Marriage Should be a Gay Affair

"Let them get married and be as miserable as the rest of us."

Amen.

I found out at dinner tonight that my friend's boyfriend proposed to her. Actually, "attempted to propose" is more accurate. At the will of both her and the dear boy's mother, the diamond engagement ring that graces her left hand is now a "promise ring". This, of course, did not stop the increase in pitch or added fluster when describing/defended it to the open-mouth expressions of her two oldest friends.

We just left it with us planning the eventual bachelorette party, and unspoken understanding that those participating may not survive. 

There's been a lot of marriage talk lately - who's allowed and who's not seems to be a conversation that's not only gracing my friend's boyfriend's living room. Sure, I'm all for preserving "tradition" and letting the faithful do their thing.

...and then i read WSJ's article explaining the spousal abuse of cell-phone tracking systems, in which men program their wives' phones in order to drag them back(by the hair, of course). And about yet another study of how men are apparently *incapable* of remaining monogamous, and I think: what are we trying to protect again? the *sanctity* of marriage? If someone can find it somewhere please let me know.  I think it's run off with common sense and prudence - and they most certainly aren't coming back anytime soon.

The argument is about protecting children, and how same-sex couples are apparently less capable of child-raising.

We apparently have a thing for divorce. We get bored, you see. Why bother hanging around some old hag when there's a 20-year-old secretary ready to bang(Mr. Sterling)? these are things we know, but let us stress again: children from divorced homes don't do so well(around brilliant study). apparerently, cynicism can breed early(who knew?!) and this makes them overwhelmly more likely than their happily-married-parented counterparts to get a divorce too. Hooray for perpetuating a system of utter misery and destruction.

This is not to say that same-sex couples won't also take to this divorce concept like the bubbling trend it has become, but I think we should give them a shot. Who knows, they may actually like eachother(enough).

And one must also remember the thousands of children banging their heads' against the wall in orphanages across the globe - places where child-care for infants is to the extent of being held once a day for 5 minutes. And we would let them sit, and waste away until it is their time to be bumped to a foster home, or brothel(if the location allows). Why would we limit a most wonderful expansion of much-needed potential parents?

Breeding(and bringing) these maladjusted future criminals into the world with no parents to lovingly smother the bad out of them(I think that is what does it. eh?) is just irresponsible if there is a potential solution. 

And there would be other positive effects, as well. 

The wedding industry will be booming. The influx of flowers, bands, banquet halls, and heinous-looking bridesmaids(or I suppose groomsmen, if they partake) dresses to be needed should do something for our economy, right? Though I suppose churches won't see much of an economic benefit, so that *must* be what they're bitter about.  And then the potential for divorce lawyers!(cynic, I'm sorry.) Never be a better time to be in family law, I imagine. 

Let them have their $6,000 cake and eat it too. It's only fair.
-- 

Your Love is My Drug

Oh this is so perfect, the soft feel of your lips against mine...I don't want anyone else.
"Oxytocin."

So wonderful, ah. every single word you say makes me want to just --

"Oxytocin."

The way you touch my hair, just pull me in closer, I --

"OXYTOCIN."

I love you. Only love. I can't stop thinking about the way --

OXY. TOCIN. OXYTOCIN!!!"

There should be an alarm in every girl's mind every time she potentially slips into this horribly frustrating, anxiety-driven quicksand.

This alarm could be supplemented by a boxing glove shooting out of a built-in wall. 

Or an anvil falling from the sky, a la Wile E. Coyote.

Sadly, that would probably not be enough. Because half the time we are very well aware of the stipulations and limitations of the situation, yet dance off half past the moon and whatever one can consider some version of reality. We just ignore them.

Thank you, every single love song, card, movie, novel since the creation of time.

vasopressin. dopamine. IT IS LIKE CRACK, PEOPLE.

Listen to "It's in His Kiss". Catchy right? Absolute bullshit. It is not in his kiss. It is in the evolution-produced secretions in the brain that are supposed to influence you to reproduce and protect the offspring. It is not the way he holds you, it is the oxytocin/vasopressin/dopamine released when you cuddle with another human being. It is a chemical reaction. It happens to everyone. With everyone(if you are not genetically programmed to be repulsed by them from the get-go, that is.) With anyone. It could be any member of the male species. Female, even.  We are programmed to crave affection, interaction. Anyone(or thing really) can fulfill this. We just overcomplicate with influences from cheesy romantic comedies that lead to absurd ideals about who or what we are supposed to be doing amidst the pre-reproduction song and dance(big white wedding? BUY ME A CAKE.)

