Interstalking

This one's for all you ladies in the house.

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Discovered via Spin magazine today and apparently a Norwegian singing, recorded in Iceland. My Nordic people representing!

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It's super cold today but this song is all summer of 1992 to me. I was 14 and dark.

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Interstalking has moved to Wordpress!

And we're a dotcom now!

interstalking.com

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Hilarious Things I Can't Tweet - Part I

So I've said a couple things lately that people thought were extremely funny and to be honest I knew I was being funny when I said them, because like, I don't really mean this stuff, I'm not that crazy, or that much of a jerk.  But I AM that funny.  I could never tweet these things but I have to get more people to laugh at them because I need your validation.

My twelve year old nephew has a girlfriend now, and his Instagram has gotten way more exciting than mine.  I pointed out to my sister that he is involved in a longer relationship than I have had the past three years, and she said "yeah, they just had their three month anniversary".

To this I replied that if I had a three year anniversary with someone I'd be planning a wedding or an unplanned pregnancy.

You must admit this shit is hilarious but no one would get the joke if I tweeted it.  Marriage - I'm not sure if it's my thing, at least in the traditional sense.  Unplanned pregnancy on the other hand is totally appealing to me because I can't imagine making that kind of decision on my own.  But you can't plan an unplanned pregnancy... duh...  

Today, my friend mentioned that she'd be going to an opening games party for the Olympics, and she'd totally invite me except that it would be suburban with babies and stuff.  "Oh, I don't want to go," I said, "I like babies, but I don't want to hang out with them on the weekend."

I think this should make sense to anyone without babies.  But that doesn't stop it from being really funny.  

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Resolute

I’ve been thinking a lot about resolutions and I finally made progress this year to not make the same resolutions I make every year like:

1) Pay off credit cards.

2) Travel overseas.

3) Be thinner and work out more. (What a stupid resolution, but I’m sure I made this one in my twenties.  A better resolution would be to get laid as much as possible while still young and healthy (only by extremely cool people, obviously).  I doubt the guys will notice that four pounds I always want to lose.)

4) Don't make out with upperclassmen at parties when you are drunk (I'm pretty sure I made this one in 1992).

It’s so easy to tell yourself you are going to do big things, you are going to live life to the limit, you are going to love boundlessly, you are going to stop acting “out of fear”, you’re going to stop being a bitch to your Mom.  Facebook, Twitter, and even Instagram have been full of such proclamations recently.  A lot of people are telling me to get outside, usually whilst I’m checking Facebook on a run with my dog (lame).  I think of these posts as “boast-posts” disguised as gratitude.  I hate being told what to do, including by my friends, and social media seems like such a cheap place to try and inspire people – so action-less.

(New Resolution: Stop thinking bitchy thoughts about your friends and family on social media!)

I search for enlightenment and I try to quiet down enough, sometimes, to listen to the universe, I just don’t usually choose to find it and listen to it on social media or online dating profiles.  A lot of people use that tiny space on Tinder to write something like “Live your life, don’t let it live you”… you know, some stupid crap like that.  But I’m not on Tinder, of course.  (See “Tinder’d” Parts I and II.)    

It’s so great to think those positive things, and really try to live your life that way, and “be present” though.  I remind myself to “be present” often in my head, and not just when I’m eating fries.  I have to remind myself because I forget that shit regularly.  I always thought I was practicing the spiritual exercises of being present and acceptance and not assuming.  Or maybe I really wasn’t trying at all, which is more likely; I think I was actually judging the crap out of people and scaring them away in bars - that was, when I wasn’t hating myself and trying to control my life and future without actually doing anything about what I wanted.  

I have cried in the temple ceremony at the yoga retreat and thought about becoming who I really am, and then my life forced me to actually do it, and forget about resolutions that involved being financially responsible, not slutty, and not a bitch.  So what was my enlightening experience?  Did I go to South America and hike or become a yoga instructor or climb mountains or sky dive?

No.  My Dad died.

2013 started for me with my Dad dying (January 3, 2013, the day after his 67th birthday).  My distant, deadbeat, lovely, weird, handsome, handy, and utterly cool, fucking difficult Dad was the hardest gift of my life to receive, because everything and everyone around me told me he wasn’t right, but there were things about him that were so perfect that I missed for so long.  I didn’t even realize I had his nose until he died because my sister inherited his beautiful eyes and perfect teeth.  I got the anti-establishment belief system and the funny nose.   

My Dad once told me that his first rule of relationships was "I get to be me, and you get to be you."  He was not perfect, and he failed as a father.  But I wish I had allowed him to be him enough for him to tell me more stuff like that.  

I had 6 weeks and a lifetime to prepare for him leaving me in ultimate because of Marlboro Reds and stage 4 lung cancer.  Years of ignoring my feelings and issues came rushing up in my throat and forced me to deal with them as I vomited it all uncontrollably for months. 

I am very aware that I sound like one of those annoying Facebook posts right now.  But this is a blog; it’s different. 

The post my Dad dying me is so much cooler, so much happier, and capable of making resolutions like this:

1) Open all mail at least twice a week. (Facing avoidance issues.)

2) Start a savings plan for trip to Sweden. (Actually long term planning instead of wishing and blaming circumstances for things not happening.)

3) Start using Hoot Suite. (Actual practical method of operations for someone with a blog.)

4) Create an actual bill pay off plan that will actually pay off my credit cards – like a realistic, long term one, not an unrealistic one that will be derailed by new boots, that turns into a bunch of new stuff and expenditures because, well, I bought the boots, so... 

This is what I’ve got now in 2014, - a logically thinking brain that can make small and thought out goals because it isn’t distracted by the garbage of a troubled soul.  Because 2013 was all about my willful, childish self, I can do this now.  Being forced to be more of an adult than I'd ever been brought out the insolent teenager in me, the high school makeout queen on several Natty Lights.  And, I got her out of my system for the foreseeable future.

2013 was about emptying the apartment of my dead father mere weeks after I was cringing at the sight of him dying in it, inheriting several mason jars of weed, “The Joy of Sex Part II”, and an apartment full of furniture.  It was about closing his bank account and liquidating his retirement account and adapting a “fuck it” attitude about the pot I was smoking and the too young guys I was dating and actually letting one of them wreck my emotions (the guy, not the pot - the pot was actually a good friend in this time period).  It was about telling my sister I would call the Sioux Falls library system and personally tell them to fuck off for trying to get back “The Hunger Games” trilogy from my dead father if she didn't want to do it herself (she got all the forwarded mail).  It was about not giving a shit about what I’d thought I was supposed to be doing since turning 30 because we all die anyway and not being yourself is a colossal waste of time.  Especially if you aren’t getting paid for it.

