rabbit blog Monday, April 19, 2010 YOU DON'T SING ME LOVE SONGS ANYMORE People used to send me the greatest letters. Remember those days? Let's relive them. Here's a tasty exchange from back in 2002, when I was unemployed and spent my free time with sulking roaches instead of sulking dogs and children. BEDTIME FOR JESUS JR. Rabbit. The other night we were putting six-year-old Robert to bed. After I read him a short bedtime story he said, "You didn't just read that because of the cereal box, did you?" I assured him that it wasn't because of the cereal box. Robert was referring to the Cheerios he's had for breakfast this week. On the back of the box, under the mail-in offer for some Star Wars racing cars, there's a section intended for parents which reads "The Nurturing Corner: Here Are Five Great Ways to Show Your Kids You Care: * Ask them about their day * Tell them your favorite stories about them growing up * Eat breakfast together * Give them at least one hug each day * Read them a bedtime story" There's something about receiving family counseling from the folks at General Mills. Some are probably offended, some might take the advice. Most people don't notice it, I'm sure. Maybe that's why Cheerios cost five bucks; a dollar per box goes for the staff psychologist. Here I was going to list some made-up tips seen on other General Mills packaging, like for Cocoa Puffs, "The Medication Corner: Ritalin, pros and cons," but I can't, because I've been outdone. Someone beat me to this topic and their sincere fury blows away any other smarty-pants comments I could write. Also, note their interpretation of "General Mills" not as a place where grain is ground into flour ("milled"), but as the title of a military man. Bob "wilty little baby sunflower" Henderson Dear Bob, I went to that site and thought it was a joke, despite your use of the word "sincere," which I apparently ignored the way I ignore the words "lovely" and "inspired" and "good" and "bad" and "shut up" and "please, please stop talking" and "I'm leaving you" and "the sight of you makes my stomach turn" and "OK, you can sleep on the porch tonight, but tomorrow I want you and your teddy bear out of here!" See what happens when children don't understand and embrace a full-orbed Christian worldview? They end up all drippy and weird like me. In fact, I often think, "If only I understood and embraced a full-orbed Christian worldview! Why, it would undergird my beliefs and actions in every sphere of life! Instead, here I am, all sullen and indecisive, high on caffeine, ordering pizzas to my door with excessive amounts of garlic on them, killing God's little rat-sized insect creatures with the heal of my shoe like some kind of a vagrant with no respect for life, then leaving the gut-smeared shoe in my bathroom, on the tub's ledge, no less, like some common junkie!" Then the pizza gets here, and I forget what I was just thinking about. Anyway. What? Rabbit 9:31 AM Friday, April 09, 2010 PARTY LIKE IT'S 1999 Wow. I woke up at 4 am and started writing about the early '90s, then stumbled on this great discussion over on 90s Woman about feminism, the '90s and whether or not it's embarrassing to love Alanis Morissette. It reminded me of how much I hated Alanis when she was first popular and sang that wretched song about going down on her stupid boyfriend in a theat-errrrrr. The sheer competitiveness of that terrible song bugged me, as did the notion that Alanis, of all people, was "alternative" in any sense of the word. Jesus, who cares who's alternative and who isn't? Anyway, then I got older and reluctantly bought the album with "Thank You India" on it, despite being mortified that someone might find out that I owned it, and then I listened to it over and over and wept every time. I had just started therapy for the first time. Up until that point, the idea that emotions could be anything but bad and inconvenient was totally lost on me. Anyway, I wrote about the whole thing here eleven years ago. Hooo doggie, eleven motherfucking years ago. And just last week, I threw that CD into my car's player, and now every time I get into the car, my 3 year old yells "THANK YOU INDIA!" And then we both sing about "dis-ILL-U-SION-meh-heh-hent!" See young hipster ladies? No matter how long you fight it, eventually, you will be deeply uncool. If you're lucky. 7:01 AM Thursday, April 01, 2010 WHAT ABOUT TOPEKA? When you pull up Google to search for something, and the usual rainbow "Google" logo is replaced by the word "Topeka," what do you do? You Google it. Or Topeka it. That's when you learn that this is an April Fool's Day stunt by Google, a play on Topeka, Kansas's offer to rename itself "Google" temporarily, in hopes of being part of Google's broad fiber experiment, for which 1,100 towns and cities applied. How many random people will be confused by this joke today? It's comforting, somehow, that a search engine would dare to sow the seeds of confusion, that there are still pranksters in the world, merry or not. But things will only get more interesting now. It's just 4:41 am on the West Coast, 7:41 am on the East Coast: And what do you think will be the top search trend on Google today? And who will write about the "Topeka" prank immediately, in the hopes of tapping into that popularity? Like Justin Beiber or Tiger's sexts, consider the "Topeka" prank a litmus test for the times. Watch how many people write about Topeka within the next few minutes. Huffpost? Drudge? Anyone else? Everyone else? How many words can they conjure on this topic? How fast do they do it? And the more important question: Are these groundbreaking, fearless news sources, with quick resources? Or are these just the publications that hop on a story, no matter how stupid it is? This post? Case in point. There is no there there. How could there be? It's a story based on a search trend. The original prank, like Justin Bieber himself, is innocuous enough. It's the dogpiling into the abyss that's unnerving. The lesson? Every day is April Fool's Day on the new, improved internets, a nowhereland inhabited by copycats. Sorry, Topeka! 4:57 AM Wednesday, March 03, 2010 NEWSFLASH: OLD PEOPLE LESS CUTE Lately I've been noticing that I have to work hard all the time, much more often than I did when I was young and single and got drunk every night. Is that fair? Also, I'm not as plucky and adorable as I was when I was younger, so that when I do get drunk, people don't giggle enthusiastically at the things I say. Instead they look uncomfortable and back away slowly. What am I supposed to do, forget the lyrics to Dr. Dre's "Ain't Nothin' But a G Thing" overnight? Pretend I don't still know the snake? When my friendy Ken Layne announced that he was starting an advice column on true/slant, naturally I immediately asked him for some guidance regarding the extreme burden of taking care of small people and animals while simultaneously growing older and uglier and lamer, a burden one is expected to endure without getting fall-down drunk around the clock. He has helpfully offered some tips here, and you should go read it now, because he may just help you, too. Now I have to write him another letter, because I need lots of help, particularly from people who don't mind using words to wrestle me to the ground and grind my face into the carpet. 12:43 PM Wednesday, February 24, 2010 OOOOO, FACE! What do we do about Facebook? It's just so wrong, so creepy, so undeserving of our attention, so like a gigantic, hideous high school reunion that never, ever ends. How long can you hide your bad attitude and your gut from the world? That said, Facebook is also the greatest thing ever, particularly when I'm feeling huge amounts of (caffeine-induced?) love for everyone I've ever met. Yeah, that doesn't sound like me, really, but it happens. It's also nice when my creepy inner Aqualung wants to wander around fumbling through the lives of long lost acquaintances or friends of friends. You know, just like a loser would do. A lot like a loser might do. Exactly like a loser would do, a loser who plays a non-loser in her everyday life. Fine, I'm not a very good actor. But how can my inner Aqualung resist? I sort of want to see if my exboyfriend's exwife is still with the man she dumped him for, and I'm thrilled for her for no good reason, really, when I see that she looks happy and has two little children, although I don't see any cute pictures of the nice dog we used to share custody of anywhere, so I'm led to believe that the dog is dead now. Sniff. Again, creepy! I mean, creeeeepy creepy. Why should I care? Well, I don't really care, but as long as I'm procrastinating and not indulging past grudges or looking up exboyfriends to flirt with (I'm friends with most of them and don't find exes provocative anyway), then what the hell, right? Or is it deeply corrupt to wander about, musing about people you don't know? Maybe I should hang out at the mall instead. Sitting on a park bench… A word to those who ask to befriend me on Facebook: I only befriend people I've met, only because it seems really weird to show strangers pictures of my kids. I think you can understand that, if you care, which of course you don't. Plenty of writers befriend everyone and have 2,000 friends who are treated to pictures of them lounging about with their kids and babies, and that's great by me, since I really love to look at those pictures. I just feel a little private about my own photos because, as a seriously creepy loser myself, I recognize how many seriously creepy losers there are out there. You can always join the "I love Heather Havrilesky" group on Facebook instead, but I do understand why the word "friend" is a little preferable to the word "love." Do you want to stand by such strong language, really? Besides, after all of my squeamishness and distasteful self-seriousness around friending strangers, maybe you're more in the mood to join the "I Hate Heather Havrilesky" Facebook page. I can't find it right now, but it does exist somewhere, or it did a few weeks ago. Then again, maybe it was toppled by the people behind the "I Hate Heather Havrilesky Haters" Facebook group, or the IHHHH. I admire their aggression, personally. And since I tend to struggle with declaring love for myself (just reading those words makes me picture Whitney Houston with a dildo) but really have no problem hating people who hate me, this group is my new favorite. No, I didn't start either group, but I will try to mention anything pertinent relating to my writing in both places, when I don’t hate myself too much to do so. In the meantime, you know what would be fun? You share with me your most voyeuristic, creepy Aqualung Facebook stories, and I publish them here! (send to rabbit at this url) Then we can all feel like big losers together! Win-win! (Or would it be lose-lose?) 2:15 PM Sunday, February 21, 2010 CLIMATE CONTROL Is it really right that today's Olympic athlete should be so fit, so hardworking, so attractive, and also so charismatic? What kind of a message does that send to lazy, uncoordinated people who look like shit and have nothing interesting to say? More on this and other deeply offensive messages and climates of intolerance in today's Salon column. This is a good one. And yes, even if you don't care about television, you will enjoy it. In other news, there's a contingent trying to make chocolate into a high-end gourmet buying experience like wine. Remember when they tried to do that with salt? Yeah, I guess they sort of succeeded at some level, but... salt. I think if I ever got a little too into salt there's no way I wouldn't feel like a gigantic jackass. But chocolate? That's a worthwhile obsession. Some network just sent me some "couture" (please) chocolate that had goji berries (trend!) and special delicious salt (trend!) in it And you know what? The whole thing was special and delicious. Go figure! But was it an effective promotion? Well, um, since I can't remember which network it was or what TV show they were promoting, signs point to no. Anyway, send me (rabbit at this blog's url) recommendations on your favorite new chocolate bar, and then go read my column, which fosters a climate of intolerance for climates of intolerance. 