to your snoring shell -the only way i know you. When it all comes down, whether awake or asleep, you are the same unreachably mystical person that I’ll never have.

And it’s sad to only be acquainted with a man while he’s lying to you or lying on top of you.

diary of a masochist

Have you ever had a heartbreak that just wouldn't seem to go away?  Mine has taken up permanent residence with me like an oozing boil growing more infected every day, but instead of getting the proper medical attention to curb the infection I endure it. 

Heartbreak occurs more quickly than you ever thought possible and often with fewer gentle words than you feel you deserve given the pain that follows.  I find I'm constantly astonished at how clean and concise the parting of ways manifests on the surface - how casually someone can exit your life after having entered like a welcome whirlwind that came with its own soundtrack, rumpled your well-made bed, and branded your favorite Brooklyn hideaways.  A brief exchange can end the prospect of what you assumed was a promised future despite such a memorable past; leaving behind a labrynth of doubt to face.

Like a true masochist, my way of facing this doubt is clinging to it - because if you think about it, isn't being heartbroken such a beautifully somber occasion?  Think of all the Celine Dion sing alongs in your shower!!  Think of wine and chips in bed! I look kind of cute after I tear up!  I'm by no means taking selfies with heavy black eyeliner and I haven't listened to Dashboard Confessional in 6 years...but there's something so poignant in my missing him that I must admit I enjoy.  I feel a sting as I walk past the restaurant in Soho where we had our first date and I'm slapped in the face everytime Chvrches is shuffled on my Spotify - and buried in the hurt there's a chill of happiness in each moment of remembering us. 

When confronted with this man today, I consciously know why we're not together and recognize that he and I are like an attempt at a high-five that only grazes the fingertips.  And yet. Maybe feeling a loss for an extended amount of time isn't as self-destructive as it sounds.  It's made me wonder if our heartbreak isn't just in fact a reminder of our ability to love -  a phenomenon we don't need to tirelessly try to "heal" from, but something we should remember fondly and often.

Reply hazy; try again

I’m constantly seeking out answers to life’s questions.  -- As soon as you read that sentence you may be inclined to believe that I’m some sort of scholarly individual – curious in all the right ways and actively pursuing knowledge to elevate humanity and better myself…like a swami or a rabbi or some other robe-wearing, deep-thinker.  I do love a robe on a Sunday morning as much as the next priest, but if I led you to a conclusion that suggests I have any morally redeemable reasons for my search, I apologize.  My pursuit is much less noble.  In fact, it’s downright selfish. 

I’ve convinced myself that there has to be a justified answer to every conundrum thrown my way, and I'm determined to find it.   However- my methods haven't proven all too results driven. Why am I on a first name basis with ChaCha, yet she writes back a terse, “I’m not sure” when I ask what the hunky Aussie I’ve been seeing means exactly when he says he has to cancel our date for personal reasons?  Google isn’t much better at decoding the psychological tendencies of other friends and family.

For a "what's next??" approach, my horoscope is at times useful; today it says that someone will come into my life looking for an honest opinion and I should express it constructively.  I’ve obviously interpreted this to mean a wealthy stock broker with a soft spot for good literature and a swimmer’s body will come into my life and I should express my interested opinion by jumping him…constructively.

 In times of real turmoil I’ve even turned to tea leaves.  This requires consuming as few leaves as possible while holding the cup in your non-dominant hand as you quiet your mind and focus on the question you’d like clarity on.  Since I have self-diagnosed ADD and a left hand as useful as an amputee’s, I usually bend those rules, cut open the tea bag, and suck down a grande Starbucks China Green as usual while listening to a Justin Timberlake song and pondering what shade of black to wear to happy hour – hoping that I see an angel or a duck at the bottom of my cup before I give up trying to find “blob” in the tea readers’ dictionary. 

My HopStop app tells me where to go, why can’t there be a similar invention that unveils the areas of my life that get me just as lost as the subways do?  I even refuse to believe that the saying “when lightning strikes” is only used metaphorically, and I wouldn’t put it past myself in a moment of desperation to stand outside in an electrical storm with a rod.  I believe in signs, I believe in vibes, I’ve apparently been frying under the California sun for 4 years too many.  Some may find my need-to-know attitude somewhat desperate…but ya know, sometimes you’re just too hurt or too busy or too ashamed to figure things out on your own, and you need a smack from the universe…or a search engine…to hit you with the facts.