Not surprisingly, 2013 was also about having a therapist.  I might be a head of the class therapy all-star, because I only went for six months.  Eventually, I stopped crying all the time.  I learned to communicate with my friends, making my friendships so much more valuable and beautiful to me.  I learned to communicate with my family.  I learned to accept them all, including myself.  Forgiveness was something I’d always known, mostly.  Acceptance is much harder work, and makes your life so much easier.   

2013 was about weekends spent crying in my apartment, listening to my Dad’s records and clutching the box with his ashes to me when I felt especially awful (I am aware that this is creepy).  It was about eventually finding a special place for some of those ashes in my home, and letting the rest of them float gracefully downward into the Mississippi River from a bridge just blocks from where they were born, with my only blood sister and best friend next to me.  We watched them arc through the air and draw a line in the water to where they were headed with the current.  2013 was about eventually thinking about getting rid of some of my Dad’s stuff like I let go of the ashes.  But keeping some too.  Including the weed, on both counts.  And really, I haven’t been able to let go of much yet.  But I will.      

I may need to go back to therapy eventually to deal with my intense commitment issues (see lack of long term planning skills noted above), but I think just opening the mail and sitting down to create an actual budget - like, a realistic one I can totally stick to, are small steps toward not being as scared of obligations and long term logistics... and the people that you feel obligated to.  

I think I’ve finally learned how to let life happen to me (instead of telling myself all the wrong things were happening to me because I thought I wasn't the person I should be), and happiness happen to me (you create it, of course, but you have to make room for it by being yourself).  And I think it’s making space for me being an adult where it counts.  My fucking checkbook people, and my passport.  I mean, where it counts for reaching goals I've had for a long time with no idea how to achieve.

Death is an extremely commonplace and inexpensive way to be enlightened, but it works.  It teaches the damned lesson, that’s for sure.  "Death is for the living" was always in my mind, because the brief time I had with my Dad in his illness, the painful few moments, the day of calling him because he could no longer speak but he could hear me, and I was a ten hour drive away and didn't know if I wanted to go be with him or if this would go on for days, or if he wanted me there... those are the things I don't think about as much later on.  I can't change them.  It's what started happening to me once he was gone that was the authentic experience of his exit.  If I had a day to be with my Dad without thinking about what a crappy Dad he’d been… oh, if I had that day.  He died with regret, and I don’t want to.  If I make it to the mountain tops and the other continents, my Facebook posts should be more grateful and braggy than anyone else’s now.  But I want to write them on my own heart and those of the people I love.  I’ve finally started to understand.  

And I really do think I'll start paying off my credit cards this year.  I've heard that money can't buy love.  

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Bakers Get All the Girls or "A Tale of Twentysomethings from Pre-Smartphone Detroit"

I read this NY Times article today:

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/12/15/fashion/before-the-web-hearts-grew-silent.html?pagewanted=2&_r=0&ref=modernlove

and was reminded about a post I've been wanting to write.  I think it's obvious I enjoy nostalgia.  Sometimes when my own life is happening I can't believe it, and those are the memories I retreat into years later when I want to retaste what it felt like for things to be really new.  

In 2003, I was a new Detroiter.  A transplant from Los Angeles that really blew everyone's mind.  For example: "you moved here from L.A.?"  Now they're starting to understand after the storm of post-2008 Detroit media about how cool it actually is, ruin porn and all.  The film incentive took effect just as I moved away in 2008, and all my friends were seeing Ryan Gosling at karaoke.  SO unfair.  

My dark years in Los Angeles had almost turned me into so many things I didn't want to, or wasn't ready to be.  First, the wife of a tough guy, and second, a woman who only had her career and whose biggest accomplishment was owning a Jag (for the record I'd never buy a Jag, but I'm speaking from observation).    

I knew what I wanted to be.  Truly - I wanted to be a rock star.  But I'd take the next best thing: being friends with rock stars.  I wanted to party.  I wanted to pretend I was living in certain parts of "Please Kill Me", specifically in 1975-1978 New York.  So, I did the obvious thing and moved to Detroit, where I could pretend, with much cheaper rent than where I was living in L.A., or where I'd come from in the modern era New York.  

If you read this book there's a stronger than average chance we could be friends.  

The epicenter of what I was looking for, at age twenty five, was at the Magic Stick.  

My roommate bartended there, which felt like a huge gift from the universe.  I got to go to many shows free... and I did, alone at first, while I tried to gather friends from my jobs and my solo excursions.  After the Electric Six show on New Year's Eve, Jack White was holding hands with Marcie from the Von Bondies as the room emptied.  This was a huge deal in "Fell in Love with a Girl" legos video Detroit (for me).  

I don't remember exactly how I met the Modern Dancer, but I know it was in front of the Magic Stick.  

I don't remember if he took my number or gave me his, or exactly what our first date was.  

I remember these things.  

1) The Blackout of 2003.  My roommate and I were driving around the corner from our house, probably on our way to go someplace we could shower.  The Modern Dancer ("The MD" for short) drove by with a beautiful black woman in his car.  I was deflated.  I think at this point he just hadn't called me or something, we hadn't even had a date.  But I was 25, inexperienced, and obsessive.    

2) One date, we sat in the backyard of the Old Miami, a notable Cass Corridor dive bar, with the MD's friend.  The MD was discussing his DUI.  He was 26.  I can't remember if this was the night that the friend hit on me or not.  But that happened too.  I was so confused by that.  "I'm kind of seeing someone," I said, hoping he'd figure out what I meant.  Later the whole scenario made more sense.    

3) Vivid memories of this night... I'm hanging out with the Modern Dancer. I don't remember what we did except for going to a party at the house across the street from me (the MD and I lived blocks from each other, where everyone lived, in Woodbridge).  I was wearing the navy blue mesh skirt to my Rocawear basketball cheerleader outfit (yes, you read that correctly), a white tank top, and Adidas Top Tens.