2:23 PM Thursday, February 18, 2010 50% INSANE Dear Rabbit, I read your response to the woman who had just broken up with the detective who didn't know Bob Dylan. It was pretty great, and gave me a slightly different perspective about my feelings for my ex-boyfriend-- an insensitive, unkind, ungenerous person who only sometimes told me how smart/ funny/ good I was... who almost always made me feel bad or sad. It's true Rabbit... he didn't understand or appreciate my love for the Counting Crows or REM, or my basic disinterest in organizing or cooking. If I told you about why he made me crazy or unhappy over the year that we dated, you would think I was insane for ever staying with him. Long story short -- I dated him for a year, then broke up with him because he didn't love me. He started dating someone else, I found out in a classically humiliating way and didn't talk to him for eight months. Then, I got in touch with him again when I took a new job.The job (or I, in said job) turned out to be a spectacular failure, and it's at about that time that I reconnected with my ex, who was no longer dating his most recent girlfriend. In a brief moment of weakness, I spent the night with him. Then he ignored me for three straight weeks. How could I have been so stupid? Will I ever get over this person who does not make me happy and does not want to? Am I a total idiot or just 50%? Hung Up Dear Hung Up, If you're an idiot then most of us are idiots at one point or another, sadly. I think one thing that was always a little lost on me when I was younger was the basic fact that many men will stick with you longer than is really right or necessary simply because you're attractive and you're sleeping with them. Likewise, most exboyfriends, even the ones who really never liked you much to begin with, will happily sleep with you for a night if it looks like it'll be a relatively low-hassle affair. Because you have a history of torturing this or that exboyfriend with your neediness, they – bonus – don't have to feel all that guilty about not calling for three weeks. You know, they sort of hate your guts at some level, and don't mind making you feel like a loser – or they just don't know what the point is to calling and saying, "OK, well, just calling to let you know that was about it for me, thank you very much. Have a nice life!" As indifferent as men can be, though, I think young women are often very blind to their own indifference. The first goal in any relationship is to make sure that he's madly in love with you. The second goal, after that, is to examine your own feelings and make some decision about whether or not you truly do want to be with him. If he never really makes it clear that you're wonderful, fully worth his time, etc. and you're never quite sure where you stand? Well, then, you might date him until the end of time. You never get to a point where you ask yourself if he's really your cup of tea. Similarly, if you meet a guy and he seems to think you're fantastic straight out of the gate, you're pushed into this unfamiliar state – wondering whether or not you like him – at a very early stage in the game, for you. Simply posing the question "Do I really like him or not?" is so unfamiliar to you that you start to wonder, "If I'm asking the question, doesn't that mean I DON'T like him?" Here's the answer: No, it fucking doesn't. It just means that you're not insane. By "insane" of course I mean "the sort of person who feels more comfortable mooning over someone who doesn't care than actually being with someone who likes him or her." People who like you are easy to question, yes, because, what's their fucking problem anyway? Why would they like you? You felt like a failure at your job, so you decided to sleep with your ex, with whom you also felt like a failure. You probably thought you were going to escape from a bad feeling (about the job) by seeking redemption with the ex, who now would see the error of his ways and treat you with love and respect. Ladies? Never seek redemption with an ex. Never. Don't do that. He hasn't changed his mind about you, trust me, and the fact that he'll still sleep with you means exactly nothing. It doesn't even mean that you're still hot. I'm sure you ARE still hot, don't worry! But he's not your litmus test for that. It's funny how these letters always have bad jobs and big career impasses attached to them. Have any of you rabbit readers noticed that before? The real reason for the stress and worry and longing is attached to bigger existential questions that are being squelched or pushed to the side in pursuit of some kind of ego salve. Sorry to be so impersonal about your dilemma, though, Hung Up. The point is, you're young, you're trying to figure out your career path, and this loser has nothing to do with anything. You include him in your picture and he doesn't belong there, not remotely. His rejection, his opinion of you, what he's doing now: All utterly irrelevant. Even the fact that he's not nice. That's not proof that you're a fucking masochist. It's just proof that you're a youngish person who's figuring out what she wants, and you took a wrong turn for a while and now you're looking back and saying, "What the fuck?" We ALL have a few stories like that, if we're lucky there are just one or two, but they're there, oh yes. The crucial thing, at this point, is to decide what you will and won't stand for moving forward. Decide who you want to be, and pursue that. If you want to find true love, fair enough, who doesn't? But lay out the whole picture of what you want, and when it comes to men, resolve right now not to settle for anyone who isn't sure about you. It's just stupid to dabble with men who are on the fence. Yes, it's sort of romantic and moony and it makes the sad music you love sound better. But otherwise, it fucks your whole damn life up flatter than hammered shit. Every single time you settle for someone who's wishy washy, it just FUCKS YOU. It really does. You can't get shit done, you can't maintain decent friendships, you feel like a crazy asshole all the time. It fucks your career. It's terrible. Don't do it. If you're with someone who's not totally sure – and no, this isn't about marriage, it's about the difference between a guy who thinks he's lucky, lucky, lucky to have you and one who doesn't – you're inviting a big, gray wishy-washy cloud into your life that threatens to delay everything you want indefinitely. It sucks. Don't do that to yourself. Just resolve to only go out with guys who seem truly, truly interested at the outset, and who remain interested over time. When they start seeming uninterested, don’t get mad or lecture them or throw shit or cry or pretend that you're busy for two months. (OK, you can pretend that you're busy, sure, and he'll probably get more interested after that, but what are you doing, really? You're making someone who's essentially NOT interested more interested. Is that really what you want? I've done that. It only delays the inevitable.) If he suddenly seems uninterested, simply ask, "Are you losing interest? Just be honest, ok? We can part ways, no harm no foul. Just tell me the truth." Note: It is preferable that you do this before you get married, or have kids together. You owe this much to yourself. And once you say to yourself, as I did at some point, "OK, finally, I know that I will not waste my time with anyone who isn't completely happy with and excited about and in love with me as I am right now. I'm not going to pretend to be cooler or better than I am, ever, I'm just going to be who I am, and if he/she doesn't like me, it's time to move on." Once you do that, you know that from then on, you'll either be alone and true to yourself and loved (by friends and family and anyone who accepts you as you are) OR you'll be with someone who loves you for who you are, not for some false persona you presented back when the most important thing of all, more important than being true to yourself, was securing someone's love and avoiding rejection and abandonment. And by the way, you really can just make this decision in one day. And you don't have to wonder "Will I lose myself or get needy again if I find love?" As long as you vow to cut bait when someone really isn't acting like you're important and special, then you don't have to worry about losing yourself. Because when you're with someone who loves you for who you are – I know this is a massive cliché, but it's true – you just don't get weird and needy and lose yourself. So make a decision to never torture yourself with men who aren't that nice and/or just don't like you all that much. I guarantee that everything in your life will improve the second that you do. Fuck, I sound like a serious lunatic now, but it's true. Good luck! Rabbit 2:31 PM Wednesday, February 17, 2010 MRS. POTATO HEAD I hate it when there's anything in my life that I can't complain about. Since I've resolved to act a little bit more like a busy professional, i.e. someone who doesn't use the word cocksucker in every email, tweet and blog post, someone who doesn't whine about every fucking task that's put in front of her, someone who doesn't cringe visibly when she hears the words "vertical" and "app" and other words she tries to forget the second she hears them, I will refrain from bitching about the various restrictions and metaphorical scratchy pants of the modern workplace. Instead, I will quote Al Swearengen: "In life you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is... one vile fucking task after another." I wrote more about this but... then I decided to erase it. When I start complaining about stupid things and it's not even funny, that means I should be a) drinking stronger coffee and b) writing something else. 11:52 AM Friday, February 12, 2010 YOU CAN READ MY BOOK BEFORE ANYONE ELSE DOES Yes, the rumors you've heard are true. You can be the first human (besides my editor and my mother) to read my brand new book. Everyone else will have to wait at least 9 months to read it, but not you. Just think, while they're waiting, you can say things like, "It's not really as good as I thought it would be," at cocktail parties and the like. If you don't go to cocktail parties and the like, you can say these things to your friends, who won't care, and your cats, who will care as long as you're holding a can of whipped cream. All you have to do is bid on a signed galley copy of my book here. Proceeds go to help pay for the expenses of two Salon writers, King Kaufman and Cary Tennis, who are recovering from major illnesses. (This galley copy is like an early, scrappy paperback version of the book that goes out to a tiny handful of reviewers and publishing people.) I can just imagine you, saying things like, "That was weird when her mom wouldn't get back in the car with the family in Kansas," to which your companions will say things like, "I haven't read the fucking book yet, remember? It's not on sale until November or something." To which you'll say something like, "Oh yeah, I forgot. You have to wait to buy it with the rest of the huddled masses, because you're not as special as I am. It must suck to be so ordinary." 