And then there are those who cloak themselves in these flights of fancy to extract whatever possible from whomever possible. The manipulative types who are capable of making any situation appear to be your fault. Managing to sever all ties with reality, they shamelessly guilt-trip others into drinking their toxic Kool-aid.

I had had similar experiences once before; both of us wide-eyed college freshmen with our hearts set on being lawyers in New York. After my break with both him and the idea of being a lawyer, my favorite comment on the matter was "I'd hire him as my lawyer in a heartbeat. Manipulative bastard can convince anyone of anything."

This world would be a very cruel one if not for one (sometimes-secret)weapon:

Friends.

Primary role: "It's ok, we will hate him for you."
Often we find ourselves revelling in the fact that we can see "potential" in people; we minimize flaws and magnify positives, often at the cost of the accuracy of our memory. The manipulating type thrives in such an environment. Dearest bacteria, friends are what you have to be afraid of: they don't forgive, and they especially don't forget.

Sometimes only they are the ones capable of assessing a situation or, more aggressively, taking you out of it. Though they are often the worst enemy of our hedonist drives, our pleasure-seeking stems, at the end of the day what is good for us is not always what is convenient. Or texting you at 3am.

Often a thankless job, the friends may be the ones taking the phone out of your hand or at the very least, giving you damn good reason to put it down yourself.
Capable of being the most resilient force-field against the effects of Mr. dopamine and his friend "the douche-bag," the friend group is the disillusion task force - your karma dollars at work.

And let there never be a day when you find yourself broke.

Decisions

2am: Decide to go to Atlantic City
4:30am: Purchase bus tickets
2pm: Wake up
5pm: Bus to Atlantic City
6:30pm: Arrive
6:30pm-7:30am: Steak and crab legs, Boston cream pie, daiquiris, silver people with silver beads, heels, $2 shots, $20 kamikaze, a dentist and an accountant, BOBBAY!, craps and slots, Australians in white, sand, funnel cake and cheese fries, seagull attack, breakfast(in bed).
8:50am: Bus back to Philly
11am: Brunch
12:30-4pm: Intermittent sleep/cuddling/pillow talk


When deciding whether to take the comped room in AC, several arguments were batted around. But one that comes to mind in particular is the "What other opportunities are you going to have to do this?" or rephrased as "It's not everyday that..." or simply "Dude. Free hotel room." The 21st birthday celebrations that were in full force at the time may have contributed to the "FUCK YEA" decision.


Needless to say, it works on me. I like living in the moment. Or the 15 hour stretches of "moment". Hours of conversation with people you may never see again in a city where people actually DO NOT sleep (sorry New York). All I can picture is the eventual "settled down" version of myself who will have legitimate excuses to tone down the fun. Or have a new concept of it - Legoland? Mr. Magee's Wonder Emporium? Sunday night HBO? I feel personally responsible for ensuring that the "settled down" version has enough memories of shenanigans to look back on. (There needs to be something to explain the account balance.)

The women shine like the twinkling lights of the slot machines, and are expected to tolerate the staring one typically associates with evaluating a particularly complex painting(no but really there is some finesse to this, people). With stilettos and vodka-cranberries they teeter like the last tumble of the die before settling on a number - which may make or break your heart(bank account). Beyond that, grannies with pennies pull the night shift while sipping whatever drink is placed at their side. Mohawked men pick up tabs for the underaged without interaction beyond a "you're welcome". Children run around in circles with beads jingling around their necks - incentives given to their parents to remain faithful to their casino of choice. A world of insomniacs. My kind of place.

And then I come back to the cocoon of my dearest friends, the kind of people that have love spelled out as chocolate-chip pancakes and 5-person-bed-parties. I'm trying to soak up as much as I can before I have to "go without" for an entire semester. By that I mean, I'm going to have less people to smother with affection. This places me in the "spontaneously combust" level of worry. I might actually have to get a boyfriend.
Ehh. I think I'll be fine.

Purity and the Art of Gettin' Dirty

Sitting on a most assuredly filthy side of a statue near Central Park in a pristinely white sundress, I noticed my chocolate chip cookie had decided to lightly decorate the front. I dwelled for a moment on my general lack of white dresses then remembered my wonderful capacity for staining, which rivals that of a five year old on a muddy playground with a melting ice cream cone.