I mostly listened to hip hop at this point in my existence.  I just got rid of those Adidas a few months ago (they always pinched my toes).  We got stoned, and the girl that lived at the house suddenly fainted.  All the stoners panicked.  The Modern Dancer said "I have some gauze at my house!", jumped in his Escort wagon, and rushed the few blocks to his place.  Unsure of what to do in a houseful of strangers on their way to the emergency room, I walked across the street and back home.  Eventually, the MD showed up on my doorstep.  My neighbor, who had promised me a turkey burger hours before when it was close to dinner time, showed up after midnight on my porch where The Modern Dancer and I sat talking.  "Oh my god, I cannot eat that right now, I am way too high" I said.  What I meant was "I already ate, it's not dinner time, and I am about to get it on, pothead style, with this flexible guy on my porch."  She seemed very offended.    

4) Big, important point about The Modern Dancer.  He did not have a cell phone.  I had a cell phone with an 810 area code, as name checked by Marshall Mathers in "8 Mile"...

"and I can't even say I'm from Motown, cause I'm back in the 810 now!"

The Modern Dancer did not have a long distance plan.  He could not economically call me.  Therefore, he would show up at my house on Tuesday nights.  It happened on Tuesday... frequently, once we slept together.  Though we only slept together a handful of times over the three months we dated.  I asked a friend what she thought of it.  "You're the Tuesday night girl!" was the resounding response.  

5) Everyone I knew in Detroit - and these were all new friends, mostly my neighbors, but as I mentioned everyone was connected - would say, "Oh, you don't want to date that guy!" when I mentioned the MD.  "Why, why?" I'd ask desperately, but no one would give me a straight answer, until finally one of my neighbors said something like "I've heard he's a player."  I found this really difficult to believe with our sad record of having sex, even though another friend suggested the MD had had sex with someone else besides me in the same day, ruining him for me on several occasions.  This began my attempt to go out every night in an effort to catch him with another girl.  No luck.  

6) The Modern Dancer worked at one of our neighborhood's hot spots - an organic bakery in the Cass Corridor.  A friend of mine was dating a somewhat notable graffiti artist (who ended up in jail, causing her an extremely high phone bill and a lot of stress).  I told him about the MD on my townhouse duplex porch.  "Oh, bakers get all the girls, he said."    

7) It finally came down to a night we were out and another girl showed up.   She was overly touchy with the MD, and I believe we were hanging out with her ex-boyfriend also.  I don't remember if I specifically asked him about her, or about other girls, but I got it out of him that night.  I stood naked in my bedroom telling him "you knew I wasn't that kind of girl!  I'm a one man woman!"  A few weeks before he'd asked me, "hey girl from around the way, how around-the-way are you?" and, thinking I understood this question as a listener of junior high era LL Cool J, I'd explained my stance.  When I asked him the same question, his response was something like "I'm not nearly as skeezy as I used to be", which I took to mean we were exclusive.  So this relationship was pretty much my education on dating in your twenties, after the two serious relationships of late college and early graduation.

Even after we "broke up", I had some interludes with the MD.  I'm not sure how we ended up being friends, but I went to the sauna with him on more than one occasion.  He'd show up... it was probably Tuesday, and I'd go get naked in a sauna with him.  "I covered my nuts so you're not uncomfortable" stands out in my mind.  My '20s were so romantic!  

We may have made out after one of these sauna occasions.  I know there were other sleepovers, though I don't think we ever had sex again.  In fact, I strongly remember a sleepover when we definitey did NOT have sex.  Like REALLY didn't have sex, if you know what I mean.  I was also dating a 22 year old white rapper at the time, so I was learning.  That seemed like a huge age difference then; I was turning 26.  I do remember, when I was dating the MD, that he gave me a ridiculously awesome massage and I fell asleep until the next afternoon.  So that was my fault that time.  

Anyway, even after the "kind of" lying and the sleeping with other girls around sleeping with me, I still have fond feelings for the MD.  Romance with him had a delightful element of surprise.  I was trying to track him down.  I remember the humiliating moment when I realized his phone had caller ID (oh the times I'd called without leaving a message... in a row), but even in a small community, I had no way to interstalk him in 2003.  There was an article in the Metro Times about one of his performances.  That was the only way I could see a picture of him when I was thinking about him.  No yearbooks.  No Facebooks.  The MD rejected "Friendster".    

Eventually, I knew more people and got to the point of being embarrassed about this guy I'd been completely enamored with.  Apparently I had become really cool.  A few years later, I finally saw him dance.   

Then I was really over it.  

When I think back to my 25 year old self, I was so inept at everything other than chasing boys and social climbing that I don't know how I managed to pay my rent or prevent from dying.  I love having money and loving myself, but I miss those times.  Especially land lines and the mystery of waiting for someone you knew was out there to show up.  God, it was miserable.  But so much more exciting than a text.    

Striking a pose in an empty dance club in 2003.    

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Give Me Cosmetics and Occasional Chocolate and Tea

In the spirit of giving, I want to advertise the absolute best products Birchbox has introduced me to.  

Birchbox, you made me a woman.  Seriously.  I learned how to apply eyeshadow for you.

1. The Balm's Stainiac

My number one lip product from Birchbox.  It doesn't work for me on cheeks, but gives me the perfect natural red lip color that works great with cherry chapstick.  Able to be applied when you have woken up with crusted mascara on in someone else's bed.  You will look fresh and vibrant when he comes back from the bathroom.  

http://www.thebalm.com/beauty-queen.html

2. Miss Jessie's Pillow Soft Curls

This product is perfect for my very particular kind of curl, that has the ability to be soft and silky, but can go badly in the other direction as well if left untreated.  Miss Jessie, I feel beautiful, and thank you.  I like the shampoo and conditioner too.  Some of the products are a bit too heavy, likely more appropriate for persons with more coarse hair.  

http://missjessies.com/Pillow-Soft-Curls_2#.UrU4ais6UdI

3. Amika: Nourishing Mask

Majorly good stuff for hair farmers like me.  I'm in need of purchasing more of this NOW.

http://loveamika.com/showproducts/properties?id=28

4. Youngblood Hi-Definition Hydrating Mineral Perfecting Powder

I am 28 in bright sunlight with this product.  I also think that I'd maybe buy anything, or date anyone, called "youngblood".  