12:46 PM Thursday, February 11, 2010 DOOMED I think my favorite painting might be the one called Doomcave Rations. Go here, then click on the thumbnail of the polar bear on the left. See the elf giving the polar bear some booze, or poison, presumably in the doomcave? If only my low moments were this whimsical and vivid, my dogs wouldn't spend their days plotting to kill me in my sleep. 4:34 PM FINALLY! Someone else wants to pretend to appreciate art along with me! Thank you, Satchel! If you ever had a very depressed daughter, the sort to dye her hair dark purple and loom around the fringes of the room at Thanksgiving, composing morbid poetry in her head, you might like for her to paint like this, when she wasn't scratching down vengeful poetry. Or at least she could wallpaper her room with these paintings, by Camille Rose Garcia. You might also want to name her Camille Rose Garcia, because that is a lovely, melancholy name. Just saying that name makes me wish I were a gorgeous, depressed artist with purple hair, instead of an old woman in a shoe, exhausted from coughing up a lung. 4:17 PM ART DAY! Thursday is Art Day. A day to look at art! This painting by Eric White makes me feel old and anxious. And here's a timely painting by Mr. Eric will make you nostalgic for your own nostalgia. Come on, pathetic low-brow honkies! Send me some links to cool art. Let's pretend we care about art today! 10:04 AM Tuesday, February 09, 2010 SICK AND WRONG A big heads-up for all you young folks out there: When you get older (like 39, not that fucking old, mind you, but crusty enough), you get sick A LOT MORE OFTEN. Now I say this as someone who eats reasonably well, still takes prenatal vitamins, and runs 3 miles at least twice a week. Not great, but not too shabby nonetheless. I do have two small children. The bigger one picks her nose and the little one shoves everything in her mouth to figure out what it is. (Hmm, dog hair. Ah, sand. I see. Carpet lint, a texture I often savor.) So these little bastards go to daycare with other nose-pickers and really shoddy ass-wipers and carpet-lint-munchers, and then they come home and infect their weak, elderly parents with a wide variety of infectious diseases. You know, to see if they can kill us. Last July I had pneumonia. Before that I had a really terrible flu (the pneumonia developed as a secondary infection, as far as I can tell.) In December, my head was filled with snot of the greenest hue. My head was like a snot-filled Emerald City, except no one was singing or getting their fucking nails done, and they can only dye your eyes to match your pink, swollen sore throat. (Jolly old town!) But two weeks ago, things got really colorful. Eight hours after my youngest, still a baby, started crapping in the most explosive and glorious fashion, my husband followed suit (he kept it vague, which I appreciated). Eight hours after that, my stomach started to rumble ominously. (The house began to twitch!) A storm was approaching, but there was nothing to do but batten down the hatches and ride it out. Two hours later, everything in my digestive tract rushed to the nearest exit, not calmly, but pushing and shoving and panicking all the way. Fair enough. I went to sleep. At midnight, I woke up feeling like the world was about to end. I stumbled to the bathroom, thought I was about to throw up, screamed, and then passed out. My husband walked in and found me there. Pity him. Anyway, when I fell, I pulled a muscle in my back. Or so I thought, until this week, when I developed a terrible head cold (thank you, little nose picking bunkmates!) and it started to feel like someone was stabbing me in the side every time I coughed. Trip to urgent care, X-ray - and guess what? I fractured my fucking ribs, motherfuckers! What am I, ninety fucking five years old? Should I install a little bar next to the tub so I can get in and out without breaking my fucking hip? Getting old is horse shit, people! This is why your parents try to gently nudge you to have kids after you're no longer a drunk, but before you're no longer in full control of your bowel movements. You know how it's more difficult to be hungover when you're not in your twenties, more specifically, you feel like you're dying instead of just really hungry for pizza? Well, lately, I feel like I'm just progressively more and more feeble and ineffectual and sickly. Like I'm always hungover, in other words, except without the fun drinking too much and fucking strangers beforehand. Should I give in and start eating sautéed kale and bulgar and tofu every night like my yoga instructor friend from high school who I'm quite sure hasn't coughed so hard she vomited all over her own shoes lately? She claims her children ARE NEVER SICK. (Now you hate her too, which makes me feel a little bit better.) But not much better, because I can't cough without holding my side to keep my ribs from splintering into my lungs and killing me. Teehee! Life is sweet, isn't it, moonbeams? 4:36 PM WOMEN WHO WRITE NONFICTION It's stating the obvious hour here in rainy Los Angeles: I love to read smart, funny nonfiction by women, and I'm sure that if you're here, searching my long-winded drivel for something remotely amusing (my apologies in advance for your fruitless quest), you do, too. So which female authors of essays and memoirs are worth reading? And look, don't go tell me to read one of those books that everyone SAYS is hysterical but it just isn't. You know the ones. You open the first page and read a few quips about a birthday party gone wrong, a bad date, a mishap at the hair salon, and five minutes later you're either asleep or slightly queasy. The author needs to have a strong voice. Personally, I like women writers who seem ever so slightly aggressive and unhinged. Not just sweet and silly and self-deprecating, but a little desperate and harsh and bitter and confused. Examples: Joan Didion, Cynthia Heimel, Anne Lamott, Sandra Tsing Loh. Honesty is crucial. I also need a little bit of anger. A sense that the author truly doesn't mind if you find her vaguely distasteful. No, Joan Didion's not funny. But how do you discuss women who write nonfiction without her, honkies? You can't do that. Right now I'm reading a book by Julie Klam that is really funny so far, called "Please Excuse My Daughter." Very unapologetic look at her indescribably absurd upbringing. Also recently read Beth Lisick's "Everybody Into The Pool" (Lisick is awesome; her family is normal, she's the weirdo) and Sloane Crosley's "I Was Told There'd Be Cake" (smart, weird look at 20something years, see also: the slutty wonder years). Who am I missing? Write to rabbit at this blog and tell me, royal honkwinders. Bonus points for anyone who can point me to books that are both funny and a little depressing and sad or at least a little bit heavy. Some of my favorite David Sedaris essays, where he talks about his mom's death, for example, are like this. Or where he loses his boyfriend in a crowd, hates the motherfucker for wandering off, then codependently clings to him when he's found. That Sedaris, he's the master. Funny and sad go together like... Dayquil and cracked ribs. Dayquil is funny, cracking your ribs is sad. There, now I have something to write about in my next post. Four down, three to go! 3:32 PM HEEDLESS NEEDINESS Dear Rabbit, Congratulations on your new life and book creating year! I hope you are still giving advice, because I have a non-problem problem. I have a really great boyfriend. We were friends for a year before we started dating and before I thought we could date I thought he was one of the best guys I'd ever met. Funny, loyal, nurturing, a good friend, really cute and just a lot of fun to be around. When I met him I was in the middle of a furious, rageful man-hating period of my life, and he was part of a wonderful wave of good men who entered my life last fall. The problem is I am not over my man hatred. My only long-term relationship was a 4-year one where I got taken for a ride. Maybe it was a classic first relationship; he ran the show, I tried to insist on my needs and wants being part of the equation, and always failed, and always looked like a crazy person in the process. After he found another lady and disappeared suddenly I found myself adrift and miserable. I made a lot of promises to myself never to let a relationship become the centerpiece of my life, and also to never live with a man and do his laundry and dishes again. I spent three years looking askance at couples and their codependent ways, vowed never to be monogamous again, dated ladies, and burned with rage at what lazy, entitled dumb pricks men are. I worked in law offices, so I always had lots of material for my hatred. In those years I made a lot of friends and went out dancing a lot and made a lot of career u-turns, and it's been alternately joyful or terrifying. Now we're 6 months in and a real couple. When he is in front of me we have a great time, but as soon as he's not in front of my face I plot to end it. He is not a radical polyamorous queer lady, he is a dude, who does dude things like watch football and play video games and reside in filth with other dude roommates. Right around the time we started dating I did another one of my career u-turns, so I'm pretty broke and I've had to move a lot in the past 6 months. Due to those changes, I don't see my friends as much, and my daily life has changed a lot since the beginning of our relationship, but his has not. I see my lesbian dance party friends a lot less, he sees his video game and fantasy sports friends quite a lot. I get so scared. I get scared I'm doing the same thing I did in that other relationship and I'm going to sink into