Eventually you will begin to wonder (obsess is such a strong word) what your ex has been up to while you, in the mean time, are SO NOT busy determining which navigating clicks on Facebook qualify as creeping exactly.
It is at this stage when the fantasies kick in. Even for those who were handed the short end of the stick when it comes to imagination, the brain will shock and awe with the sheer creativity of the possible scenarios it will oh so very vividly paint for you. On a bad day, that leggy harlot of a secretary of his will be involved. On a good day? A drowning in a puddle of regretful tears, which takes the full 11 minutes to work itself out.
Rest assured here, you are not crazy, nor do you actually want your ex to drown. In fact, it's been proven that for sixty days after a breakup the front lobe of your brain is four times more busy than usual imagining what your ex is doing, thinking, and feeling. You are also suffering from a chemical withdrawal from oxycotin, dopamine, and vassopressin. So, short of going all Lindsay Lohan, you are fighting a losing battle, my friend.
I say ride it out.
In the near future you will probably learn that he is NOT wining and dining Whatshername nor is he writing you weepy, apologetic letters. In the near future, in fact you will probably learn that he has simply replaced with you something mundane like growing house plants while he is SO NOT busy wondering you've been up to...
Tomorrow: Dear Mr. Cop Hiding behind the Bushes or Why I should have been a Serial Killer ;)
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
hate: winging it
more notes from my lecture:
Dovetailing the question "What is love?" is the question "What is hate?" Hate, like love, is one word and, well, usually one word tells us less not more.
However, American English journalist Andrew Sullivan does an exquisite job of trying to tell us more in his essay "What's So Bad about Hate," which--in a provocative twist--ends in the verdict that hate is an "unwinnable" war that is best left "unfought."
He posits that there are as many varieties of hate as there are of love: There is hate that fears, and hate that merely feels contempt; there is hate that expresses power, and hate that comes from powerlessness. There is revenge, and there is hate that comes from envy. There is hate that was love, and hate that is a curious expression of love. There is hate of the other, and hate of something that reminds us too much of ourselves. There is the oppressor's hate, and the victim's hate. There is hate that burns slowly, and hate that fades. And there is hate that explodes, and hate that never catches fire.
Finally, he says that "Hate, like much of human feeling, is not rational, but it usually has its reasons."
On a whiter note, things are looking up here in Cleveland: the small mountains of snow that have temporarily lined the streets and parking lots on the east side since early January are in fact melting. Since Wednesday, several missing troops of blue-lipped Girl Scouts with order sheets and jars of dollars frozen in their arms have been uncovered. This in my eyes is a satisfactory explanation as to why no one even tried to sell me thin mints when I needed them most. So, rest assured, people: while you may be stumbling around a bit and bumping into things due to sun-induced blindness (eerily reminiscent of crawling out of a dark cave or coming out of the birth canal, right?), excavation continues and Samoas are doubtlessly and mercifully and LOVINGLY on their way...
Dovetailing the question "What is love?" is the question "What is hate?" Hate, like love, is one word and, well, usually one word tells us less not more.
However, American English journalist Andrew Sullivan does an exquisite job of trying to tell us more in his essay "What's So Bad about Hate," which--in a provocative twist--ends in the verdict that hate is an "unwinnable" war that is best left "unfought."
He posits that there are as many varieties of hate as there are of love: There is hate that fears, and hate that merely feels contempt; there is hate that expresses power, and hate that comes from powerlessness. There is revenge, and there is hate that comes from envy. There is hate that was love, and hate that is a curious expression of love. There is hate of the other, and hate of something that reminds us too much of ourselves. There is the oppressor's hate, and the victim's hate. There is hate that burns slowly, and hate that fades. And there is hate that explodes, and hate that never catches fire.
Finally, he says that "Hate, like much of human feeling, is not rational, but it usually has its reasons."
On a whiter note, things are looking up here in Cleveland: the small mountains of snow that have temporarily lined the streets and parking lots on the east side since early January are in fact melting. Since Wednesday, several missing troops of blue-lipped Girl Scouts with order sheets and jars of dollars frozen in their arms have been uncovered. This in my eyes is a satisfactory explanation as to why no one even tried to sell me thin mints when I needed them most. So, rest assured, people: while you may be stumbling around a bit and bumping into things due to sun-induced blindness (eerily reminiscent of crawling out of a dark cave or coming out of the birth canal, right?), excavation continues and Samoas are doubtlessly and mercifully and LOVINGLY on their way...
hate is a very specific brand of love...
So apparently I'm the genius who in January scheduled a two-week-long lecture series for my college classes on the topic of Love. WHAT??!!! Had I looked ahead on my syllabus last week, I would have skipped ahead to something a little less dark, perhaps Hamlet or Milton's "Paradise Lost."
Love? The way I see it, "love" can mean everything or nothing at all.
Surprisingly I came across some noteworthy thoughts on the subject. bell hooks writes "Our confusion about what we mean when we use the word 'love' is the source of our difficulty in loving."