http://www.ybskin.com/flawless-face/powder.html

5. Chuao Chocolatier Potato Chip Chocopod

One day Birchbox sent me a chocolate covered potato chip.

http://chuaochocolatier.com/

6. Likewise Skincare Normal to Dry Moisturizing Defense

This felt amazing on my face and I milked my tiny sample for several weeks.  It's been sold out everywhere since, but someday I will buy it and hope I don't have issues from the soy contained in it (Cerave is pretty awesome too.).  

http://www.likewiseskincare.com/normal-to-dry-skin/

7. Multiple Suggestions for Christmas Gifts

Seeing this:

on the Birchbox site led me to the Meriwether of Montana site, which led me to buy 5 of these Zippo hand warmers (including one for myself).

http://meriwetherfieldgear.com/collections/field-stream/products/zippo-hand-warmer  

I know this sounds like a blatant pitch, but I really am thankful for Birchbox.  They've made me prettier and better smelling for ten dollars a month only.  Brilliant!

I'll be back after or sometime during the holidays with more of the usual dirt, promise.  

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Wow, you're article on Haim was really great . I'm obsessed with them and you pretty much just explained to me why i loved them so much. A+

Thank you!  I appreciate you telling me this very much!  I am an adult professional woman and I still need to see girls like them who aren't afraid to be themselves!  You should check out The Bangles and Liz Phair if you haven't already.  And maybe a little Runaways.  Rock on. 

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Interstalking HAIM

Real Girls with Real Instruments YES!

Haim did not just appear and they have a long musical past, but I just became really aware of them last week because, of course, I was watching "Saturday Night Live".  They may be the coolest valley girls ever.  I want my hair to grow faster, to start wearing a leather jacket, and to go back to work on my all girl band screen play, because Haim is so much like the rocking farm girls I pictured in my head, only sisters and from LA.  Don't even get me started on their beautiful thick eyebrows - this is about the music!

Could it be any cooler that a lyric in this song, "The Wire" has a woman saying she is "bad at communication"?  

I love Danielle Haim (lead guitar, lead vocals, and middle sister).  There is something so tomboyish but sexy about her.  I haven't seen her wearing lipstick so far, and she's hot in addition to being an in-demand touring musician outside of her own band.  I love when girls play instruments in a band and don't seem like "chicks", but don't seem like Melissa Etheridge.  Why is it so seemingly rare?  And all girl bands seem even more rare.  I was a big fan of The Like's album "Release Me" (another L.A. all-girl band with deep musical roots) but it didn't have this kind of authentic rock feel (exceptional production by Mark Ronson though!).  

Even though the production on "Days are Gone" is slick, the live performance I saw last week on TV didn't feel that way at all.  Like this Pitchfork review mentions (http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/18574-haim-days-are-gone/), there is an element of the "Hot 100 Singles of 1987" in "Days are Gone" that gives me a pleasant nostalgic feeling.  1987 was the summer we moved to Massachusetts, spent in our split level home basement watching the VH-1 we mysteriously had without a cable box.  Therefore, this song in my head all week in addition to Haim.

    Este, the bass player and oldest, wears bright red lipstick and has a really intense guitar face.  The youngest sister, Alana (guitar, percussion, and keys), is all about the short shorts.  And I may have mentioned the hair.  Long, straight, awe-inspiring hair, so you know they're girls.    

I always had a problem with super girlie music like Jewel's and Sarah McLachlan's.  It just seemed like the fodder for everything people like to tease/hate women for - weepy, emotional, pining songs about your boyfriend and the toothpaste cap.  Therefore, I was severely against the Lilith Fair despite Liz Phair's participation.  In retrospect, I appreciate supportive environments for women in any realm, I just hate that we need them in music.

Haim (because yes, I do think they are the kind of young women who control everything about their image) have videos in which they 1) make a bunch of guys cry 2) ride motorbikes like their own three person gang 3) catch fish with their bare hands in the wilderness 4) goof off dancing in a beauty salon, and 5) more than once, do an in-unison dance move.  They also play basketball against a team of boys, in one instance where they are shown competing with men rather than trying to win them.  I love that they aren't afraid to show that their music is danceable, to show some leg, to do a synchro dance move together (maybe one is wearing a bra top), and to do a weird fireside ritual with gypsy robes and feline light projections on their faces because damn it, you can play in a band, and be in control of your life, and be sexy and desirable, and do it all in Keds and low heeled boots without ever having a cleavage shot.  Why are there not enough female role models like this anywhere?

Here's the other thing - I think Haim may have made Sheryl Crow cool.  Don't get me wrong - I'll sing along to a Sheryl Crow song on the radio.  I respect her abilities as a singer and guitarist and I know she is a songwriter as well.  But I don't go around advertising this nor do I buy her records.  So, to the generation younger than me, is Sheryl Crow actually cool, or is she cool in the way I loved Corey Hart's "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" when I was little and I now love Badfinger?  It's confusing for me, but you should watch the performance linked here:

http://pitchfork.com/news/53106-watch-haim-and-lorde-cover-sheryl-crows-strong-enough/ 

I don't think this is the best example of Haim's vocal abilities (I love that they sing in a lower range than many popular female musicians), but I love how INTO it they are.  Like, happy to be covering a song from their ostensible childhood and also like, into the lyrics.  Of "Strong Enough".  I know, this is a big deal, not being scared to sing that song seriously.   

I can't talk about Lorde right now because I am too distracted by her purple lipstick and huge coat.  But, did you notice that Danielle Haim SOLOs?  Do you know how infrequently this happens with female guitarists?

I'll probably continue to write about sister bands and not be in one.  But I am newly motivated to wear ripped tee shirts and flat shoes, and this is progress.  Thank you Haim.  Thank you.*

*Note: This only happens when the band is good.    

Please enjoy Haim's videos on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/HaimTheBand?feature=watch

And also enjoy some of the more ridiculous comments showing how unused to seeing real women people are.  For example "they're weirdly hott too" - as opposed to the un-weird hottness of like, Britney Spears or something?  Apparently Danielle also is always dressed like a guy.  Which is why I think she has SUCH AWESOME STYLE.  

Don't give up, ladies!

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Interstalking Recommends... "Coupling"

Lately I've been escaping into this BBC TV show from the early 2000s.  It's kind of like "Sex and the City" but with male characters, and much, much sillier.  