some dull miserable life only to be woken up out of it by his disappearance. I get scared that I scared that other boyfriend off with my crazy person rages and I'm going to do the same with this boyfriend.I already have flown into freakouts and tried to end it, over some uncharacteristic inconsiderateness from him, but he won't take the breakup bait. I get scared I'm going to have to mother him for our whole lives, because he was raised a dude and can't see dirty dishes. I get scared a nice guy is still at heart a guy, and thus untrustworthy and entitled and willfully stupid. How can you tell when a fear of commitment should be listened to or when you should power through it? Also, how can I date one of the very best men I've met, when he also is in that extended adolescence thing, which I totally resent? He's 24, so I think for a guy the incessant video games and filth may be right on schedule, but I'm 27 and even when I was 24 I had the housekeeping routine and hobbies of an adult. It's not nice or fair to threaten a breakup every time he lets me down a little, when he does try hard to be a good boyfriend. But when he lets me down a little I think, 'Of course! Because you're a guy! And I can look forward to this our whole lives unless we cut if off here!" And then the only solution is to end it. And third, since I'm scared of losing my identity in a relationship because I actually love to blow off everything I care about to cuddle and go to brunch and gaze at each other, what do healthy people do to keep their identities in a relationship? How can I make sure if this relationship goes away I will still recognize myself? Or especially how do I do that if it never goes away? Thanks for reading, and thanks for all your writing! Yours, Scaredycat Dear Scaredycat, Well, it sounds to me like your big problem is that you're 27 years old and a woman. I'm sure that sounds fucking obnoxious. I don't mean that you're immature at all. I don't mean that your feelings aren't justified. They are entirely justified. You're just now noticing that 1) men are simple animals and 2) you want one anyway and 3) no amount of lesbian dance partying will change that but 4) can't you at least stop blaming your 24-year-old man for being a 24-year-old man? Also 5) why are you such a bitch all of the time? And 6) are you ready to be bored out of your skull for the rest of your life with a really nice guy, or should you ditch a really nice guy and regret it forever and ever and ever and ever? Little known fact: Smart women in the 25-29 age range go through a Man Loathing Stage. We wake up one day and realize that we've spent most of our energy over the past decade obsessing about a herd of dimwitted ballscratchers who spent the same decade trying to decide which they like better, cashews or pistachios. Unfortunately, you're in that stage where you haven't come to terms with the fact that men are simply different from women in a number of disappointing ways. Note that I said disappointing ways, not enraging, teeth-gritting, plate-hurling ways. Your rage comes from the fact that you haven't yet accepted that men are different, and that you haven't yet accepted – this is very important, so pay attention – the fact that you are not a man. You're not a man, so you can't pretend not to have a raging, swirling river of emotions every now and then over stupid, trivial shit. You're not a man, so you have on board a miraculous set of instruments that can be used to create another human being. Compare a man's simple pollen and stamen to what have you, and suddenly, you realize: You are a great, glorious, glowing she-God! I mean this in the very real, concrete sense, not in the lesbian dance party sense. You are, by nature, awe-inspiring and special. You have the biological equivalent of a nuclear reactor on board. It is simply natural that you occasionally experience enormous toxic meltdowns. Yes, that sounds very sexist. Most of us prefer not to say this out loud, for that reason. But all smart women have enormous toxic meltdowns occasionally. Every last one of us. We try to be nice. We try not to blame. We try to maintain control. We look on the bright side, all the time. We do yoga, for fuck's sake. But it still happens to the best of us. Now, that doesn’t mean that you want to spend the rest of your life blaming your slow-moving animal of a boyfriend for all of your crappy moods or emotional breakdowns. But I'm here to tell you: These meltdowns are a byproduct of your inability to accept that you're a woman, you're vulnerable, and that's perfectly ok and appropriate. Just because the men you know are prone to mumbling incoherently in response to your wordy treatises on a wide range of deeply emotional subjects, that doesn't mean that you're a freak, or that you're as impossible to comprehend or empathize with as they pretend you are. When your boyfriend says, "Uh, well," and changes the subject, inspiring you to hurl wineglasses, he only says that because he knows that no matter what he says, it'll be wrong (and he's right about that). He knows (and accepts) that you're a little nuts better than you do. Now, naturally, your lesbian friends and your empowered feminist friends and your own soul should now be crying out, rightly pointing out that defining the uterus as the source of hysteria is absurdly fucked and patriarchal and Freudian and deeply wrong. Your guy friends will also resent being likened to big dumb animals. But let's cast such understandable inconveniences aside for now, shall we? Because you're at a crossroads. You wish you were gay, but you're not. Men are stinky and lame and all they care about and/or talk about are fucking trivia, tasty food and round asses. Your boyfriend in particular is three whopping years younger than you, and even if you were the same age he'd be 5 maturity years younger than you, so right now for all intents and purposes, it's as if he's 19. (A 19-year-old girl, at any rate. 19-year-old boys are actually 14.) So he's annoying and young, but he loves you, so there's that. And he's nice, and cool, and if you were to dump him, you might really regret it. But come on now, is this really about him? I guess it could be about him, if you knew whether you'd rather settle down with a great guy and have kids, or just go out a lot and date a few more disappointing guys until you do or don't find one that seems to make sense. It's tough to say what the right choice for you is on that front. Sometimes when you start torturing someone with angry outbursts, it's because you want to leave and you can't bring yourself to be alone. Other times, you want them to man up and clean their toilets and be normal, which is doable for most. But other times, it's because you don't feel understood, seen, met, heard, etc. for some weird reason, either because he's not a big talker (important to many smart women) or because something about his company is unsatisfying (this is a tricky one, because lots of men are supremely dissatisfying as partners a lot of the time, but they're very, very satisfying as close, intimate friends in conversation often enough that you feel relaxed and you don’t lash out at them for no reason all the time – so you don't want to get tripped up by those dissatisfying moments that are just, you know, him contemplating "cashews or pistachios?" like any similar one-celled organism might). But screw that question altogether, because the picture you paint here makes it clear that this is all about you, what you want, where you're headed. I'm going to guess that you're not entirely sure what you want, or who you should be, and you're sort of taking that out on your boyfriend, who puts up with it, which makes you feel guilty and makes you hate yourself, which in turn makes you hate him. Remember how your crappy boyfriend let you do the dishes and all that shit and it was proof that he was an asshole? He may well have been an asshole, but the truth is that until you're mature, you're naturally going to take advantage of weaker people who subordinate themselves in your presence. It's human nature. Sucks, but it's true. Maybe you're disrespecting him because you don't respect yourself enough to do the things you need to do with your life at this point. My best guess is that you're just not ready to settle down right now. Although you make appear very needy at times, you are, in fact, the one who's being commitmentphobic, mostly because you aren't sure yet what most men are like (another reason you claim to hate all men – once you actually have a good subject pool that you've sampled, there's not much reason for hatred. Hatred is a product of ignorance.) (Yes, I do have a lot in common with Ghandi, I'm glad you mentioned that.) If you're wondering whether or not you'll crumble and become codependent, then you probably will. That's not because it's a bad relationship, necessarily, it's just the result of your current level of confusion about yourself and what you want. What do you want, really? Sounds to me like you're over going out all the time, you're working on your career, and you wouldn't mind settling down with someone who's sort of a homebody but also has a good job and doesn't spend all of his free time with his dude friends. Someone, say, 5 years older than you who might want to get married and have kids eventually, but who's also a good friend, smart, thoughtful, talkative, and – this is rare among 24-year-olds – truly engaged and interested in vaguely volatile, funny, mercurial women with a lot (A LOT!) to say. So I guess what I'm saying is that you're commitmentphobic because you're worried you're going to waste half of your youth waiting for your boyfriend to grow up and turn into someone else, someone who's a little less goofy and boyish. Aww. I was dating a great guy who was goofy and boyish when I was 27, too. He was so awesome, and breaking up with him was just agonizing. I felt (tellingly) like I was kicking my own kid out on his ass, to fend for himself in a cruel and hostile world. Then I dated a real adult who was very serious and ready to settle down, but I didn't like him enough. Then I dated another goofy, boyish guy. (He hasn't changed since then, either.) In all of these cases, I was the one who was needier, and I was the one who had to do the dumping. I tortured them because they weren't right for me and I knew it. I was also very pissed off and confused, to be fair, and they were mostly nice and put up with my bullshit for longer than they probably should have. Man. I said this wasn't about your boyfriend, and this most definitely isn't about my fucking honky exboyfriends, and yet here I am prattling on and on about them. (Another very Ghandi-like habit of mine.) The real point is that you're just at that age where you've outgrown your circumstances, but you're not sure how to handle it. If I were you, I would get a therapist and discuss how to put your entire life on the right track. When you're 27 and you're a woman, that's a very crucial time to make good decisions, about your career, about your friends, about how you want to live. Because when you're in your mid-30s you feel a little pressured to figure it all out and fast – it's far better to have a clear understanding of what your goals are and make some goals and be honest about your needs (not just lash out about them, then go out drinking) when you're a little younger. If you can't find a therapist, then write it all down (you're a good writer, by the way) and sort it out and present it to yourself (not your boyfriend, btw) and decide for yourself how to shake up your picture. That's a little wishy washy, but that's what I'd do next. When you've sorted it out, write to me again and we'll go from there! I really love those taxing late 20s years when everything starts to fall apart and the vast majority of 20-something drunks stop drinking heavily and start freaking out. It's a good time, really, it is. Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid! Rabbit 1:30 PM SAND MONSTER! That's my dad covered in sand in the short-shorts, and me in the red crochet bathing suit. Yes, that's a red crochet bathing suit, hand-crafted by my Russian grandmother. That thing would look really good on Borat, wouldn't it? Or, sure, Jessica Biel. Whenever we went to the beach, my dad would cover himself in sand, then scare the shit out of me. Typical honky vacation fun. For a while I was convinced that this should be the cover of my memoir, which is about having the shit scared out of you constantly as a child (sounds funny, I know, but it's sort of sad and also a little pathetic, too). My editor was very polite about my suggestion, and she wisely waited for me to get distracted with the actual writing of the book instead of saying, no, we won't be marketing the book so that it looks like an incest survivor memoir. See, that's the difference between book publishing professionals and magazine publishing professionals. Book publishing professionals hold their tongues and bide their time. Magazine publishing professionals say things like "We gotta get on this Snooki thing, pronto!" and "Heidi Montag shat herself in Barney's. Is there a piece there?" Book publishing professionals tell you, "That's an interesting thought, let's revisit this in a few weeks when we're considering the overall narrative arc of the book." Magazine publishing professionals say things like "I don't know, write it and post it and I'll backread it when I get out of my meeting in an hour." Magazine publishing professionals aren't afraid to say, "No, that's stupid. Shut up." And also "Stick your head in doo-doo." When book publishing professionals want you to stick your head in doo-doo, they just don't return any of your emails for a few months. I love my editor and publisher, of course, but I have to take the piss because it's the only way I can cope with gearing up to anticipate the start of waiting to fire up my engines to begin waiting for the initial waiting period before the big wait before my book is published. The book is written, edited, copyedited, legally vetted, and it has a cover, but it doesn't hit the shelves until about a year from now. That's just the way book publishing works. But when you're used to bloviating directly onto the internets, book publishing can feel like missing the slow boat to China, and the next boat doesn't leave until Sarah Palin is in the White House. (No, God, don't do that to my daughters, who will only conclude that aggressive, reckless idiotic women's dreams really do come true.) (They already have ample proof of that under their own roof.) Anyway, I still think those short-shorts could sell a lot of copies. 11:03 AM BE THE FIRST! Be the first human on the planet to read my new book! Yes, you could hold my brand new memoir in your hot little hands, before anyone else does. By bidding on a galley copy of my book, you'll not only be the very first honky to read it (outside of my editor and my mother, who were forced to), but every cent of your bid will go toward helping King Kaufman and Cary Tennis, two Salon longtime writers, recover from recent serious illnesses. Find out all about the bakesale for King and Cary here. My favorite item: Joan Walsh will spend 30 minutes debating the relative who reminds you most of Pat Buchanan. There are also pretty books by Dave Eggers, art by Elizabeth Kairys, and all kinds of other great stuff. But you don't give a flying fuck about that. I know you, honky! All you care about is BIDDING ON MY NEW BOOK. Aww. I can't really blame you. I am stupidly alluring, let's face it, in my own vaguely disgusting way. Plus, everyone else will wait forever to see that goddamn book (thanks to the fact that book publishing is a slow, slow, slow, slow, slow boat to China populated by smart, friendly intellectuals who smile and hold your hand as you sit on your ass and wait to get to China, wait and wait and wait) but you? YOU will have a copy in just a week or two, as soon as they're ready! Yes, hot off the goddamn presses, honkies and honky-fearing non-honkies! And best of all, in honor of today's bakesale, I'm going to post to my pathetic, neglected blog SEVEN TIMES. "Seven times in one day?" you ask? Yes, yes, I say. Seven times. I don't know what I'm going to write, but I'll come up with something. I have a few advice letters in the hopper. This is a special day, a day of celebratory fundraising madness. So join me in the fun, honkies! Along the way we'll monitor the top items in the auction, and check in on how much money has been raised thus far for King and Cary. AND if you have anything important to tell the rabbit blog readership, or need some advice? Today is your day to shine! Write to me now, rabbit at rabbit blog. Let the bakesale auctioning and advice giving and general-purpose pointless Tuesday blog-centered festivities begin! 9:41 AM Friday, January 01, 2010 HAPPY NEW YEAR! In 2009, I had a baby and wrote a book. A good year! Particularly when compared to all the years I didn't do much more than sample a new breakfast cereal or flip through the Sundance catalogue. Of course, if "Paradise Hotel" were still on the air, I never would have procreated or written a thing. So let's thank Fox for such tender mercies. Currently hanging out in North Carolina, reading EB White's "One Man's Meat," in which our intrepid author discusses allergies, compulsive tics and the like, all while lounging about his rustic country home. Please, lord, let this be the year that I move to a rambling farmhouse and make a careful study of my bad habits as a means of contemplating big, important ideas. All I want is to lounge about, thinking important thoughts and breaking into grandiose song occasionally... just like the cowardly lion. 5:26 AM Friday, November 20, 2009 OPE FLOATS Just wrote about Oprah for Salon here. I love Oprah dearly. Oprah bestrides the narrow world like a colossus. A note to the woman who'd just had a baby and her husband was working long hours and not helping enough, turning her into a nag in spite of her best intentions: I've been thinking about your letter for months now. I first received your letter right after my own second baby was born, and I wasn't getting any sleep. I really wanted to answer that one, because you sounded depressed and desperate (understandable, of course), but I was too frazzled by the very new experience of having two little kids, which is a little bit like setting your hair on fire, then trying to run a marathon with a raw egg in each hand. Now, though, things are much calmer, I can't find your letter. If you're reading this and that's you, or you're reading this and that might as well be you, then please send me an email describing your situation, and I'll write back promptly with lots of rash thoughts and ill-considered advice -- although in this case I have been considering this problem for way too long. In other news, lately I've taken to scaring all of my friends who are trying to get pregnant with daunting tales of motherhood. Didn't I vow to never do that? And it's really such horse shit, because the first baby was actually relaxing and easy. It was October, the weather was beautiful, I took a few weeks of maternity leave, my mom was here, my husband took paternity leave, I wasn't writing a book, my dogs seemed to shed less back then. The second time, it was different. But now, dude, it is totally great. The baby is like a smiling teddy bear: Set her down somewhere and she stays there, smiling and banging stuff together. I guess she's more like one of those monkeys with the cymbals, actually. The other, bigger one is like a small circus bear. She twirls a lot and watches her dress flair out. She only eats white and yellow foods. She gets grumpy, but that only means you have to make up a song about something, and do a dance to go along with it. I'm a big fan of the Manic Distracting Idiot School of Parenting.In some ways, cocaine addicts would make spectacular parents. In other ways, not so much. Anyway, I'm ready to pass out some shitty advice to anyone who'll listen. Who has a problem for me? Stand up and be counted! And insulted, probably. And steered in the wrong direction. 2:44 PM Wednesday, September 23, 2009 CHEER Working on Chapter 9 of my book right now. "Who's got PMA out there right now?" the peppy cheerleading professional asked us in the high-pitched bark of a Jack Russell. By "PMA" he meant "positive mental attitude," of course. Just the mention of such an important bellwether of a cheerleader's essential vitality sent the whole camp into a nearly orgasmic demonstration of their unmitigated zeal for the day ahead, with some stepping forward out of the crowd here and there to more safely complete a toe-touch or round-off back handspring without kicking someone's teeth out, with girls searching their relatively uncluttered brains for some adequate means of demonstrating just how completely positive and totally overwhelmingly psyched they all were to be there, together, trampling the dew-covered grass as one in the premature heat of a summer morning. 