M. Scott Peck, though, pegs it best: Love is as love does. Love is an act of will--namely both an intention and an action. Will implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.
Amen.
Tomorrow: Hate--winging it
Love? The way I see it, "love" can mean everything or nothing at all.
Surprisingly I came across some noteworthy thoughts on the subject. bell hooks writes "Our confusion about what we mean when we use the word 'love' is the source of our difficulty in loving."
M. Scott Peck, though, pegs it best: Love is as love does. Love is an act of will--namely both an intention and an action. Will implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.
Amen.
Tomorrow: Hate--winging it
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Raisins and gorillas...
Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, on February 21 a reporter from The Vindicator wrote a story about several recent UFO sightings in northeastern Ohio. Anyone who knows me well knows that aliens rank right up there with cantaloupe, gorillas, and raisins on my supposedly irrational but defensible list of things that frighten me. (I know there are people out there who feel me on the raisins: how many times have you bit into a perfectly good oatmeal cookie only to encounter a squishy grape that feels like larvae in your mouth?)
Turns out at least 25 sightings have been reported in our area in the last year, which of course means that there have been more. We can safely assume, I think, that only a small percentage of people who have seen UFOs flying about would actually admit they are the kind of people who actually have seen UFOs flying about.
Since I don't have Sigourney Weaver's number, I'm thinking of contacting Forbes Magazine. Perhaps the editors who so thoroughly revealed Cleveland as the worst, most miserable city to live in the country a few weeks ago could tweet the aliens and let them know that, really, their efforts are lost on Cleveland. They'd be better off, according to some very convincing data, to drop in on Burbank, CA; Amityville, NY; Gary, Indiana; or apparently EVEN DETROIT.
Turns out at least 25 sightings have been reported in our area in the last year, which of course means that there have been more. We can safely assume, I think, that only a small percentage of people who have seen UFOs flying about would actually admit they are the kind of people who actually have seen UFOs flying about.
Since I don't have Sigourney Weaver's number, I'm thinking of contacting Forbes Magazine. Perhaps the editors who so thoroughly revealed Cleveland as the worst, most miserable city to live in the country a few weeks ago could tweet the aliens and let them know that, really, their efforts are lost on Cleveland. They'd be better off, according to some very convincing data, to drop in on Burbank, CA; Amityville, NY; Gary, Indiana; or apparently EVEN DETROIT.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
i should write a letter
Dear Mr. or Mrs. Starbucks,
I told myself last week that if your Cleveland staff kicks me out one more time five minutes before the store closes, I was going to write you a letter. I could go on here about the obvious lack of time-telling skills among your Cleveland baristas, but really it all comes down to mathematics. AND LUCKY FOR YOU, I've found myself with a bit more spare time than usual as of late, so I've gone to the trouble of crunching the numbers for you.
I have been drinking Starbucks coffee consistently for five years. By "consistently," I mean twice a day without fail. Yes, I'm that one customer who has shown up twice before noon on Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve and twice after 5 pm on Christmas Day for the last five years (picture me waving and smiling at you here).
I'm the girl who has chosen one place of residence over another depending on proximity to one of your stores in various US cities, including New York, Chicago, Las Vegas and as you already know, Cleveland.
I'm the girl who is still pen pals with several baristas from said various US cities.
I'm the girl who boldly (get it?) puts up with the inevitable "coffee snob" label that comes along with refusing to drink coffee from any other establishment, including my good mother's own kitchen.
I'm the girl who tows your coffee around the gym like a walking billboard (do you have any idea how effective a marketing tool this is for you?).
I'm the girl who forgoes cashmere sweaters and new cars for Christmas in lieu of Starbucks gift cards from everyone I know.
I'm also the girl who entrusted my heart to Starbucks when I met the man I was planning on marrying there one snowy morning--I figured that he at least had enough sense to drink only the best coffee, and this was a good enough start for me. Now, of course, this assumption has turned out to be horribly horribly wrong, and we are currently in the process of a custody battle over regional Starbucks locations and even the baristas are taking sides BUT I DIGRESS...
Here's my point:
Five years=1,825 days.
1,825 days X 2 grande bolds at $1.95 each with regional differences in cost and inflation taken into account= $7,117.50
Did you get that? $7,117.50!
I'm sure you have heard of this thing called the "Latte Factor?" Well, I AM THE LATTE FACTOR. Look down at that expertly tailored suit and Italian-made shoes you are wearing right now. Look outside your corner office window at the Jag you just made your monthly payment on right now. You're freaking welcome.
As it turns out, nine days out of 10 I have more money on my Starbucks card than I do in my checking account. In return, all I am asking for is the five minutes of free WiFi I have diligently sipped my way to earning.
venti love,
m.
p.s. Pike's Place sucks
I told myself last week that if your Cleveland staff kicks me out one more time five minutes before the store closes, I was going to write you a letter. I could go on here about the obvious lack of time-telling skills among your Cleveland baristas, but really it all comes down to mathematics. AND LUCKY FOR YOU, I've found myself with a bit more spare time than usual as of late, so I've gone to the trouble of crunching the numbers for you.
