Grace.

I stumbled across this article as I was researching the term "pair bonding" on Wikipedia. It discusses, among other things, some of the reasons why humans tend to focus on the bad stuff and take the good stuff for granted. Excerpt:

"Modern humans, stuck with an ancient brain, are like rats on a wheel. We can't stop running, because we're always looking over our shoulders and comparing our achievements with our neighbours'. At 20, we think we'd be happy with a house and a car. But if we get them, we start dreaming of a second home in Italy and a turbo-charged four-wheel-drive.

This is called the "hedonic treadmill" by happiness scholars. It causes us to rapidly and inevitably adapt to good things by taking them for granted. The more possessions and accomplishments we have, the more we need to boost our level of happiness. It makes sense that the brain of a species that has dominated others would evolve to strive to be best."

"He had few friends, because he suffered from that sort of social awkwardness which comes from too much tolerance and understanding. His liking for so many such disparate things automatically banished him from groups formed on the basis of dislikes. True, he didn't like crowds much, but it was actually his curiosity and passion--both perfectly innocent of boundaries and clans--that made him feel like a lonely foreigner in his own country. In a world where public opinion is reduced to yes, no, and not sure, Antoine couldn't tick any of the boxes. For him, behing for or against was an unbearable limitation on a complex question. On top of this, he was endowed with a gentle shyness that he clung to like some vestige of childhood. It seemed to him that a human being was so vast and so rich a thing that it was impossibly vain to be overconfident with others, with strangers and with all the uncertainties that each individual represented. At one point he was afraid he might lose his little shy streak and join the great mass of people who despise you if you don't dominate them; but, by a grittily determined act of will, he managed to save it like an oasis of his personality. He may have been hurt, frequently and deeply, but this had in no way hardened his character; he kept intact his extreme sensitivity, which, like a phoenix, rose back up purer than ever each time it was damaged and bruised. In short, even if he did have moderate faith in himself, he tried not to believe himself too readily, not to acquiesce too easily to what he was thinking, because he knew his own mind was not above deceiving him to comfort himself." 

"Life was nothing but endless torture. He no longer felt any pleasure watching the sun rise, his every waking moment was sour, ruining the taste of anything that could have brought him enjoyment. As he had never really felt that he was living, he was not afraid of death. He was even happy that, in death, he would find the sole proof that he had been alive."

Can you go through the motions of loving someone without actually feeling that emotion in the hopes that it will one day surface?

***

Yes, I realize that I'm beyond the age of talking in lyrics. But, suck it.

Keane

Hamburg Song

I don't wanna be adored
Don't wanna be first in line
Or make myself heard
I'd like to bring a little light
To shine a light on your life
To make you feel loved

No, don't wanna be the only one you know
I wanna be the place you call home

I lay myself down
To make it so, but you don't want to know
I give much more
Than I'd ever ask for

Will you see me in the end
Or is it just a waste of time
Trying to be your friend
Just shine, shine, shine
Shine a little light
Shine a light on my life
Warm me up again

Fool, I wonder if you know yourself at all
You know that it could be so simple

I lay myself down
To make it so, but you don't want to know
You take much more
Than I'd ever ask for

Say a word or two to brighten my day
Do you think that you could see your way

To lay yourself down
And make it so, but you don't want to know
You take much more
Than I'd ever ask for

A friend of mine sent me two links to two DC blogs. Check them out:

www.rooshv.com and http://kathrynon.blogspot.com/.

Personally, I liked this post about dating Russian women. The stereotypes are hillarious, and I honestly didn't even know some of these things were true! Men, be prepared for what awaits you when dating Russian chicks.

Also, my brother sent me a link to Things In A Microwave. If you've ever wondered what a bar of soap would look like post-nuking, you can see that here, along with a ton of other cool nuked things.

Last night, after all the turkey was gobbled up and all the guests were distributed evenly throughout the house (naturally, I slept on the floor of my parents’ walk-in closet), I read Kirsten Major’s post titled “Kinds of Help Available in This Edition.”

