Speaking of the Unspeakable

voodoo-dolls-wallpaper

I think almost every woman I’ve ever encountered rants about trust – with their eyes ready to be narrowed and an almost imperceptible head roll that warns you to keep your mouth shut. It’s almost a sort of bonding ritual. And it binds them all to continue to mistrust. We all dutifully hang our heads because we’ve all been untrustworthy before and they think “mmhmm. Another douchebag.” at which point we’re second guessed forever because we have a penis, or immediately fucked. Or both. It’s an exhaustive Sisterhood cult thing that no one is allowed to say anything to. Because we’re all guilty. 
It also doesn’t give us permission to rise above our pasts, or the past of the jerk who was jumping up and down shouting “HI!!! I’M A BAD BOY!!! THROW EVERYTHING YOU ARE INTO ME TO PROVE YOU’RE LOVABLE EVEN THOUGH I’M OBVIOUSLY NOT INTERESTED IN GOING THERE!!!” …or something like that. 
Stop it. As long as the bonding through the Coven of Unjustly Brokenhearted keeps up there is no looking at what’s really happening that could change EVERYTHING…
Take some time.
Reboot your relationship with yourself.
Take baby steps getting reacquainted with your intuition.
Because somewhere along the way of redoubling your efforts at loving the bad old way it got misaligned and not to be trusted because you needed Sir Dumptruck to stay. So you batted that little voice down that told you he was full of shit. Traded away another piece of integrity for his presence. Now, horribly askew, you growl at anything wearing brown cowboy boots and are annoyingly repulsed by and drawn to varying versions of the same old shit.
Make friends with yourself again – or for the first time.
In an alternate universe – right next to you – people trust until you give them reason not to and it’s not a reflection on their worth or value. Because they like themselves.

Advertisements

A Jewish Comedian, Playwright & Card Manufacturer Walk Into a Bar

If you actually know me you know that I am deeply romantic. (my first plan for this weekend was to use our airline ticket credits to fly on a whim to Alaska to snuggle in a nice hotel and gawk at the Northern Lights) That said, few things in life are more disingenuously painful than Valentines day. It’s like Richard Lewis and Woody Allen got together with a struggling card company and conspired to create a holiday replete with revenue opportunities with the intention of making everyone as insecure as humanly possible.

If you’re in a relationship you wonder what act of devotion will make her happy. What’s the right balance of dinner, chocolate, card, hotel, awkward visit to Frederick’s for tacky lingerie (all of which artificially marked up 20%) is the right balance? Is the Hello Kitty vibrator too much?

If you’re the recipient of this garish display of over done (do people actually wear and eat strawberry panties? Do they come with a 3 day run of Monistat?) do you just laugh (inside) and pretend to swoon moistly at his awkward attempt at realms he really doesn’t have the slightest clue about? Do you feign not taking it personally that it is or isn’t a reflection of what he really thinks?

If you’re just starting to date it’s even trickier! What says too much? Which color roses sends the right message without overplaying my feeling?

If it’s long been on life support do I bother with faking fiery emotional acts of devotion that neither of us actually wants to participate in?

And oh the shame, self loathing, what’s wrong with me, I hate my ex, ilovemyex, I DONT NEED THEM! I’MJUSTFINE!!!! evilness skull fucked into the heads of the single. (who were just fine with being single a week ago)

In other words – to all of us, I congratulate Hallmark on their brilliant strategy of subversive shame with a deeply considered FUCK YOU!

And I offer you this picture of kittens and hearts.

kits&harts