2:15 PM Friday, September 18, 2009 BEST NANNY IN THE UNIVERSE So, your friend in L.A. is about to have a baby, or she just had one. She's not sure what to do about daycare. She calls you, sounding tired and worried. Or maybe she's too tired and worried to call. I have a special gift for your friend in L.A.! I have the phone number of the Best Nanny In The Known Universe. Juana took care of both of my daughters when they were very small. She understands babies. Babies understand her. Babies relax and smile in her presence, making it easier for their (far less understanding and patient) mothers to scurry off to their (often seemingly pointless and taxing) full-time jobs. Handing your baby over to another human being, whether it's a nanny or a daycare worker, can be totally heartbreaking. But if that human being is the Best Nanny In The Known Universe, it's not quite as difficult, because your baby likes her better than you. If you're strong enough to tolerate that fact, then I have the nanny for you. Also, if you hate the idea of having a nanny around, but like the idea of having someone who's really smart and self-possessed and low-key and capable, helping you out and taking care of your baby when you really, really need to take a nap or get a little work done or just leave the house for a few minutes, then, yes, I have the nanny for you. Settling for a half-assed nanny or a chaotic baby room staffed by overwhelmed, overworked caretakers is seriously depressing. It's like a trip to Disneyland: absurdly overpriced and totally soul-sucking. You know what's the exact opposite of that? Hiring the Best Nanny In The Universe. Email me (rabbit at rabbit blog dot com) and I'll give you her magic number. Lucky you! 10:12 AM Wednesday, September 16, 2009 SOGGY Chere Lapin, It's good to know that you southern Californians have escaped incineration by towering columns of hot gas that consumed the surrounding scrub-covered hillsides of creosote bush and sage. We need you, us sweltering southerners, in our too soggy to burn landscaping, termite feasts passing as houses and damp linen suits. You remind us that not everyone has to go around biting their lip while boorish co-workers go on about how "Joe Wilson told Obama what for." Just watch out for the mudslides when the rains come. But here in soggyland, I still have a problem, and not a pretty one. That of the dating 50-something. Our salt and pepper hair and firmly established careers (secured by golden handcuffs) are supposed to give us that air of serenity that comes with approaching mortality. But we have empty nests. And our exes have moved to other cities, leaving us free to mingle without the encumbrance of those icy stares. Yet dating is still pretty much the same game, in essence, that it was in the 9th grade. The one you like doesn't like you. Why do my calls go straight to voice mail? She's leaving town again this weekend. You get the idea. Here's to the hope that some rock hurtling through space will take care of this planet's human infestation. It's really the only answer that appears plausible at present. Soggy in Soggy Bottom Dear SISB, Since the rules of the game are the same as they were in the 9th grade, let me give you the same advice I'd give a 9th grader, since you've probably long since forgotten them, and since most people never learn any of them in the first place. There are lots of reasons she might not like you, and the vast majority of them have nothing to do with you. Sure, she might not like you because you smell, but she also might not like you because she's stupid. We always factor out the bad taste of the object of our desire. We desire them because we imagine that they have good taste, that they think the way we think, that they are special in a myriad of ways, subtle and sacred. But maybe this person just doesn't value smarts and a good sense of humor (assuming you have these things). Maybe you're dashing and sweet but she doesn't really go in for dashing and sweet. Maybe she prefers brutish and lumpy. And never underestimate how flinchy and unnerved most people feel, especially when they're older, when someone is giving them a lot of attention. Isn't this unnecessary? Shouldn't I just go it alone? His gaze reminds me that I haven't bothered to brush my hair today. Wouldn't I rather be eating a nice bowl of cereal in my soft pants? The existential angst sheds a curious, warped light on the whole question of dating. Do I want to put up with someone's bullshit for the few years that I have left? Not that you're THAT old in your fifties. But people are more suspicious. Maybe there's something in your ardor that feels a little bit desperate. Now, see, that's bad advice for anyone: Don't seem so desperate. I fucking hate people who tell you that. But I am desperate, you want to say. Who doesn't want love in their lives? Come on, motherfuckers! If the prospect of true love doesn't make you shake and sweat, what exactly is wrong with you? The sorry fact remains that people don't like people who are maybe too fixated on salvation via another human being. And unfortunately, the people who DO like people who are fixated on love are sometimes just a little off-kilter as well, a little depressed about impending death (or impending PSAT tests, if you're in the 9th grade) or the gloomy specter of continued loneliness. And there's nothing bad about that, necessarily. If you're a little gloomy, then gloomy may be your love match. I know I've dated a few torturously sunny men and to them, I was just one big overthinking bummer. That's no way to live. But I guess what I'm saying is, don't confuse other sources of depression or angst with loneliness. It's easy, as a romantic, to assume that you're down because you're lonely, when really, you're down because you have to make your peace with your place in the motherfucking universe. Personally, I would advise you to sign up for more of the sorts of activities, private and public, that address your growing need for solace and hope and self-soothing. I would make that your primary goal. And make dating more of a passing fancy, secondary to your personal trajectory as an individual. Also, it cannot be said enough: You have to exercise a lot. Not primarily to avoid a saggy ass (although that IS a noble goal), but to keep yourself upbeat in the face of old age, bad dating prospects, and ignorant rednecks. And exercise is the only cure for unnecessary swooning. It makes the mind less obsessive, less broody. Above all, remember: Rejection isn't personal. It always feels like the MOST personal thing, but it isn't. Often, people don't like you because they're not people you would be crazy about, either, if you got to know them a little better. Don't waste your time on people who don't like you or at least don't seem to be really excited to see you again. It's a big drag on your energy, and you deserve better. You're a fine young(ish) rabbit, rakishly draped in linen, composed and confident, unconcerned with the naysayers, undaunted by the sands slipping through the hour glass. You have faith in yourself, you are daring and witty, and you are destined for greatness, even now. Good luck out there, Mr. McSoggerson. I salute you! Rabbit 6:00 AM Thursday, August 27, 2009 TO BREED OR TO BROOD Rabbit: Damn. I turn my back for a few weeks and suddenly the childless whore is married with spawn? Obviously I've fallen down the rabbit hole into bizzaro world. It's really creepin' me out. But congrats. I guess. B Dear B, You think you're creeped out. Every morning I wake up and say, "Whose kid is that yelling and why doesn't someone do something about it so I can get some goddamn sleep around here?" Imagine my alarm when I realize that it's my kid, and not only that, there's another one in the next room, one that's smaller and soils herself every few hours, plus there's a man in my bed, one who seems just as alarmed and out of sorts as I am. Apparently this man and I are having the same crazy dream, only we're awake and it never ends. This morning, my dream involved waking up at 3:30 a.m. to feed a gigantic, bald baby, then waking again at 5:30 a.m. to pump breastmilk using a horrifying torture device that was nonetheless hauntingly familiar, as if I had used it many times before. After breast-torture came my alarming discovery of a 6-lane freeway of ants leading from under the dishwasher into the trash can in my "kitchen." Nightmare-style, I stood unawares, hand-washing the breast-torture attachments at the sink, and felt an ant crawling up my leg, only to look down and discover the 405 of ant superhighways racing under my feet (my bare feet, mothefuckers! My motherfucking BARE FEET, MOTHERFUCKERS!). I spent the next 2 solid minutes brushing ants, both real and imaginary, off my half-naked body while whispering "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god" under my breath, an admirable bit of restraint mid-panic-attack. Then I went into my "bedroom" and awoke my "husband" (still whispering "oh my god, oh my god"). Finally I was able to communicate using the words, "um, sorry, honey, but major, major ant catastrophe unfolding in the kitchen." See how like a "wife" I sounded? Like I said, creepy. After that, I tried to calm myself down by drinking some tea (not tequila) and I thanked my "husband" for handling the ants (instead of mumbling something cynical and ushering him out the door) and I fed the enormous baby again using only my breasts, also enormous. That part was cool. Then the bigger kid woke up and made a series of demands, but instead of telling her to go fuck herself I politely requested that she say please, then granted most of her stupid requests. It was fucking bullshit. Then I drove her to daycare and on the way there I saw a fire of biblical proportions raging in the hills, a column of brown smoke billowing into the already-smoke-filled, smoggy air, and instead of turning on some dreary music to match the apocalyptic mood, I spoke brightly to my child of the great wonder and excitement of firefighters fighting gigantic fires, and my child babbled happily about how she wanted a "little girl hose" so she could fight fires, too. That was patently stupid, but I trilled about what a great idea it was like a lobotomized baboon. Now I invite you to say that I've lost my edge. Please, tell me I've lost my edge, because what I'll say to you is that, rather than worry about losing my fucking edge, I pray to the merciful imaginary gods above that they will take away my edge forever and ever, because my edge doesn't do shit for me anymore. Maybe my edge mattered when I was a childless whore and therefore had to the time to fumble through enormous bins of cds at indie music establishments or to read interesting shit or to ponder big questions while sipping on icy coffee concoctions with my idle friends. But these days, my edge is just something that gets in the way. My edge sets my fucking teeth on edge when I'm vacuuming quickly before I do another load of laundry before I get to work on my column before I finish revising the third chapter of my book before I walk the dogs before I pick up my "child" from daycare. My edge makes me angry and tired and makes me wish I could lay in bed eating cookies and reading bad magazines like I used to. I would rather be devoid of edges. I would rather be round. Rounder. So yeah, I'm creeped out, too. But I still have my edge, and some little sharp, sticky, jagged, rusty part of my edge, the edgy edge of my edge, feels strangely compelled to tell you to fuck yourself, with your "you creep me out" horse shit. You creep me out. So there. I'm not nearly grown up enough to deal with how grown up I am, and neither are you. That makes us equally creepy. So congrats. I guess. Rabbit 10:26 AM Tuesday, July 21, 2009 TWUNKER This is what I want to do. Not tweet (a terrible verb that makes me feel like I'm coated in dirty fryer oil every time I say it), not twat (twittering for long-winded women) but twunk. I want to write 500-word updates and post them on