I say I “slept” in the closet because there isn’t a word to describe the feeling I had as I lay awake for hours, refolding my down comforter under my chin, shifting from one side to the other, tying and retying the draw string on my sweat pants, checking my alarm clock to make sure it was still set to 5:45 AM.

I couldn’t shake the hopped up feeling I had—like I had witnessed an autopsy or brain surgery, and then the patient got up mid-way through the operation and asked for a hamburger and a Diet Coke, no ice.

The truth is that I wanted to read the post three more times, but I forced myself to turn off my computer and try to get some sleep.

I’d like to write a response now, but I’m sort of unsure about how to approach this daunting task, partly because I’m still very much shocked at how on Kirsten is in all of this, and partly because I’m still reeling from the shock of how dishonestly honest I’ve been with myself.

As a detour, a distraction, a breather before I begin to really dig through the enormous heap of Help, I want to convey how comforting it is to see my mother’s old cookware. She has a pan that used to have a handle, and after that broke off, my brother and I used the pan for baking frozen pizzas. Sometimes, like when we’d buy Red Barron pizza, the pan wouldn’t be quite big enough and the pizza crust would curl up the sides, creating a bowl for holding grease. Jack’s pizza fit perfectly, but my brother never liked that brand, so I’d be forced to eat the whole pizza by myself. My point is that I used the pan last night to make triple berry crisp, and I had a flashback to my childhood home when I saw those old, familiar pizza-cutter scrapes on the bottom of the pan. I thought about how I used to chase my brother around the kitchen island, running around until I was either exhausted, or I’d slip on the hardwood floors. My mom would just stand there, fixed in front of the stove, because she knew that if she moved, she’d be a casualty in our war.

I thought about that pan during my ride on the metro this morning, as I listened to The Cure on my Ipod. I thought about it because if I didn’t, I’d think about Kirsten’s post, and I didn’t want to open that can of worms. Yet.

Which brings me to the can of worms.

Premise #1

“… there are a few obvious reasons for liking someone who is not available … you are sick sick sick sick sick and when you aren't busy doing that then you are being stupid stupid stupid taking breaks only to be self destructive.”

Musing #1

I have an acquaintance that I studied with in Israel during high school. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her in six years, and then BAM, I ran into her by the Chinatown Metro in DC, while on my way to meet Jewish Atheist. We agreed to “do lunch” that Sunday. As we sat talking over our organic omelets, discussing our lack of boyfriends, she told me that she kept her schedule packed so full of networking activities and other things that “made her interesting” that she had no time to sit still. I wondered if she was exhausted from all the running-from-something she was doing, and she answered my look by saying, “If I didn’t do this, I’d go crazy.” Crazy from loneliness.

Moral Gleaned #1

The more you run from your problems, the more likely they’ll fester and poison you later on. Find something that calms you and forces you to sit still.

Like my friend, I’ve been running around for a while. I’m embarrassed to give any details about how this running around has been manifesting itself, but I’ll say that it certainly has been mentally self destructive.

Random trip back to Minneapolis ? Sure, when do I leave?

Skip over to New York City for the weekend? Okay, let me check the bus schedule.

Falling for an emotionally unavailable man? Yup.

I recently bought my dream flute. It’s a brand new Yamaha 574, open-holed, silver-plated body, solid silver head… It’s so good it practically plays itself. When I play it, I don’t notice time going by. It’s one of the few things that keeps me sitting still.

When I went to the music store to pick it up, my dad came with me. The salesman shook my dad’s hand as we stood by the cash register, not knowing that I was the one who would be forking out the dough. He noticed my glare, and then shook my hand too.

I have a friend who criticized me for spending that kind of money on “just a flute.” I didn’t say anything to him about his lack of hesitation at dropping $200 on beer and fries in an afternoon.

The moral is that each person finds their own way to reign in their panic—and it’s an absolute must, because without some way of slowing down, you’ll run yourself off a cliff being sick, stupid and self destructive.

Premise #2

“You make a living munching on the bones of humanity, you unintentionally give yourself permission to transcend it. That is a powerful thing to be around, it empowers you.”