Most of the episodes revolve around some kind of gross, hilarious misunderstanding, but are underlined with extreme depictions of the kind of thing single professionals in their twenties and thirties encounter all the time.  Frequently, action is presented twice, from the male and female perspective, which I haven't gotten sick of either!

I love this light, relatable comedy.  It really makes me miss the era "BT" - Before Texting.   

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Tinder'd Part II or "Scent of a 28 Year Old"

   Here's what you missed last week:

He responded to my voicemail... WITH A TEXT.

“If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll give him what he wants!  Fuck that!”  I said to anyone who would still speak to me after the nine days of hell I’d put them through.  I didn’t text Special Ed back.  He hadn’t asked any questions.  His text had even said “Happy Friday.”  WTF is that?  “Happy Friday” is merely a lame way to open an email to a client.     

I posted a rare Instagram the night after the text blow off of a full moon with the caption, “Moon, it’s all your fault.”  Lo and behold, Ed was following me on Instagram (I used it so infrequently I hadn’t noticed).  He liked my picture.  And promptly started drunk texting me. 

When Special Ed told me how much he missed me, I didn’t really believe him since he’d been avoiding me for a week and a half.  “What do you miss?”  I asked in earnest.  Below is the communication breakdown that then occurred. 

Me: What do you miss exactly?

Ed: Your company. 

Exactly?

Well…

I miss your humor and conversation. 

Me: That’s nice Ed.  My company misses your company too.  

Ed: Nice?

Well, I could be more explicit but that isn’t polite.

Me: I mean that was a nice thing to say.  I meant that was really nice and made me feel happy. 

Ed: I miss the way you make love to me to be exact.  

Me: You’re drunk.  :)

Ed: Totally

Wasted

Me: I wasn’t looking for explicit but that’s ok.  

Ed: Ok.

I’m explicit. 

Me: Girls really like hearing nice things about their personalities!  :)

I already know about my ass.  Ha ha.  :)

Ed: Duh.

This conversation needs to be restarted.  Sorry if I offended you.  

Me: You didn’t offend me at all!

Text is an extremely insufficient form of communication. 

Ed: Yeah.  I’m drunk too.  Anyway, sleep & be well.         

Me: When are you coming back? 

You should know any woman who is offended by someone using the words “make love” is not normal. 

Ed: The 27th but I’m leaving the 30th for California.  That’s cool but I don’t care if she is offended.  Will I want to fuck you suffice?  I think it is okay. 

Me: I just think it’s really cute when a guy says that. 

Ed: I want to fuck you

Me: I mean I think the other thing is cute!

Ed: Cool.  You learn something new every day.

Oh…

Me: Can you call me?  

Ed: No.  I’m at my friend’s. 

Me: Texting is really confusing. 

E: I’m really drunk too.  I totally missed your point in the fucking conversation.  Anyway, good night. 

Me: Yeah, that’s why I’d rather hear your actual voice. 

Ed: Well sweet dreams. 

Me: You too.  I want to fuck you too if it helps.  :)

Ed: It kinda does… Ha be well.  Talk soon. 

Sweet dreams

I cringe today at my "please still like me" play at making him feel comfortable with his attempted sexting.  

The next morning “You’re awesome” was replaced by “Sorry for all the texts!  I was drunk and kinda rude.”  It was like nothing he said he meant anything – including when he missed me and liked my company.  When did a late night whispered phone call in the bathroom or on the front porch become so rude and unacceptable?  Seriously, Millennials?

In line with the disclaimer text, the day I’d been waiting for, when Special Ed finally returned to the metro area, the day when all of this was supposed to become clear and my summer returned to free and breezy order, came and went with no mention of him being back in town.  I must mention, because digital life factors so large in this story, that I'd followed and unfollowed (when I realized he was liking all these buxom babe pictures and not talking to me) Ed on Instagram during those few days.  I broke down the day after his alleged return with an “Are you back?” text that was ignored.  That night I tortured one of my friends over margaritas (though managed to shut up during the movie) and composed the voicemail I’d leave for him the next morning.  

I happen to have my phone script. 

Hi Ed, it’s Me.  Since you won’t answer your phone or respond to me it’s pretty obvious that we aren’t going to see each other anymore.  But it would be so much nicer if you would tell me honestly why because I don’t know what happened with you over the last couple weeks to change everything.  A week ago you were texting me you missed me and by yesterday you wouldn’t even acknowledge that you had gotten back in town.  So, your messages have been pretty confusing since you’ve been gone and I was really hoping things would get cleared up one way or another when you got back.  But, if you aren’t willing to do that, I’ll just say it for you because this definitely isn’t working for me.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t say this – I’m pretty disappointed, because I thought you were way cooler than treating someone who has been nice to you like this.  

There were actually several drafts before this was settled on. 

In my mind Ed had  gone "too fast" with one of the amazing women in Detroit (I know - I used to be one) and didn't know how to tell me he was inviting her to the West Coast.  It was obvious that fitting both of us and all of our stuff in his Nissan Versa was impractical, never mind that Ed was ill-equipped to manage two women at once (see above aborted sext).  

I felt refreshingly light after leaving the voicemail and went to meet some friends at the pool.  It was obvious to me that Ed didn’t want to ever talk to me again, and I’d said my piece and moved on.  Imagine my surprise when I got a yet another enlightening text message that afternoon apologizing for missing my call, including some bullshit about how Ed’d been out of town and was leaving for the West Coast (tell someone who doesn’t know!), and would "give me a shout" later.  These were the times when his dyslexia really seemed apparent.  

“Great”, I thought, “Now I’m just waiting for him to call me again!”  That he did, the following morning.  The first notable words out of my mouth were, “You need to listen to the words that are comin’ out of your mouth” (zing!), but the biggest thing I’ll take from the conversation was this quote: “I realized I couldn’t give you the kind of commitment you wanted, or what you deserved, and I didn’t know what to say to you, so I just stopped talking to you.”   

Another girl would have been easier to swallow, and made more sense.   

I didn’t remember ever talking about what I wanted or deserved.  I thought I at least deserved the guy I’d been sleeping with, who’d been inviting me on his vacation, to tell me that he was freaking out and couldn’t see me anymore.  That one seemed obvious to me, but I guess it wasn’t until I word processed it into the voicemail I left on his turned off iPhone.   