Twunker. Instead of stepping daintily onto your Twitter home page, they land with an ominous THUNK. The sound that tells you you're thinking too much again. Sorry, thunking too much. No, I mean Twunking too much. But what else can you do at 4 a.m.? Meanwhile, you'll be happy to know that my smug Get Up To Write At 4 A.M. plan backfired when I quickly stopped going to sleep at 9 p.m. on the dot, which meant that I quickly started getting upwards of five (5) hours of sleep a night, enough sleep to careen wildly into R.E.M. territory, only to wake after the first disturbing dream about trying to treat your blonde dog's very bad sunburn, which she never got before but which clearly proves that you're an irresponsible asshole. Is R.E.M. sleep designed to wake you up in the middle of the night? How is that adaptive, demon gods of sleep? Anyway, soon after getting 5-6 hours of sleep on a regular basis, punctuated by waking babies and marathon 12-hour writing sessions and frenzied trips to daycare and to the grocery store for sliced ham to feed the children and animals, I developed walking pneumonia. Apparently it was there since the aftermath of my bout with Swine Flu(TM) (not an officially verified case, since my HMO politely instructed me to die at home), a secondary infection that took the opportunity created by insufficient sleep, too much stress and too much heartfelt pondering of the significance of Michael Jackson to fill my lungs with something... well, suffice it to say that you can cough up things that send you to the interwebs in search of a diagnosis real quick-like. On the interwebs, I learned that I had Mycoplasma Pneumonia. I probably should've told that to the people at Urgent Care, who, seeing my devil-may-care, casual attitude (It's just an act, damn it!) put me at the bottom of their priority list. I was told I would wait for 45 minutes then waited for three hours in the waiting room, inquired politely about the wait, was sent to a room and waited for another hour and a half, began weeping openly to anyone who wandered by, was consulted by a doctor who couldn't remark on whether or not a 4.5 hour wait was typical, was given a chest X-ray, then more waiting, other patients coming and going, chickens wandering by, etc. and then, my diagnosis: Mycoplasma Pneumonia. Doctor: You have what we call walking pneumonia. Me: Mycoplasma pneumonia? (Not trying to be a smart ass, just wanted to make sure it wasn't viral.) Doctor: Exactly! Well! You don't need me at all! Me: Is it really adaptive to state the obvious like that, six hours after I walked into this fucking hell hole? But doctors aren't concerned with their survival the way writers are. They know that we'll be at their mercy forever and ever, and there's nothing we can do about it. Mmm. I wish I were a doctor. To wield that sort of power, willy nilly, over weakened, helpless strangers. Delicious. Yes, yes. I know that they see a trillion patients a day. My doctor friends tell me all about the suffering of doctors-- as they're luxuriating between their one-million-thread-count sheets in their gigantic houses as their staff of 3 scurries hither and thither, picking up toys and fixing healthy snacks for the populace. Anyway, I had pneumonia and a shitty cold on top of it, so I stayed in bed for two weeks, wimpering, while my husband ran around the house picking up toys and fixing healthy snacks for the populace and also wimpering. Now my husband has a shitty cold with some fierce bronchial side effects that leave him hacking and hacking all night, which would be sad if not for his unnerving lack of empathy for MY illness (which admittedly had something to do with the number and variety of beverages I seemed to require per hour, prepared to my very rigorous specifications), which he has been loudly regretting since he fell ill. ("Oh my god, I feel sooooo bad for not understanding Just. How. Bad. you felt." "Yes, when I say I feel terrible, I really do. I'm not, um, let's see... A MAN.) (For you young ladies out there who don't know it yet, men are horribly wimpy about sickness. Little known fact among the young. When women get very sick, they sally forth and make themselves sicker. When men get a sniffle, they take to the bed like frail old ladies and whine piteously for days. Accepted, established empirical fact among married women, one that casts a serious shadow of doubt on the usage of the phrase "To Man Up" as in "You need to man up and deal with your shit." Hmm, meaning you need to take to your bed like a wilty little hothouse flower?) So I felt terrible for weeks, and sweet Jesus, it was depressing, too. Having little kids and getting very sick is like entering some extreme alternate reality where you're just a bad, bad person and even though you're so sick that you feel like you're losing your sanity half the time, you're also deeply unnerved by the dustbunnies on the floor and the needy look in your two year old's eyes, which indicate that you're a failure as a mother and as a human being. I know, beleaguered mothering tales are just boring, I fucking agree one hundred percent. But cut me some fucking slack, I was in serious distress for something like two weeks there. Thus, I spent two weeks feeling awful. Then I spent a week feeling exhausted and breaking into a cold sweat every time I so much as vacuumed the rug. This week, though, I feel close to normal. That's why, when I woke up at 3:30 a.m. after a dream about getting way too drunk in a distant city, losing my shoes and my two dogs, and begging strangers for help, I felt relatively well-rested and very thankful that I hadn't coughed up my spleen the night before. Feeling so good, I thought the clock said 5:30 a.m., so I snuck out to the living room to write and didn't discover the real time until after the kettle was already whistling. So, do I go back to bed and lay there, psychoanalyzing my nightmare like a dyed-in-the-wool overthinker/thunker/Twunker OR do I twunk about my stupid life right here? Well, now you know what a bad decision-maker I am, which explains why I ended up with fucking pneumonia in the first place. And by the way, I do recognize that you can't possibly care about such trivialities. But look, it's 4 a.m., I've just recovered from a serious illness, and I just had a very bad dream, a dangerous trifecta of factors, each of which cause extreme self-involvement. I can't merely tweet (oof!) about it. I have to twunk. THUNK! (That's the sound of your enormous thought-turds hitting the interwebs.) See, Twitter is anxious and vaguely neurotic and it only leads to MORE Twittering. Twunker is cathartic and restful. Now granted, no one has any followers. But it's worth it! 4:05 AM Friday, July 10, 2009 ALL THAT YOU HAVE IS YOUR SOUL Dear Rabbit, My boyfriend and I broke up. It's been close to 3 years living together and he ended it. Why? well, the story is long and sad and I will give it to you as best I can because really, I need help because I am lost and alone in a foreign country. I am 30 years old and my boyfriend is 31. I moved to Mexico close to three years ago, alone, and began working at a university here. I met a wonderful, ambitious, determined Mexican man, a chemist, who I quickly fell in love with. Many years and memories have past since we first met and in the past 8 months we began making plans to get out of our current job in Mexico. We had our options. He applied to a post-doc program in Spain and I applied to PhD programs in the USA (all schools with excellent polymer chemistry programs so that he could also continue to study should this be our choice on where to go). Our plan was to weigh our options, see what would be the best fit for us both to be together, and move on together. Why not? We have had a great relationship. Aside from a few speed bumps the first few months we got together things had been great. We almost never fought. We took great vacations together. Shared warm nights and days lackadaisically walking through sun drenched plazas. He became my best friend, my lover, my companion and confidant. Well, I guess in hind sight it wasn't all perfect. He had a lot of hang ups about sex, he never said I love you, never really could muster up any sort of feelings more than a neutral gaze. I realize now that really I was the one putting forth most of the effort in the relationship and he sort of sat back and let me control the reigns until something better came along. Well that something better came along when he was offered the post-doc position to study in Spain for the next 2 years. With that came secrets, lies, untrue intentions, and the sorrow that I am currently in. See, we HAD been planning on him taking the scholarship he won from the Mexican government to study in the institute in Spain to UMASS, Amherst (the number one polymer chemistry program in the United States and I would work on my PhD). This had been what WE had been talking about for over the past 6 months. Me: "Eduardo, what are we going to do? I am scared." Him: "Don't worry, I will try. Just be patient." WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE WE Cut to us in bed one week ago in a sleepy little village overlooking a busy indigenous market in Oaxaca City. Eduardo is reading a newspaper where decapitated heads of police chiefs hang bloody on a wired fence. Headlines read drug cartels. dead civilians. famous beach resort sprayed with the blood of passer bys. kidnappings. rape. death. Me: "Eduardo, I have to leave Mexico. I miss my family. I am scared to continue living here. This situation is only going to get worse. You have to call about the scholarship. There is no more time to wait. We only have about a month left of the semester." Him: "Ok, I will call about switching the scholarship tomorrow." Well, tomorrow came and went and no call. Another day came and went and no call. Finally he calls about transferring the scholarship. He gets the news that he can not switch the scholarship and then a long night of his I don't knows, and I need to think, and I don't know if I love you followed. It took me by surprise because really, I didn't think that this was going to be the cause of the end of us. We have had a great relationship, or so I believed. That night I slept uneasy, not sure the state of things between he and I. Not sure if I were ready to say to him "Yes, I will forget about me. I will follow you to Spain. I will be your housewife. I will only care about you and your career." In the manias that followed my emotions that next day I went to his laboratory during the work day and told him I wanted to talk. That I would sacrifice all for him because he and what we had were all worth it. When inside his office he left to use the bathroom and I just happen to see a bit of information sitting on his desk. What was that information? It was his visa application and supplemental materials for Spain. He had a doctor's physical and test results dating June 2 (over a month ago he had acquired this), a police report of his crimeless past with fingerprints, money