“… you need their distance to have room to find yourself. You may know this without knowing it.”

Musing #2

Ever read The Perks of Being a Wallflower?

My dad once told me that it’s better to seem a fool than to speak and remove all doubt. I lived most of my life by this rule, not because my dad planted this idea in my head as a seed, which then grew into a complex tree (or just a complex), but because I was always comforted by the idea that I was somehow above the situation at hand, that it was my choice to participate or not. I had control of what people thought of me until I spoke.

I once talked to Kirsten about how if she could get paid to sit in her apartment and just think about the way that people think, or dissect human nature and behavior, she’d never step outside.

It’s a balancing act, interacting and not interacting at the same time—if you get too close to your subject matter, you stand the risk of influencing it too much, thereby changing the very thing that drew you near. If you transcend, you’ve become empowered, but even more vulnerable to the inevitable. You stand the risk of being rejected, being utterly devastated, being utterly human. To live in reality, you have to give up control.

Moral Gleaned #2

Hiding behind distance is safe but highly damaging. I don’t know what else to say other than it’s risky to let your guard down, but if you don’t, you’re living a lie.

Truthfully, I don’t want to be held at a distance. I don’t need the space, and I know it. I want to be held so close that I can see his pores and smell his hair. Anything less than that isn’t worth my time right now. And that’s the Honest Truth. It’s also a compass and a moral check for me.

Premise #3

“Now, lets say you meet a kind emotionally available guy who likes you and wants to talk about your feelings, remembers things, asks you questions about yourself, is earnest and wants to squeeze you on an hourly, if not minutely, basis.”

Musing #3

What an interesting premise. I don’t think I would ever turn this away, but only if one more thing was added to that list… that I don’t feel alone with him.

Lovesong, by The Cure

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

I agree with Kirsten’s assertion that, “This lack of interest in nice dude is less self-destructive than a lack of self-knowledge.” I can now point to Honest Truth #2: There are plenty of Nice Guys out there, and the ones who are just that will never make you doubt them or their intentions. They’ll never make your life more complicated in unwanted ways. They’ll serve their souls to you on a platter, open and trusting. And they’ll bring a warm, close comfort to your association with them—not a cold, insecure anxiety. They'll make room for you in their lives in all possible ways.

Moral Gleaned #3

The “blindness of happiness” and the “falling down laughing” (from “Last Dance” by The Cure) doesn’t have to be a painful process. You don’t have to fight to justify living in peace.

Love don’t gotta hurt to feel good.

As an aside, this makes me think of the movie The Piano Teacher. Dear God. DO NOT WATCH THIS MOVIE ALONE. Thanks to Madox's recommendation, I had nightmares for days after watching this movie, not to mention I felt very dirty for several hours after I saw it.

Thanks, Kirsten. I’ll take one of those postcards.

**End of Dissection.**

You know that feeling you get before going to a birthday party as a kid? Better yet, a sleep over birthday party? Where you get to stay up till midnight playing games and watching movies? And then you raid your friend's parents' liquor cabinet for bourbon? Just kidding. Well, I feel that way right now. My brother and his girlfriend arrived the day before yesterday, and the rest of our guests are getting in late tonight.

I'm just happy that my family will be together for Thanksgiving, and that we'll have some great friends spending the weekend with us.

As a side note, if you're bored and need ideas on how to be silly (or shortbus-esque), please read the following:

1. Pretend you're an airplane going through turbulence by stretching your arms out limply at your side and shaking around. Do this in front of people, and/or uncomfortably close to people. Slap them "accidentally" in the process.

2. Leach people's faces by pretending that your hand is a leach and it's hungry.

3. Make a mosquito buzzing sound very close to someone's ear, then slap their ear and say, "Got it!"

4. Squish people's underarms and say, "I think this is a little undercooked."

5. Hide behind a very thin tree, thereby appearing like a very large elephant trying to hide behind a toothpick. People will then come up to you and offer assistance. Like Borat says, "Thaaat's nice!"

Yes. I've done each of these things.

