Indie Graveyard

So the Indie Interweb is shrouded in thrift store finds and plodding down to the indie graveyard in their limited edition Toms cordones and Anthropologie dresses to begin their mourning period. Because Zooey Deschanel, America’s sugar tit, is getting a deevorce! And people who refuse to identify themselves as “indie” or “hipster” are trying to distance themselves from it, like “I don’t really care because I don’t really like her singing?  I haven’t really listened to the last Death Cab albummmm?  Also I don’t wear black shoes with black tights?  But like what does this say about the future of marriage?!  That is something I totally care about because I watch TV so I know for a fact that divorce sucks and is horrifying and life-changing and also bad for America.”

Here’s some examples:

In which some poorly paid intern at MTV has pieced together a playlist and analyzed the lyrics as morose warnings of the failed marriage.

In which someone with really awesome Photoshop skills has illustrated what a breakup looks like, inserted a bunch of shots of Glam Zooey, and a couple paragraphs about depression over the divorce of two total strangers.

In which a bunch of losers from the u-bend of the Internet toilet (message boards…yes, people still post to those) basically repeat what everyone in the rest of the world is saying, “She’s so pretty/she’s so annoying/he’s so ugly/it’s so saaaaad.”

I broke down this morning and got all philosophical on some indie chick’s ass and commented on this.  I realize it’s totally futile to even bother talking to anyone who thinks their feelings on celebrity marriage and divorce are actually feelings about The Future Of Marriage and not really a reflection of their fears about their own life/relationship direction.  I know that.  But since I started reading and commenting on Stephanie’s blog and Facebook, I’ve become less of a drive-by “Fuck you, you dumb bitch!” commenter and more of a thoughtful “I respect your opinion, and here’s what I think, you dumb bitch” commenter.  That is, I think, a bit of an improvement.  Here’s what I said:

I read something once about how it’s a tactic of Scientology to recruit as many famous people as possible because, as a culture, we are so focused on them that our brains immediately make the connection that if SO MANY famous people are scientologists, then, naturally, SO MANY normal people must be, too, since famous people only make up a tiny bit of the population. Right? RIGHT? I think the same line of thinking may be employed here with the “…everyone gets divorced. Especially famous people!” line.

It’s been suggested that loving, tender feelings between partners tend to go downhill after about 4-6 years. Incidentally, that happens to be about the amount of time it takes to raise a child to the point of being able to fend for itself. I found that really interesting in consideration of all of the short relationships and marriages I’ve heard about. It may just be our human nature that causes our feelings to change the way they do. We’re just big mammals, after all. And I’m sure it’s the more human side of our human nature that keeps us trying to find ways to compromise and stay together with our mate if that is what we want.

But why does it have to be sad if that’s not what we want? What makes you sad about Zooey and Ben? Why does the time a couple has spent together have to be considered a failure if they divorce amicably? Assuming that they didn’t take the Kardashian route and set up an elaborate scheme to boost their publicity, which I do not think they did, what I see are two people who probably loved each other very much, then decided that they didn’t want to be bound together for the rest of their lives. I don’t see that as a failure at all. I think it would have been a failure if they gritted their teeth, stayed together though neither wanted to, grew to resent one another, and brought up a couple of celebrity kids in that tense atmosphere. A relationship that doesn’t work out isn’t a failure: if you learned something about yourself and about the other person, and both parties can walk away changed for the better and happy about who they are, I’d say that’s a success.

We tend to project ourselves, our own fears about our own lives, onto celebrities, and the characters they portray. My friend told me about seeing the first Sex and the City movie and hearing a girl say, near the end, “Oh no! It can’t be over, I don’t want Carrie to be ALONE!” There was real fear in her voice. Because, for her, that meant something very real and very scary about the future: “If someone as great as Carrie can’t get a man…”

So we need to stop glamorizing celebrity relationships, especially those that are marketed to us as cute and innocent, like Zooey and Ben’s. We need to look at why we really feel what we do about news like this: what does it mean for us?

But overall I think Zooey Deschanel can suck it.

Speaking of drive-by comments, my blog has been getting over 200 hits per day because of this post.  Within this post, I discuss the weirdness of a certain popular set of dolls that are made up to look like, uhh, something that rhymes with “blonsters” and go to a school that is the opposite of low…the one you go to after middle school…I’m trying really hard not to mention it again because apparently droves of tweens Google the name every single day and land on my blog.  I don’t want to be held responsible for their disappointment.  Oh, hell, I guess I could say it like Snoop Dogg: Mizz-onster Hizz-igh.  Yeah.  They’re creepy.  Anyways, go away, Tweens!  Go read these.

And let me be clear: the misdirected tween hits are the ONLY misdirected hits I want to cut down on.  Perverts with racing heartbeats who Google something obscene and land here, only to find nothing but WORDS! DAMMIT!, who then leave me another “you must be fat/ugly” comment, typing with one hand because their sweaty dick’s in the other, well, I want you guys to stay.  Keep it coming.  HEY-OHHHH!!!

dork love

Yesterday on the train, I spotted a couple of major thirtysomething nerds.  Like dorky in the way that it was beyond dorky, the dorks who don’t even know how majorly dorky they are, they think everything is fine and they don’t try at all to be anything but what they are.  The Superdork of dorkdom.  They were standing, facing one another, in the little vestibule just inside the train doors.  I only noticed them when I got up and walked to the vestibule because my stop was next.  And I’m sorry that I had to get off the train so soon, because their conversation was SO AWESOME.