I have been drinking Starbucks coffee consistently for five years. By "consistently," I mean twice a day without fail. Yes, I'm that one customer who has shown up twice before noon on Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve and twice after 5 pm on Christmas Day for the last five years (picture me waving and smiling at you here).
I'm the girl who has chosen one place of residence over another depending on proximity to one of your stores in various US cities, including New York, Chicago, Las Vegas and as you already know, Cleveland.
I'm the girl who is still pen pals with several baristas from said various US cities.
I'm the girl who boldly (get it?) puts up with the inevitable "coffee snob" label that comes along with refusing to drink coffee from any other establishment, including my good mother's own kitchen.
I'm the girl who tows your coffee around the gym like a walking billboard (do you have any idea how effective a marketing tool this is for you?).
I'm the girl who forgoes cashmere sweaters and new cars for Christmas in lieu of Starbucks gift cards from everyone I know.
I'm also the girl who entrusted my heart to Starbucks when I met the man I was planning on marrying there one snowy morning--I figured that he at least had enough sense to drink only the best coffee, and this was a good enough start for me. Now, of course, this assumption has turned out to be horribly horribly wrong, and we are currently in the process of a custody battle over regional Starbucks locations and even the baristas are taking sides BUT I DIGRESS...
Here's my point:
Five years=1,825 days.
1,825 days X 2 grande bolds at $1.95 each with regional differences in cost and inflation taken into account= $7,117.50
Did you get that? $7,117.50!
I'm sure you have heard of this thing called the "Latte Factor?" Well, I AM THE LATTE FACTOR. Look down at that expertly tailored suit and Italian-made shoes you are wearing right now. Look outside your corner office window at the Jag you just made your monthly payment on right now. You're freaking welcome.
As it turns out, nine days out of 10 I have more money on my Starbucks card than I do in my checking account. In return, all I am asking for is the five minutes of free WiFi I have diligently sipped my way to earning.
venti love,
m.
p.s. Pike's Place sucks
Monday, March 1, 2010
all is fair in love and war and baby, this ain't love...
I woke up this morning with a tiny shred of hope unfurling somewhere deep (OK very very) deep inside of me: It's March 1st, which means for all us here in northeastern Ohio, we do in fact only have three more months of winter! The groundhog, as far as I'm concerned, is a fraud.
On Saturday, I washed my hair (full disclosure: Commandment #31 addresses the sad sad truth that you SHALL not wash your hair for 5 days--yes, I do mean in a row). I took washing my hair as a good sign as the state of my hair is often an apt indication of my emotional state until I walked outside and--I kid you not--an entire rooftop worth of snow fell on me. The whole ordeal reminded me of my one and only near death experience with a grotesquely large and free falling icicle on the Upper West Side of Manhattan six years ago. Given the strange similarity between these two events in my life--both involving aggressive water in frozen form--I figure there must be a take home lesson. What is it? I have no idea--though that little fit I took on Friday night during which I actually threw snowballs at God (again, misappropriated anger) probably didn't help. Don't antagonize God. He will always win.
Anyway, I brushed myself off and met a friend for a little window shopping. We did amazingly well for two girls who were not going to spend any money. And for all those haters out there who say money can't buy you love, I beg to differ. Aside from Girl Scout cookies, nothing eases heartache like bagfuls of clothes you don't need bought with money you don't have. Commandment 32? You SHALL look fabulous the next time you run into your ex, even if it means wearing a "poppy sorbet" sundress from the J. Crew resort collection while standing in line outside Velvet Tango shivering like a fool--albeit a fabulous looking fool.
Tomorrow: I Should Write a Letter
On Saturday, I washed my hair (full disclosure: Commandment #31 addresses the sad sad truth that you SHALL not wash your hair for 5 days--yes, I do mean in a row). I took washing my hair as a good sign as the state of my hair is often an apt indication of my emotional state until I walked outside and--I kid you not--an entire rooftop worth of snow fell on me. The whole ordeal reminded me of my one and only near death experience with a grotesquely large and free falling icicle on the Upper West Side of Manhattan six years ago. Given the strange similarity between these two events in my life--both involving aggressive water in frozen form--I figure there must be a take home lesson. What is it? I have no idea--though that little fit I took on Friday night during which I actually threw snowballs at God (again, misappropriated anger) probably didn't help. Don't antagonize God. He will always win.
Anyway, I brushed myself off and met a friend for a little window shopping. We did amazingly well for two girls who were not going to spend any money. And for all those haters out there who say money can't buy you love, I beg to differ. Aside from Girl Scout cookies, nothing eases heartache like bagfuls of clothes you don't need bought with money you don't have. Commandment 32? You SHALL look fabulous the next time you run into your ex, even if it means wearing a "poppy sorbet" sundress from the J. Crew resort collection while standing in line outside Velvet Tango shivering like a fool--albeit a fabulous looking fool.
Tomorrow: I Should Write a Letter
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