***Currently listening to: Keane's Under the Iron Sea.

She has an unexplainable attraction to him. Maybe because he is always on the border between dismissive and uninterested, she mistakes this for nonchalant amusement on his part. Sometimes he calls and says very little, almost like he is in denial that he has, in fact, dialed her number.

Because she can’t figure out how she started liking him in the first place, she can’t figure out how to unlike him, how to get him out of her system.

If she didn’t like the way he smelled, or the way his mind worked—maybe if he betrayed his average self in some way—then she could forget about him. If he was pretentious and pretended to be more than his lackluster self, or if he had a dull look in his eyes and was entirely “ok,” then she wouldn’t want to figure out what made him the way he is. She would just let him be.

She wouldn’t have gone to a movie and watched him instead of the screen, surprised each time he laughed, delighted to have held his hand. She’d forgive him for being in love with someone else. She’d pity him for keeping the door open for this other woman, emphasizing the word “other” for no reason, and saying the word “woman” with feigned disgust.

As it stands now, she’s fascinated by this human being. The way he so casually said one evening, “Move in with me. You won’t feel like a stranger in your own house.” The way he so casually refused her umbrella, citing his need for space.

What he didn’t know was that he hit the nail on the head. Her biggest fear is feeling lonely while sitting with the man she sleeps with. Yet she’s never alone with him, and he doesn’t love her. That’s what keeps her tied to him—the unexplainable desire to be near him—the way he makes her loneliness fade, like shutting the bedroom door to the hallway light.

But he keeps the door open for this other. “Our families are friends,” he says. “She’s the only woman I can see my future with, the only one I can see myself marrying, having kids with.” Pain, betrayal, abandonment, he’ll take anything she sends his way because he’s lodged one of his red, indie shoes under the bedroom door. It’s always open for her.

The sadness comes when she realizes what has transpired: she’s fallen in love with someone who loves in a Godly way—without concern for the worthiness of the object. Infidelity, feeling trapped, disappearance to some foreign land, it doesn’t matter because he’ll forgive this other and love this woman even more when she returns from her personal discovery.

…Sadness because she realizes that this is what one ex-boyfriend maliciously called “baggage,” what she always defended as “life.”

…Sadness because she got to him a little bit too late. If it had been Her, instead of her. If they had met when his heart was free and had room for those fragile tipping points. If she could forget him, somehow.

Hi. It’s me again. I’m back. I’ve been gone for a while, off under some rock, going through the necessary motions of living. Something huge happened that knocked some sense into me, and I just wanted to say that I’m back. It’s nice to see you again.

***

Thanksgiving is coming up, and I have been thinking of taking up cooking again. I think this is neurotic, but I haven’t really cooked anything since the beginning of June. I’ve tried, but each time I picked up a pot and filled it with water, or got a spatula out of the drawer, I’d get nauseous and really depressed. It felt sort of like date rape. Like someone was trying to take something from me that I wasn’t sure I wanted to give.

Cooking is a nurturing act. Bowls of pumpkin soup and red-leafed lettuce and kiwi salads—these things need attention and care. And the people who eat these things? You have to care about them—care enough not to poison them, not to over-salt this or over-pepper that. Care enough to ask, “Well, how is it? Do you like it?”

***

I’m looking for an apartment in The District. You should’ve seen the way my mom looked at me when I told her that this morning.

It was a mixture of defeat and betrayal. Et tu, Brutus?

I plan on asking all the important questions of my potential roommates: How do you feel about guests staying overnight? Do you expect me to participate in the cooking? What if I don’t come home for days? Will you send a search party?

***

In the fall of 2002, my cousin committed suicide. It was about a week before Thanksgiving, and my parents told me to stay home and not fly to Israel with them for the funeral. I didn’t fight them on this. I was a coward and didn’t want to face the surviving parents, my beloved aunt and uncle, the very same ones who I gladly visited this October.