I experienced my first heartbreak in years that day, and into the following weeks when I really expected to hear from him.  And did not.  I held this moment close to me: Ed and I were laying on the floor listening to records.  He was drunk and being emotionally open (his words).  I could never forget, later, that he told me he tended to get dumped and then HE dumped ME.  But there was this.  I was leaning over him and he said “I like listening to music with you.”  As if it was such a revelation.  That moment was pure.  What kind of girls had he been dating anyway?  Did they not have records???

I took my own road trip (Ed was shocked when I told him I had this plan – I suspect he thought I’d booked my ticket to nowhere with him already) to try and forget Ed.  I overposted on Facebook until I finally deleted Ed from my friends list to stop my own insanity.  This was after enduring his Dalai Lama repost a couple days after our affair-ending conversation.  It mentioned misconceived projections and slavery to emotion, and the concept of creating your own problems.  “Seriously, he better realize that he’s projecting on ME!” I thought (slave to anger).  I also read into his hashtagging of Wilco lyrics on Instagram.  Said lyrics were about a guy who had to drive far away and sleep on a mountaintop to forget some chick.  WTF.  I couldn’t believe he never contacted me.  I had loved him, and set him free, and he had never come back to me.  The final straw was when he added a new Facebook friend.  I just knew he was on Tinder.

Having a great time on Facebook!   

I went on dates, met younger men, and tried Tinder out again (after a few months).  First, because my friend had seen Ed on it.  I had to see for myself.  After I saw and “noped” Ed, I met a forty-four-year-old divorced Dad.  I considered that an accomplishment for a 24-hour stint and chatted with him on and off until he finally blew off the time we were actually going to get together several weeks later.  I’ve since deleted his number from my phone.  

The second time, I got together with a college friend who was Tindering.  He convinced me to get back on Tinder at the bar and we dared each other to say yes to every single person we encountered.  I ended up with 87 matches, my first sex propositions, and a message that said simply “I want to fill that pussy”.  I deleted my account again, while my friend was texting me, “Is Tinder broken?  It’s not letting me swipe!  Is it working for you?”   

I was tricked into thinking Tinder was okay by this article for a moment: http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/10/how-tinder-solved-online-dating-for-women.html

Oh yeah!  I did like that I only had to deal with guys I had designated as at least superficially attractive.  I DID think it was sort of like a cyber bar in that there were no profiles to be read and judged.  But here’s the rub: like all online dating and in life, to get to the wheat, you have to deal with all kinds of chaff.  And that chaff finds its way to your face no matter how hard you try not to look at it.  In the online dating world, everything that happens in real life happens twelve times faster.  I.e. - twelve times more profane encounters than normal.   

The third and final try on Tinder (and admittedly all tries after the time I met Ed were really meant to try and encounter Ed again) was the night the forty-four-year-old divorced Dad had blown off our plans to get a drink.  I was feeling disproportionately disappointed.  I’d been excited to meet someone older for a change.  This time brought a potential “match” whose photo featured his erect penis prominently – like a selfie where the dick was in the foreground and the guy took a backseat.  There’s no way (that I know) to report someone you aren’t chatting with.  How many girls had to see that?  Account deleted permanently.  Fantasies of matching with Ed again dashed.  

I’ve given up on all forms of online and mobile dating, as this instantly gratifying aspect of Tinder seems to have infected my once favorite site, OkCupid.  The last time I spent a hopeful week on it, I got more than one message from young (like, really young) guys wondering if I wanted to meet them that night if I was “feeling adventurous” or asking me if I like younger men.  "Um, yeah, I do, actually" I did NOT respond to any of them.  They had no idea what adventurous is to me, I'm fairly certain.

As for Special Ed, my long maintained obsession with him came to an end when I, motivated by a discussion about unconditional love, decided to send him an “I’ve been thinking of you lately, hope you are well!” text.  First of all, I’m so much cooler than this.  Second of all, the exclamation point was a total lie.  Third of all, I had long before changed his name in my phone to “Hashtags Wilco Lyrics”.  I was convinced that Ed had found someone and I was reaching out into the world for more rejection.  The moment I set down my phone, I knocked over a wine glass that shattered into a million pieces I was still finding in my flokati rug weeks later.  The universe was angry with me, and Ed did not respond.  I’d gotten what I’d asked for (ultimately, the hot moment with a young one) had hung on for too long. 

That Ed was that kind of guy, to not even fake that he hoped I was well too, was the bitter pill to swallow.  I had to bury the disabled child-helping sweetheart that liked listening to music with me and smelled amazing, in addition to all the imaginary beautiful photos he was going to take of me.  The dirty mouth Ed seemed more like the truth.  Now I think when I do eventually run into him, he’ll just look really short.

It’s worth re-reading the Dalai Lama’s words, graciously shared on Special Ed's Facebook wall. 

Everyone wants a happy life without difficulties or suffering. We create many of the problems we face. No one intentionally creates problems, but we tend to be slaves to powerful emotions like anger, hatred and attachment that are based on misconceived projections about people and things. We need to find ways of reducing these emotions by eliminating the ignorance that underlies them and applying opposing forces.

Add to the powerful forces mentioned above: lust, the need to be adored, and the intoxicating waves of Kiehl’s Original Musk.  I'll leave the Wilco lyrics to any sap that wants to look them up.  

By the way Ed, why are you still following me on Instagram?

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[mewithdogs]

Me and Duff by the railroad. 

[interstalking-blog]

My dog finally made "mewithdogs"!  Also, I'm a stagemom.  

[interstalking-blog]

This is what real performers look like.

Watch this immediately and thank the universe that R. Kelly is still performing.  Then go put on some lipstick and smile at people hopefully all day.  

[interstalking-blog]

Tinder'd Part I or "Cowgirl in the Sand"

I’ve lived a very celibate life these last few years, finding my inability to separate physical attractions and attachments from my actual feelings got in the way of real relationships.  I love hot dudes and it is a problem.  In trying to find an appropriate partner (with no idea how to do so) I was miserable and I was single anyway.  I had gotten seriously close to having sex for the first time in months with a guy I was dating and thankfully ended up not breaking the seal with him (see “face raped” below).  But, I was still disappointed about the lack of sex.  I was hung up on a younger guy (a lot younger) I’d had a brief, makeout-y flirtation with, and I realized I might just have to have sex with some younger guys.  Just for sex.  Because I needed it, and I was clearly obsessed with making out with them, and they weren’t right for boyfriends, and they were plentiful in my life unlike older boyfriend-material guys.  I uttered this out loud: “I cannot live without physical intimacy anymore.  I have to relax my strict standards for sexual intercourse or I’m going to hate myself and everyone around me.”  Maybe I just added the last part about hating myself and everyone else for this writing but it was understood. 