I guess you could say I'm not afraid to get a little dirty. (oh the innuendo!) Or maybe I just get a little too engrossed in experiences to notice silly things like the front of my shirt. Or my Tide-to-go pen is my ultimate cop out. (Though I did not have it with me at time of need. Of course.)

I had visited MoMa earlier in the day with a dear friend, and we had viewed some splatter paintings(my terminology expresses the expanse of my modern-art knowledge). We both could recall times in our lives when we decided to create one(she, church mural - you go girl; me, summer camp circa '96), either intentionally or otherwise. I just thought it was the least effort/most fun way to paint. My idyllic summer camp outfit would speak to this, except it did not survive the incident. That did not go over well at home. (Acrylic paint is some pernicious shit.)

I think of the beauty of dilution. Often a saving grace when it comes to preserving the purity of a garment, dilution has saved my ass quite a few times in the laundry room. Though dilution may remove the chocolate from my white sundress, it does not preserve the purity in all situations. It possesses a double-edged sword-like quality(cue Billy Mays chiming in with: CUTS THROUGH STAINS) outside our dear laundry rooms.

I think of Volcker and the concept of compromise. And the beautiful fundraising focus of our elections. And a most interested deep-pocketed party: banks! Diluting the stipulations of what-is-allowed to make some pockets smile and of course, "serve the American people". It's nice to no longer have to consider myself a politician(note: if I ever really was) when I reflect on chewable tidbits like that.

To be fair, I should have prefaced this brief foray into ethics with: this is coming from an accessory to an umbrella theft at the MoMa museum earlier today.(It was raining, we were wearing white. I think that grants me Greek politician level of impunity. Zing!)

Fortunately, there are some people that don't get as engrossed as I do when eating a chocolate chip cookie. They keep their hands clean, and maintain some shred of purity in our splatter-painted world.

Want your khakis to be stain-resistant? Slap some on Glass-Steagall. It's an old-fashioned remedy.

Gershwin me over

I want to feel the noize.

Screw the mashups of the year-whatevers-DJ-sick-bEaTz. Take me back to the days when songs didn't require three collaborators or a dirty thumpin' beat to be successful.

I will take a hair band with men in leather pants and eyeliner over those gimmicks any day. Yes, it's wonderful that the top 40-ers of our time have learned to play nice on autotune for the sake of selling a single on itunes, but I want a goddamn brass section. Hey big spender, give me the trombones and trumpet that made you so damn irresistible. I crave poison. I need nothin' but a good time.

I'm sorry Guys and Dolls, I've been on a showtunes/oldies/classic rock binge as of late, so sue me(sue me, what can you do me...)

I will stop with the totally obvious allusions now.

Only these gems on high volume in a pristine upper east side apartment could adequately complement an all-morning dish washing session. Complete with dirty dancing, the twist, and Aretha Franklin-style belting(I helped dry).

There is a recording of my sisters and me running around(Sue). The type of shenanigans one might find occurring in our living room on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Or we might be running(with the Devil). But that's more of a Saturday night type of deal.

Red Nose Bulldog

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Friendly People.

There are some things that never fail to make my day. One of which is visiting my coffee truck guy(yes, mine. because it's totally ok to arbitrarily declare ownership over another human being. uhhhh...) I tend to leave my desk at obscure times, so that there is less of a chance of a line, or as I view it, a potential interruption in our brief chats(miiiiiiiine). It is also entirely possible that I have an irrational fear of seeing his interaction with others. (In case he is as nice to them as he is to me.) But we will just assume that that is not the case and move right along.

Delusions aside, today there was a line. Ruining the wonderful repetition of our encounters. Although very tempted to duck around until it cleared up, I had spreadsheets(read: spreadshits. thanks Sara.) to attend to.

I saw him interact with the three women ahead of me - all matter-of-fact, all business.

Walk up. Medium, two sugars, skim milk. Money. Leave.

I know that it shouldn't have, that it really, really shouldn't have...BUT it made me pretty happy. Perhaps slightly pathetic that I gain fulfillment from flirting fidelity in my coffee-truck-guy relationship, based on barely five-minute conversations, but whatever. It is the little things in life. Or as a fellow intern pointed out "Aww at least somebody likes you!"

I walked up to a "Good Morning" and left with an invite to stay and enjoy the rare, cool breeze on Hudson St. with my always hot cup of coffee.(Large hazelnut. He does not even have to ask anymore.)

I had to decline - a spreadshit awaited me.

Yea, it's the little things.