I knew strange things about my cousin—that she liked Armani’s Aqua Di Gio perfume, the same kind I use today. That she hated being photographed, which is why she was an excellent photographer. That she was a complicated person with a long history of depression. That before she died, she reconciled a feuding father and son, some distant relatives of ours who hadn’t spoken in three years. That she was a high ranking officer in the Israeli Army, and that her soldiers feared her. That she loved cats. That she had wanted children but couldn’t have any. And that she was a very good cook.

On Thanksgiving Day, my parents came home from their long journey. They were tired and emotionally drained. I had taken over my mom’s traditional responsibility of cooking Thanksgiving dinner for our usual guests. My grandma had offered to host Thanksgiving at her house that year, but I insisted that I was old enough and responsible enough to do it myself. Grandma stepped aside in the end, after a few grumbling words between my father and aunt.

That day, I cooked The Best Turkey Ever. Everyone agreed. It was so good that there weren’t any leftovers.

The following year, we spent Thanksgiving without my grandma. She passed away several months before the holiday, and needless to say, I felt guilty that I robbed her of such a beautiful memory—the Last Supper, especially since she wouldn’t live another full year.

***

“Mom, we’ve had this many people at our house for Thanksgiving before.”

“Marina, I know. But I just don’t know where eleven people are going to sleep.”

“It’s not a big deal. The youngest four will sleep on the floor.”

“What? No, I can’t have guests sleeping on the floor.”

“Mom, don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe we can ask the neighbors if some people can sleep at their house.”

“Seriously, don’t do that. We’ll manage just fine.”

***

I’ve been wondering what I’ll cook this year, and how I’ll feel about it. If someone dies from massive gas problems (please refer to the movie Like Water for Chocolate), it won’t be my fault. I only wish the best for my unsuspecting guests. If my karma gets mixed into the recipe, I can’t be held responsible.

Maybe yams with marshmallows, or stuffing with cranberries. Mashed potatoes with butter and chives or baked squash with cinnamon. Warm apple strudel or triple berry crisp with vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. Who knows? I might surprise myself.

This morning’s commute took me on a detour. The metro line I use had a power outage, so I had to hop on a bus that shuttled metro riders to the next functioning stop. It was still dark outside, sort of humid and very crowded, but oddly quiet, for a bus at least. Just one guy was yapping away on his cell phone, but not loudly or obnoxiously.

The bus ride took about ten minutes, and it was a direct route with one stop at the end. As we were nearing the final destination, someone with a sense of humor pulled the “stop requested” cord.

“DING!" Chimed the bell. "STOP REQUESTED!” Went the loud, robotic voice.

The whole bus-full of people started laughing.

Someone shouted “Good one!” And I couldn’t stop giggling.

We spent Monday night at a dark, loud and trendy coffee shop in Uptown. A group of friends from various stages of my life sat in a horseshoe, velvet-upholstered booth at a community center-esque table. Around the corner, a tarot reader predicted paths of swords and chalices. I wondered if I should invest in knowledge of the future, for surely, this oracle would have the answers to my questions. (She might even have some good news, unlike my last run-in with a clairvoyant bum man on my college campus who read my palm for a dollar. His prediction: I would go on to have a successful career and children, but that I would live in a loveless marriage. I kid you not. This actually happened.)

I watched my favorite newly-wed couple, relieved that they were still the same after the wedding: hilarious, completely inappropriate, without any complexes. As we sat laughing, making jabs at each other, jabs that may have seemed morally objectionable to the outside listener, I nursed my tea and relished the moment.

Halfway through the evening, my friend Joni placed a Regina Spektor CD in my hands and said, "I want you to have this. You seemed to really like her." I do like her. Her sound is unique and edgy, yet vulnerable and feminine. Earlier that weekend, Joni played that same CD titled "Begin to Hope" while we drove from St. Paul, to Minneapolis, to Minnetonka. Old stomping grounds. A few songs into the album, I began to suspect that this singer was an Eastern European Jewess. I still haven’t verified this, but when she says, "Hey remember that time when I only ate boxes of tangerines/ So cheap and juicy!" or the way she says "edit," makes me hear a sort of familiar curl to the "t’s". I guess the dead giveaway is when she busts out into a few Russian lines towards the end of "Apres Moi." Dark, metallic and very beautiful.

