How You Doin’ Blondie?


Pretty In Pink
April 19, 2008, 10:11 pm
Filed under: Anger, Life, Lonliness, Loss, love, Pain, Reality, relationships, Sadness, sex | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

I went to Barnes and Noble’s today, and for the first time in my life, I was disgusted by books. Disgusted. Everywhere I looked there was pink and white and cursive script and cutesy designs; “Blonde” and “Sex” and “Beautiful” and “Affair”; skin and breasts and lips.

It made me so sad. And so angry.

Every author was competing for the coveted distinction of being the most renegade, the most taboo.

“Oh, Oh, I know! I’ll write from the perspective of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of the current wife, who approves of the ‘other woman’!”

“Well I’ll write from the perspective of a single woman who has anonymous sex with multiple partners!”

“Well I’ll be a kept woman”

“Well I’ll be a stripper!”

“I’ll be an prostitute!”

“I’ll be a porn star!”

And on and on and on and on until I just wanted to stand in the middle of the bookstore and cry. I wanted to sob, big heaving sobs that rack your whole body and make you gasp for breath and send torrents of wet, hot, salty, tears running down your cheeks and your lips and your neck.  I wanted to destroy; I wanted to tear each and every single book off of the shelf and rip the pages from their bindings and shred each word, each paragraph into little tiny pieces of confetti and then spit on it, I wanted to spit on all of it. I wanted to cause destruction and turmoil and pain. I wanted those authors to see the fruits of their labor – their lifeblood – desecrated and defiled. I wanted the authors to be hurt, I wanted them to feel violated. And I wanted to stand in the middle of the chaos and scream at them

“ENOUGH! THIS IS NOT A GAME! You take the one thing that brings me joy, you take my one escape, you take the only constant that I have to cling to and you USE it, you USE it and you CHEAPEN it. You CHEAPEN it in the name of your precious creative genius. You enclose yourself in your edgy little writer’s retreat and you say to yourself, ‘How can I be dramatic? How can I be poignant? How can I be utterly unique?’ And you start to brainstorm and the wheels start turning and you start thinking ‘outside the box’ and you start to think about what’s hot and what’s fascinating and how can you really grab someones attention, really force them to look at you and suddenly you think, ‘Sex!’  You think, ‘One of the most forbidden topics!’ You think ‘I’ll write about sex and sluts and prostitutes and adultery, but I’ll disguise all the turmoil and strife and make it cutesy and humorous and lovable, even! I’ll be a real insurrectionary!’

BUT YOU’RE NOT. Are you listening to me? YOU’RE NOT. You write about all these things that you know nothing about and you make your busty blonde protagonist sarcastic and witty and sometimes insightful and largely happy go lucky, as if sure, she knows she might not lead the most normal, average, lifestyle, but she’s happy because she knows what she’s doing isn’t wrong, it’s just different.

And then your book hits the shelves and people love it, they go crazy for it. You’re on Oprah and The View and Good Morning America and The Late Show and people are just in LOVE with your book! How could they not be? Just look at what you’ve done! You’ve made them fall head over heels for the whore of Babylon! You’ve made them root for Delilah! And you’ve done it all without making them feel anything unpleasant, no despair or defeat. You’ve romanticized everything. You’ve cleaned it up. You’ve made it digestible. You ‘left out’ the part where the ‘other’ woman cries herself to sleep at night over the unrequited love she has surrendered her soul to. You ‘forgot to mention’ the part where the prostitute falls in love with a regular guy but watches the relationship deteriorate before her eyes because she doesn’t enjoy making love to him, she’s not even sure what ‘making love’ is.

You make it acceptable and understandable. You rob it of it’s realism. You’re a liar, a thief, and a whore, in every sense of the word.”

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Call Me Reverend Dimmesdale

It makes me slightly ill when I hear about the sexual affairs of married people. The cheating, the excuses, the understandings. It really does make me physically sick. And who am I to react like that? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Isn’t my current boyfriend married and the father of sweet little toddler? Don’t I rationalize it away by saying to myself, “It’s different, they have an understanding?” Don’t I judge others by their actions but myself by my intentions?

So why does it plunge me into such a state of utter despair to bear witness to the infidelity of others?

Because I still have a little bit of hope, that’s why. As jaded, hateful, and bitter as I am, there’s still a little tiny part of me that believes in the traditional family unit, wants the traditional family unit. There’s a part of me that dreams about finding a nice, decent, hard-working, down-to-earth, blue collar guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on me; of finding a man who sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woman he wants to mother his future children. There’s a part of me that cries sometimes, lamenting the loss of the sacred union and a love that weathers storms and the put-yourself-first mentality society promotes. There’s also a part that hates myself, really and truly hates myself, for the life I’ve made.

I hate you, husband who “works late”; I hate you, housewife with the “personal trainer”; I hate you, unhappily married man or woman, who thinks your time is better spent fulfilling your own desires then working on repairing and stabilizing the relationship, the commitment you’ve already made; I hate you so much it makes me angry, angry and sick to the point of vomiting.

But I hate myself even more.



Everybody Here

If I’m reading Michael Stipe correctly, I think the idea is that everybody has a burden they feel they have to carry, the trick is getting the fuck over it.

“No one remembers and nobody cares”

Preach it, brother Stipe

 



Running Errands Is Depressing

I was walking out of the grocery store parking lot today, and this woman with a thick Scandinavian accent and an SUV full of family stopped and asked me for directions to a store on Rt. 70. I knew exactly where she wanted to go, and I knew exactly how to get her there, but I was concerned that she’d get turned around in this murderous Yankee traffic. I didn’t have anywhere to be, so I told her that I was going by where she wanted to go, and she could just follow me if she wanted to.

As we were pulling up to her destination, she pulled up along the right side of my car and thanked me profusely for my kindness. I told her she was very welcome and as she pulled away everyone was waving and smiling, sincerely grateful for my help. It made me feel genuinely happy that I was able to help someone, even if it was with something small like directions to a shopping center.  In that fleeting instant, as the woman pulled away to make her turn while I remained stopped at the light, I felt like maybe everything isn’t as dire as I make it out to be. Maybe I’m capable of leading a normal life, maybe I could start over somewhere as Suzie Homemaker who bakes cookies for the neighbors and gives good directions to out-of-towners.

So I’m stopped at the red-light, and I’m thinking all of these things and watching the woman’s tail lights disappear through my lowered passenger side window, and I’m in an almost happy place. Then a shiny, big, Ford F-150 pulls up beside me carrying a cab-full of construction workers. I usually avoid eye contact in these types of situations, but I wasn’t on guard, and I accidentally locked eyes with the driver.

In an instant, every little daydream I’d been having about cute pink aprons and two car garages, his and her sinks and a loving, lasting marriage; evaporated. Every last one. Gone.

I looked into the eyes of that driver, and the eyes of his passengers, and I saw lust, greed, and hunger. And then I remembered who I am, what I do, and how lonely I am. I remembered that men don’t see me as mother, or someone that they could introduce to their mother, but as an object. An object of lust, greed, and hunger. Those 3 things have given me so, so much, but they’ve taken even more away.

It’s a bitch, grocery shopping.