I signed on to Tinder at a friend’s urging and was appalled that the members seemed to consist of shirtless nineteen year olds.  I felt gross looking at them.  Tinder was clearly not meant for my generation and I deemed it “what is wrong with Millennials and this country”.  I didn’t delete it off my phone though.  It was too fun to show people.   

A couple days later one of my oldest friends was in town from San Francisco and casually mentioned Tinder.  “You actually do that?”  I was shocked.  “My roommate and I just sit in the kitchen and ‘nope’ people,” she explained.  For those that don’t know, Tinder is a mobile app that shows you a stream of photos of available users in a radius you select.  You select “Like” or “Nope” depending on how attractive you find their initial picture and your common Facebook friends and interests (which makes it very easy to interstalk them). 

Mandy Stadtmiller wrote a great article on it for xojane.com you can read here: http://www.xojane.com/sex/7-days-of-tinder 

There’s no profile reading, height, marital status, or questionnaires.  The most a user can add is a couple sentences describing their philosophy (though people have added their heights to this description).  If you and a member of your selected gender of interest both like each other, you can message.  But you never know who doesn’t like you (which is blissful, because once you “like” them and they “nope” you, you’ve already forgotten – no unanswered message is in your outbox).  Mostly you’ll never talk to any of your “matches”, making Tinder an addictive game you play at stoplights, feeling simultaneously bad about yourself and full of ego.  When I originally tried it (in the stone age days of Tinder, May), you weren’t able to select a potential match age range, making the slew of college boys particularly shame-inducing.  Though I did get a weird thrill out of pseudo-rejecting them. 

My friend and I proceeded to spend the next hour or so compulsively Tindering even though she was supposed to leave and get up at 5am for work.  “Yup.”  “Nope.”  We mumbled to each other as we stared at our phone screens from our sunken in spots on the couch, matching with many of the same guys. 

“Hmmm, he’s interesting… she said at a particular picture.”  It was one of those profiles where every picture could be a different guy.  He almost seemed foreign.  We both matched with him instantly (which means the guy is on Tinder a lot as he’d already “liked” both of us.).  I then realized he and I had a friend in common – a friend in Detroit I actually stood up in a wedding with.  Kind of a random connection, the kind I relish in my life in Denver.  “I’m going to write that guy!  He knows one of my friends from Detroit!”  I love being spontaneous.    

Detroit is my urban spiritual home (see future post about me and Detroit).  Mentioning Detroit is like sharing that you’ve been raised in the same commune as me, or have the same allergy to freshly cut grass.  It’s a very specific feeling I get from Michiganders from the metro Detroit area.  It’s a kinship and an immediate trust.  There really is something in the water there.  I sent my one and only message to the interesting/foreign guy.  “Hey, are you from Michigan?” …and promptly forgot about it. 

That Sunday I got a message from him while at brunch.  We confirmed the common friend over the next couple days’ sparse communication.  When we chatted a bit more mid week, I suggested we become Facebook friends so we could really talk because I wanted to get off Tinder.  We IM’ed for a while that night and exchanged numbers.  He was a Special Ed. Teacher.  I’d never dated a Special Ed. Teacher (or any kind of teacher that I can remember).  I’d caught the last guy I’d dated making out with another girl at an event he’d told me to come meet him at.  He claimed he was “face raped”.  “Special Ed” seemed safe.

I was incongruously nervous to meet him that Friday night.  For one thing, as I mentioned above, Tinder does NOT tell you how tall people are which makes it great for guys under 5’9”.  I had interstalked Special Ed enough to know he was not going to be as tall as me, though I remained hopeful he’d at least hover slightly below me so things didn’t feel awkward.  He seemed sensitive, artistic, and serious via his photography blogs (previous career and current hobby).  He had very striking black hair and pale white skin.  I’ve always liked that Transylvanian look. 

I felt that I was doing the weirdest thing ever meeting someone from a site that allowed me to know nothing about him (especially a site with a sleazy hookup reputation, for example: Grindr), and that he’d likely be one of my online dates who really likes me because I’m so strongly friend vibing on him.  Then again, I’ll pretty much meet anyone from Detroit, and I can never remember anything I’ve read in an online dating profile, so what’s the difference? 

We talked on the phone the night of our meeting and the conversation was energetic and fun.  He did mention an eighties themed ski party (Millennial alert!), but that was the only thing I could possibly pick apart and find wrong with him.  On to the bar I went. 

I spotted him immediately and my first gut feeling was “shit” about his size.  He just looked so small next to the bar.  A guy really needs to impress me to recover from that.  He did.  I sized him up as we walked outside together, and while he was definitely shorter than me, he had that attractively not tall build that wasn’t too small or too big, and would have been seriously hot in a six foot package.  But was really good at five eight and a half too, to be honest.  The conversation was great and I was won over very quickly when I tried to convince him of how cool the old amusement park (wooden roller coaster style) by my house is.  He smiled at me for a second and said, “you gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”  He was upbeat and confident, everything you want a guy who is younger and shorter than you to be.

We had beers and kept walking to more bars and after the second one we were holding hands and he told me I was beautiful.  At the third one he had his arm around me.  On the way to the fourth one I asked him what he does when a student gets violent and when he demonstrated on me we ended up making out.  We even talked about wanting to have kids (not necessarily with each other).  On our first date.  On my first date with a twenty-eight-year-old.  That came up.  Did I mention he was twenty-eight?    

I laughed “I’m not going to your house”, when he suggested we go drink wine at his place as we needed to leave the fourth (same as the first) bar and then I hypocritically asked him to drive me home.