Earlier in the weekend, I had asked Joni to sing Chelsea Morning for me. Twice, in fact. Once in the bathroom while I brushed my teeth and got ready for a busy day, and one more time at a bar that was hosting a bluegrass band.

Joni humors me–after only a few pleading sentences, I can usually get her to sing anything. She’s like my own personal jukebox, and she’s influenced my taste in music more than anyone else I know.

Gifts of CDs remind me of sixth grade birthday parties and Creative Kids Stuff gift wrapping. They remind me of times when sharing a stuffed animal with your friend was a true exhibit of trust and love, even.

While in Israel, a lifelong friend of mine gave me three CDs of Israeli artists. Before that, I don’t remember the last time someone gave me a CD, or even a mix tape.

Music is like perfume. Associations of memories with sounds bring out emotions years later, like standing behind a man in line who wears a familiar cologne. I’ve written about The Cure, and how hard it’s been to break my association with the person who re-introduced the band to me.

Thanks for the CD, Joni. That’s all I’m saying.

Old friends are hard to let go of, especially when they come back to you through long shadows and afternoons spent catching up on tragedies transpired since the last time… since the last time we caught up on tragedies that were maybe more recognizable, since we’d been around for at least a part of them.

I don’t know how his life would be different if I had stayed with him since we were ten years old, if I had kept watch over him as I wish I had, if he had let me play that role in his life, if he had nurtured that desire in me.

I have seen him stumble through life in a very purposeful way, as if he was defying random chance and yet egging it on at the same time, yelping the battle cry, “Bring it on! I can take you down.” Secretly, I have wished that he wouldn’t fly the kite in nights so dark, amidst storms so fierce, that he would exhibit a little more humility or even fear, so that perhaps he would not foul quite so flagrantly.

I’ve waited for years to see if he would notice how fragile those tipping points have been in his life, where each decision has led him down a new path of some sort, each one inevitably further and further away from me.

I haven’t stayed in one place either. I’ve climbed all around the perimeter of the pool, sometimes kicking my legs away from the wall in weightless pauses, drifting, dead wood. But I’ve kept an eye on him the whole time, and I’m sure he has done the same for me.

I worry that if I wait too long, the next time we have an afternoon of dusty rays and sad honesty, we may have traveled those miles and miles that Frost has talked about, miles and miles through roads best not taken, fragile tipping points and all.

In time, I may forget that I felt love for him in that moment, and in those countless prior moments too. I may forget that I had wanted to sweep him up in my French bread arms and smother him with understanding and accomplice-infidelity. That moment might hang in the air, right where we left it, untouched, forever, a paper-thin glass ball filled with oil. Or I may remember that moment as long as I live, always looking back at it as the point where our paths diverged for the final time, where I failed to see the fragility of who we had become and the improbability of having crossed paths again in that particular way, so innocently.

I'm in Minnesota for the weekend, where it's currently butt-crackin' cold. At least that's what the weather man said.

In other news, I got tagged by DCBlogs a few days ago, and they said some really nice things about my writing. Thanks for the nod!

I left his apartment with an unsettled, unsatisfied feeling, like I had ordered a meal of meat and potatoes with corn bread, but the plate was taken away before I was completely full. I set off on my walk to the metro as it poured darkness and textbook raindrops.

We had had Thai food at the early bird hour and then sat on his living room couch, talking but not really. Just trying to see if maybe something was there without actually admitting to each other that we were testing the moment. Maybe we were just passing the time together, but still apart, alone with each other. Distance interspersed with John Stewart’s raised eyebrows and puckered lips in cartoon fashion, space widened as we both lavished the cat in undeserving praise and petting, my stomach jumping each time his and my fingers touched, deliberately on my part, accidentally on his, I’m sure.