One dork was wearing a sweatshirt with a wolf on it.  A WOLF.  AND NOT IN AN IRONIC WAY.  Also, it was a sweatshirt.  As in, not a hoodie.  No zipper.  Just a good old-fashioned Hanes pullover sweatshirt that had been washed so many times, the majestic wolf and the pale moon behind him were flaking away.  The dork’s stonewashed, off-brand jeans bagged around his waist and might as well have been tucked into his white hi-tops.  The other dork, also wearing stonewashed jeans, was covered up top in a fully buttoned green army jacket.  Both dorks carried sensible, cheap backpacks, the RIGHT way (a strap over each shoulder, none of this cavalier, tossed-over-one-shoulder-Andrew-McCarthy-in-Pretty-In-Pink crap), with brand names like “Rock Tarp” and “Downs Sport.”  Dork #2 had cut himself right above his upper lip somehow, and was sporting a thin flesh-colored Band-Aid there, so close to his lip it looked like a part of his actual lip.  The blood from the cut had seeped through the gauze part of the Band-Aid and looked like a giant scab in the middle of it.  The Wolf Dork had a skinny black mustache tracing his upper lip, patchy, scraggly hair that seemed to have forgotten to grow in a couple of places.

And here is what was said:

Wolf Dork:  “I believe in you.”

Band-Aid Dork:  “…”  Looks at floor.

Wolf Dork:  “I just don’t think that you believe in you.  You have to believe in yourself.”

Band-Aid Dork:  “…”  Scratches at edge of lip Band-Aid.

Wolf Dork: Reaches out and awkwardly pats Band-Aid Dork’s shoulder with his fingertips.

It was pretty much the most awesome thing I saw all day.  I couldn’t even bring myself to laugh at them, they were so heartfelt in their dorkery.  I will forever wonder what challenge was facing Band-Aid Dork for which he needed a pep talk from Wolf Dork.  Perhaps he was going to give shaving another try?  Oh, that was mean.  But seriously, I wonder.

Nasty Self

The Pants and myself are moving in together in May.  Which is cool because he’s a good boy and he gives me a boner and doesn’t kick too much in his sleep.  Also our relationship is of the age where we’ve each pretty much acknowledged that we both poop and we share the coffee-making duties and we don’t bug each other too much.  So it’s all romantic and shit.  Also we’re both pretty into puppies and the idea of raising one together, like as a puppy team, and if that doesn’t make you want to vomit everywhere and then eat it, I don’t know what will.

Part of me isn’t scared because hey, I’m on drugs!  And it makes me not scared of anything!  I ride my bike real fast without a helmet on!  I spend too much money on leggings!  I’ve been driving a CAR, regardless of all of the horrifying car accident scenes that flash through my mind when I do it!  WHO CARES.  But, of course, part of me (Nasty Self) thinks I should be scared, so maybe I’ll sit down and devote 20 minutes to every day to be scared about moving in together.  That part of me goes “Ohhhh remember LAST TIME you did this?  And it didn’t work out?  And he brought home a 12-pack of Bud Light every night and turned his cap around backwards and drank it all on the couch then drunk-emailed all the girls he thought were hot then barfed for an hour then fell asleep on the bathroom floor??  Remember that?!  Remember how you couldn’t EVER get your hairbrush out of the bottom drawer in the morning because his head was always in the way!?!?”  Well.  Yes, Nasty Self, I remember that, but I really don’t think that’s going to happen this time.  The Pants is a social drinker and doesn’t wear caps and sleeps in a bed.

“WELL.  WELL.  What about…okay, what about other stuff you failed at, you failing failure!?  Know how you don’t write anything anymore?  WHAT ABOUT THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT??”

Sometimes Nasty Self is just a tailgating cocksucker.

But.  The Pants would like to live with me, me and Nasty Self both!  Score!  And I would like to live with him but no so much with Nasty Self.  But what are you gonna do?  I mean, the prescription interference makes Nasty Self shut up and cool the fuck out at least enough to let me stop crying all the time and asking “Why don’t you hug me while I’m sleeping?!  You don’t love meeeeeeeeee!”  Also it’s kind of nice not to have to budget an hour of my time each day to lie on the bottom of the shower sobbing about nothing and using up all the hot water.

I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna keep buying vintage Pyrex from Etsy like it’s going out of–well, like it went out of style in the 70s.
Because that shit is the best when it comes to pie crusts and cupcake batters, both of which I come up with like every single day because I’m actually kind of domestic.  I’m going to make an honest effort to come up with names for our puppy-child that aren’t appliances (“Microwave”), foods (“Cheddar”), or just weird made-up hybrids that you’d forget how to say before you had a chance to teach the dog to respond to it (“Snofflebugs McGilliwubbles”).

“Yeah, well you’re going to FAIL.  I mean, how can you even expect to be able to have a SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP when Zooey Deschanel is getting divorced?!  ANSWER ME THAT, KNOWITALL.”

Wait, what???  Zooey D. is getting D’d?

Shit.  I quit, then.  I quit at life.