I’m sure I said something about just wanting to hang out a little longer when I invited him inside because my intentions really were that he wouldn’t sleep over because I hadn’t done something like that… in a really long time.  We put on a Neil Young record and lay on my bed because (as I explained to Special Ed) I was just too tired to sit up anymore. And with every intention of not doing “that” we both professed our very strong liking of each other and after a while gave in during “Cowgirl in the Sand”.  I allowed myself to be seduced by his eager attentions, his hairless body, and the scent of his Kiehl’s Original Musk.  It was all very romantic and the best date I’d been on since I met my long term Detroit boyfriend in 2005.  And that guy I did NOT sleep with on the first date.  But I was a lot less hard up then, because it was a lot easier to meet available (and age-appropriate) guys. 

Red flag alert: After he apologized for “forcing the issue” regarding the physical connection I was dying for, Ed admitted the following pillow talk… “that’s my problem, I go too fast.”  The foolhardy young, I thought.  How delightful.      

The next day I took the “we’ll see if I ever hear from him again” road, but he’d already texted me when I woke up.  And he was moving that day on very little sleep after being with me (people in their twenties are so dedicated to getting lucky!).  That night he was already texting me that he wished he was with me.  Sunday afternoon he was asking me if I had his belt when I was at drinks with friends.  It was Memorial Day weekend, and my horoscope said that I very well might meet my soul mate.  If warning bells aren’t sounding for you yet, this is when they should.  A woman my age knows these things.  It feels wonderful when a guy you’ve known for 48 hours and already made sweet love with misses you, but it’s never good.

I was starved for the kind of text messages I was getting from Special Ed and willfully joined in the fun.  At the start I was bemused by his attention.  I felt like the sophisticated older woman and I had a younger man who was infatuated with me.  I could handle it.  I could guide him into a true adulthood and I could be okay with the fact that he was always going to make less money than me because he was helping disabled children and took really gorgeous photos of me in our spare time.  I could look just as young as him with botox every six months.  He’d be off earlier from work and would watch our kids that we were going to have as long as I could remain in control of the situation since I was obviously slightly out of his league in a few ways other than height.  Every time I got freaked out (as I am commitment-phobicly wont to do with anyone who really likes me), I would settle into how cute it was that he was so into me.  He was too young to know better; it was so… sincere.  His bedroom dirty talk was an intriguing contradiction to his dependably sweet nature.  Most of the time, I had this song in my head.

I’d been dealing with guys that would text me for a month about the weather and then cancel our first date, twitter stalk me after one of the worst nights of my life (this included the guy telling me how bad my company website photo was – and it was a mercy date!), and claim to be face raped by the girls they made out with in front of me.  I was ready for nice. 

So, I fulfilled my lifelong dating prophecy of always getting hurt by the guys I think I’m settling just a teeny bit for.  And therefore open my heart to, and also take for granted because I think they like me more than I like them. 

You know when you start hanging out with someone, and it all happens really fast because you tell yourself it’s okay that you’re having a ton of sex with this person you just met (and of course, it is okay, the questions is whether you can handle it), but then you get too comfortable and do something to freak the person out?

Like, maybe it comes up that your Dad died five months ago or maybe you answer the phone once when you’re drunk and brushing your teeth, and other than that you are totally cool and awesome and not crazy at all, but you know these little misfires screwed everything up?

And you just like, assumed that the person who was infatuated with glamorous first date you and you in bed is going to totally love real you too?

But he doesn’t.  He doesn’t love real you.  And you’ll never really know why. 

Special Ed had lots of plans for the summer because he wasn’t working.  The plans started with a camping trip, then a trip home to the D (Detroit), then an open-ended road trip he started inviting me on by about a week into knowing each other.  As in “you’re welcome to join me on the West Coast in July”.  I would say something demurely vague like “we’ll see; that sounds like a last minute decision”… “I already have so many travel plans in July”… or, the more promising “I do really want to go to Portland”.  One night Special Ed and I rode bikes around and got rained on.  With my hood up, on a couple margaritas and a Pacifico, I almost got hit by a car as I charged ahead across the busy boulevard a block from my apartment.  Then, we had a weird, awkward late night conversation.  We covered so many bases of awkward things you aren’t supposed to talk to new boyfriends about I can’t even publicly speak about them.  I felt the coolness of him turning over in bed with his back to me.  “Sorry, I’m just trying to get to know you better,” I sighed when I realized I’d lost his attention.  But the next day, I still got the “You’re awesome” text.  “Wow, he really is whipped,” I thought.  Special Ed was the kind of guy who would kiss you in the parking lot after dinner, when you’re unlocking your bike.      

A misunderstanding happened before Special Ed left town.  This involved me being drunk and misinterpreting a text message, (oh, and answering my phone while brushing my teeth as previously mentioned).  The misunderstanding had to do with whether or not he was coming over after not seeing each other for several days, and ended up with him coming over and having a bunch of sex with me.  In addition to… being weird about the possibility of me driving him to the airport (“I don’t know if that’s appropriate”), and, a couple days later not responding to my text for hours when I honestly admitted my not feeling great that day had to do with things I was dealing with regarding my deceased Dad.  And that was how it was left as he flew away back to the D. 

Special Ed's vacation communication consisted of text only - a lot on the first day, nothing for a couple days, just one initiated by me after four days, a couple lame ones initiated by him after six days.  After nine days, a great therapy session motivated me to call him (in the “good” part of our brief affair, Special Ed would call unlike most of the guys I've dated recently).  After all, I wasn’t even sure of the day he was getting back!  My therapist and I agreed that he was being kind of shitty, but I was giving him his space and waiting to see and that was very mature of me.  I figured – this will all come out in the wash when he returns.  I don’t even know how much I like this guy anymore!  I wasn’t interested in waiting around for him if this is what he was like on vacation.  I thought I’d tell him (when he got back) – if we aren’t going to talk, or I’m not going to come see you when you’re away, just call me if you are still thinking about me when you get back.   I don’t want to do this for my summer.      

When I got his voicemail I knew he just wasn’t answering.  Then the inevitable happened.  He responded to my voicemail.  WITH A TEXT. 

To be continued in Tinder'd Part II - "Scent of a 28 Year Old".

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[anthonybourdain]

This is it.

The last episode of our second season of PARTS UNKNOWN. And I’m glad it’s set in Detroit. Because Detroit, for many Americans, is an abstraction—truly, if incredibly, a part unknown.

One only need look at some of our representatives who, a while back, were actually suggesting...