As I walked the nighttime DC blocks, breathing a mean sort of tropical winter, I noticed how my feet looked in my funky leather shoes and how the blocks seemed longer than when I was walking with him only a few hours earlier. He had refused the umbrella, citing his need for space. Puddles seeped through the seams of my shoes, soaking my argyle socks. Toes squishing, cold, shoulders scrunched up to keep the rain from my neck, head and face covered by my umbrella, purposely, the smell of wet down wafting up to my nose, whisked away by the sideways wind. Strangers glared at me, no doubt wondering why I wasn’t sharing my shelter, my eyes saying that, indeed, I would like nothing more. It was too dark to see my true intent and I’m sure they weren’t interested in the truth anyway, and neither was he.

I saw people’s feet walking by in two sets of two, sometimes the inevitable drunk pair of feet going this way and that, like lightning. Gleaming leather jackets striking matches on front steps. Bunraku dolls all around me, wet dogs walking their owners, making them stop under skeleton trees for shelter while the true owners watched their markings instantly wash off posts and shrubs. Leaves plastered to the brick sidewalks, iron railings contrasted against the lights of people inside their homes, watching the election results on TV.

I left his apartment wondering why I hadn’t said what I wanted to say, to ask what he wanted from me, why he kept me around. At the same time, I was grateful that I had kept my mouth shut, in fact, had said very little—grateful that I could continue living through the space, constructing melted-yellow lamp post light into warmth between strangers. I felt less lonely for brief moments, and at the same time my loneliness was even more acute because he was right there. I could have taken his hand and held it just long enough until he realized that his cat’s food dish was empty and that the overhead light was bothering him, just long enough to make me see that it was never going to be enough and that the space itself would always win out over whatever filled it.

I walked for blocks, zigzagging the whole way, avoiding puddles of a certain, obvious depth. Puddles which, had I avoided them, would have made no real difference in terms of staying dry, but would have meant an admittance of moral defeat if I had stepped in them.

What are some interview questions you've been asked? Throw out the hard ones, the dumb ones, and the "groaner" ones (a nod to Comedy Sportz). The paper-bag-over-your-head BAD ONES.

On Wednesday, November 2, Keith Olbermann had a "special comment" on his show Countdown. Please read the transcript: Bush owes troops an apology, not Kerry.

If you'd rather see the video, head over to Towleroad and check it out.

I don't believe I've ever seen a "new one" torn in such a way before. Thanks, Josh H. for sending me the link!

***

Currently listening to Ben Folds Five, Songs of Love

All U Can Eat

Son, look at all the people
In this restaurant
What do you think they weigh?
And out the window
To the parking lot
At their SUVs taking all of this space

They give no fuck
They talk as loud as they want
They give no fuck
Just as long as there's enough
For them

Gonna get on the microphone
Down at Wal-Mart
Talk about some shit
That's been on my mind
Talk about the state
Of this great nation of ours
People look to your left
Yeah and look to your right

They give no fuck
They buy as much as they would want
They give no fuck
Just as long as there's enough
For them

Son, look at the people
Lining up for plastic
Wouldn't you like to see 'em
In the National Geographic
Squating bare-assed in the dirt
Eating rice from a bowl
With a towel on their head and
Maybe a bone in their nose

See that asshole
With a peace sign on his license plate
Giving me the finger and
Running me out of his lane
God made us number one
'Cause he loves us the best
But he should go bless
Someone else for a while
And give us a rest

(They give no)
Yeah and everyone can see
(They give no)
We've eaten all that we can eat

When I meet a new guy, I sometimes think to myself, “Is he marriageable?” And, of course, I hear this voice inside my head that instantly chastises me by saying, “And so what if he is? Then what?”

I’m embarrassed by this thought process. I’ve been avoiding it by pretending that these thoughts don’t actually flash through my brain whenever I meet someone new. But they do.

Honestly, I understand that marriage is not a prize at the end of some strenuous journey—it is the strenuous journey. And from past experience, if you are focused on the “when will I find him,” you probably won’t notice him when he shows up. Worse yet, you could scare him away through any number of ways (like actually mentioning that you want to get married).

Over the last few weeks, three married friends of mine have come to me with various problems that they’re having with their spouses. These aren’t problems like “whose family should we go to for Christmas” (although this has also been an issue with one of the couples). There have been issues ranging from financial infidelity to dissatisfaction with what happens in the bedroom. These three couples don’t know each other, and admittedly, I’m really only friends with the women. So I only get the female perspective on what marriage is like for a couple who is in their 20s.

Let me tell you…from what I hear, it’s damn hard work. I see women who are unsatisfied in some way, but don’t want to start fights. They can’t be fully honest with their spouses because feelings will be hurt. Issues are tiptoed around sometimes. Other times, the issues are put out there in the open and still, the husbands don’t see the gravity of some of these problems. I see young, beautiful, educated women who are married and who still feel dissatisfied. Their eyes wander; temptation abounds. But it’s more than being physically drawn to a gorgeous man at a bar—it’s the desire to have an emotional connection outside of the marriage with other men.

From what I hear, the line “I’m just not happy” is uttered sometimes. And the response comes, accompanied by the spouse’s hands being thrown up in the air, “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

I don’t know what it’s like from the other side—the husband’s side. No doubt, it is no less difficult than what the wife goes through. And I don’t see much of a difference between the sorts of dilemmas that a married couple goes through and what a couple who is dating seriously experiences (considering that most couples live together before marriage). The only real difference is that for a couple who is dating, there hasn’t been a public announcement of lifelong commitment, no signatures have been put down on paper, and the entire situation lacks “official” status. (Of course, I am simplifying the matter by ignoring family relations and children, if there are any.)

But what does “official status” mean? Just because something is official doesn’t mean it can’t be officially dismembered, piece by piece, through lawyers, arbitrators and judges. Just like when a couple is dating, a married couple has to choose to be with each other on a daily basis. Because, unlike several decades ago, dissolving a young marriage can be as easy (or hard, depending on how you look at it) as breaking up with your boyfriend or girlfriend.

I’ve heard the term “start-up marriage” used for couples who got married fairly young and got divorced soon after for a myriad reasons. Just like a start-up business, a start-up marriage lasts between 2-5 years, involves a lot of hype and excitement, usually requires a substantial financial investment, and can go belly-up seemingly overnight. The key factor is that, at this stage of the marriage, kids were not in the picture yet.

So, I’m brought back to my initial thoughts. Why do I care if a man that I’m considering dating (see 100 Deal Breakers) is marriageable? Is it a way for me to perceive commitment? To feel like I have even a tiny bit of control over him and us? It’s almost absurd, really. And what does commitment mean anyway, if marriage itself is only the beginning of the really difficult times, and it can be dissolved as quickly as a lump of sugar in some hot tea?

I am starting to realize that I have no clue about what being married is. I know that there are times of horrible loneliness, isolation and depravity. I also know that there can be true friendship between a husband and wife, companionship, support, and security.

It’s easy to look at my friends who have gotten engaged or married and think to myself, “That looks great. I’d like to try that.” But a while ago, I realized that I was starting to put the process ahead of the person, and that realization scared me. Today’s realization is that I don’t even know what I’m striving towards.

Wedding invitations, guest lists, catering, reception halls, dresses, veils, gift registries, china and silver wear…these things don’t interest me. These things are part of the hype and financial outlay necessary for a true start-up marriage, and I’m not interested in any of it. What I am interested in, however, is understanding what makes a marriage different than dating a person, being in love and cohabitating with them indefinitely.

Please share your thoughts with me—what does marriage mean to you? Aside from societal pressures, why do people get married? What makes it last? What makes it fail? Or anything else you want to discuss.

I am hungry (female) = Ya ga-lod-naya

I am hungry (male) = Ya ga-lod-niy

I am bored = Mne scku-chno

I don’t understand this life = Ya ne po-ne-mayu etu zhi-zen

I want a cookie = Ya ha-choo pe-chen-ya.

Help me = Po-mo-gi mne

Give me love (informal) = Dai mne lu-bov

And beer = Ee pee-vo

Forgive me (informal you implied) = Prosti menya