deposited into the bank account of the Spanish embassy for the visa, copies of official credentials, etc...All of this work, all of this collecting of material and organizing of documents was done months in the past. He had told me none of this information. He had told me on many occasions he had to visit the bank or the grocery store but in reality he was going to the doctors, or police, etc...to get things going on his visa. He had been planning all of this months in the past. Behind my back. Without the intentions of 1. coming with me to the USA or 2. me going with him to Spain. He had decided who knows how long ago, that this relationship was convenient enough for him here in Mexico but that that would be it. 2 years and 6 months of building a life together and that was it. Spain and his career was more important than being open and honest with me. What gets me most is that for the past several months he had been telling me WE....but really it was I. I who was worried about out future together, I who was researching post-doc positions for him in Amherst, I who was researching jobs for me in Spain, I who was doing apartment searches both in USA and Madrid, I who was looking at visa regulations for me to live in Spain or him to the USA, I who was constantly preoccupied with what was going to be OUR future, our new life together, our relationship. And he was planning to leave without me anyway. Well, days and discussions pass and all he can muster for an excuse was that for the past four month he had loved me less. Which, I had no sign of THAT. We visited my family in the USA during that time, had taken a vacation to a tropical island together off the Mexican coast, made love, cooked dinners, didn’t have any serious discussions, talked about the idea of a future together. I had no idea. My heart is broken and he can must no other words than I'm sorry. He was my best friend. My companion. My partner. My team. My love. Now I feel he could break me in half with one touch of the hands that once held me in his arms like I was the more delicate thing in his world. So now I am returning to the USA in a week. Yes, I am going to start my PhD and live my life alone again. I am writing to you Rabbit because I do not know how to get over this hurt. I do not know how to believe that the man I loved could do this to me. Could just leave me. Once I return to the USA and he for Madrid it will be like he doesn’t even exist anymore. Like he died. He is a very stubborn man and I know he will not call. He will not write. He will meet beautiful women in Spain and forget me. Forget what I considered the most special relationship I’ve ever had. I have one more week in Mexico and really, other than Eduardo, I have no one here. I am alone. I have been calling family and friends but it’s not enough. I do not know how to forget this. There were no problems I thought we couldn’t handle. No break up I saw coming. I feel like someone sucked out his soul and replaced him with this unfeeling, unemotional entity because I do not understand how he can just walk away from us after all of the times we had together. Hope you can reply, Lost and Alone in Oaxaca Dear LAAIO, Although you might feel like you wasted a lot of time with this jackass, let's review the things that you did right over the past three years: 1) You didn't marry him or have his kids 2) You kept your job 3) You had some new, interesting, intense experiences abroad, that overall, you really have no reason to regret as far as life experiences go 4) You secured a spot in a PhD program in the states 5) You didn't give it all up to move to Spain with aforementioned jackass. Now, these things might not seem all that great or that important. You might not feel that grateful for any of the above at the moment. However, in five years when you're married to someone who isn't a soulless jackass (and make no mistake about it, this ex of yours has no soul), you'll look back and say, "Sweet Jesus, at least I didn't marry that guy," and also "I'm so glad I'm having kids with my husband and not with that soulless freak" and also, "Christ, imagine how lonely I would've been living in Spain, as that strange, heartless man's little woman, without a career or a life to speak of." It will be nice to be with a man who actually has a soul. And you'll see that any relationship created with someone who can't talk about his feelings isn't a relationship so much as a fantasy created out of thin air through sheer force of will. You're obviously someone who can create things out of thin air – you're resourceful and you get the job done. But imagine how nice it'll be to apply that energy to someone who actually appreciates it. Make no mistake, though, it's good to have gone out with jackasses. Because every time you look back and you think, "Wow, I could've been married to that jackass," you'll feel warm and happy inside. Seriously. You may feel very alone, but you won't be for long. You don't know this about yourself yet, but when it comes to love, you settle. Don't worry about how long you'll be alone. Worry about enjoying this time, because it'll be over before you know it. And worry about trying not to settle for less than you deserve again. You'll get the life you want. You will have romance and good things in your life. You don't have to worry about that. What you need to worry about is making good, lasting friendships and creating a life that you wouldn't bail on for some soulless jackass. You spent the last three years filling up your life with one person who turned out to be a serious freak. Don't put someone at the center of everything until they've proven that they take that responsibility seriously, that they're mature enough to handle it, that they're real. Don't do all of the work next time. Don't create anything. Sit back and see what happens. And make sure that, even if you were to get left behind again, you wouldn't feel completely alone because you'd have a life outside of the relationship. It's common, at 30, to shut out the rest of the world and focus on one person. But once you do that a few times, you realize that it doesn't work that well, it's not healthy, and it won't make you happy even if the relationship is great. Again, you're in a good place: You have a great reason to move back to the US, you're getting a PhD instead of following some asshole to Spain, and you're about to start a new life. Him dumping you was the best possible thing that could've happened to you. Getting over the heartache is sort of like being sick for a while: You just have to wait it out. Time passes, you get better. You know that you'll get better, so why make it worse than it has to be? Don't freak out about how alone you are. You're less alone now than you've been for the past three years. You're young and you'll get exactly what you want soon enough. Take care of yourself, relax, be open to meeting new people, and pay attention to whether or not they have souls. At this point, it will be obvious. This is the gift of the soulless man: A newfound sensitivity to soul. Use it. Best of luck, Rabbit 4:30 PM Wednesday, June 24, 2009 CHICKEN LITTLE, CHICKEN SHIT, TASTES LIKE CHICKEN... I'll go ahead and admit it now. Twitter is inspiring me to write more and post more to this (somewhat dusty, borderline pathetic) blog. Of course, I'm also waking up at 4 in the morning like all of the best poets and writers always say they do in "Poets and Writers." And since I got up so goddamn early this morning, I actually have time to tell you a little story about myself, boys and girls. Back when I never wrote shit, I would read those long interviews in "Poets and Writers," where the poet or writer in question blathers on about how he/she wakes up before dawn to pick coffee beans off the... vine? Bush? Then grinds them into a... paste? Fine powder? And then brews them? Snorts them? Then goes for a quick five mile walk? Sprint? Then, after a shower? Bath? He/she settles down and handcuffs him/herself to his/her desk? Stockade? And writes exactly five? Nine? Twelve hundred? pages of his/her novel/poem/essay, after which he/she makes pasta by hand, naps for several hours, makes sweet love to his/her muse (usually the muse is Italian, or a preteen), drinks a huge jug of Chianti, falls asleep and awakes in a pool of his/her own vomit, etc. The point is that those goddamn poets and writers made me think that I had to wake up super fucking early to be a poet and/or writer. This made me mad, because I wanted to continue to drink beer/wine/spirits and get high on weed/crack/meth/life each night until the wee hours. But, here's the thing. It turns out that once you're old and crusty/fat/disgusting/gross/boring you don't have anything to do but run around in circles, stuffing laundry in the washing machine, wiping little asses, buying big boxes of cereal, etc. and you tend to go to bed early because all the little motherfuckers who live in your tiny house with you tend to awake just after dawn, which means that you have to wake up before dawn in order to think straight and not beat them with your bare fists when they make you mad. It also means that you don't choose when to go to sleep so much as collapse at some point and regain consciousness several hours later in a puddle of your own drool. Yes, getting old/crusty/fat/disgusting/gross/boring is awesome. You heard it here first. Anyway, back to the point. Hmm. The point. Oh yeah, something about getting up early to write. So, once you dry off the drool and feed your infant from your (enormously large) breasts, you tiptoe through your (unnervingly tiny) house so as not to wake any of the little motherfuckers (or big dogs), and then you crouch in the dark, tapping away at your fucking computer, as if you're some kind of an actual writer, like the ones you used to read about back when you were young and sexy and still smelled good and still occasionally got fall-down drunk on boxed wine and insulted everyone within a thirty-foot radius. That's right, you've grown up to be just as stanky and irrelevant as those old coots in that creaky, outdated print publication you once treasured and squeezed to your (tiny, flat) bosom, perhaps hoping that their inspired (see also: sad, pathetic) way of life might rub off on you! See how I employ the second person (you) in order to leave the first person (me) the hell out of it? That's a neat trick I learned when I became an actual, real, certified, official writer, which happened when I (you) started waking up at 4 a.m. every morning (see also: 2 weeks ago). So screw Twitter. Twitter can't take the credit for this one, like it tries to do with everything else! This one is all mine. 3:09 PM Tuesday, June 23, 2009 BAD JOB, BUDDY Today I'm looking back on all the shitty jobs I've had: Gap customer satisfaction associate (Would you like some socks to go with that shirt?), Applebee's hostess (Would you like a Megarita to go with that Tater Skin Platter the size of your head?), apartment painter (Why do I keep waking up in this freshly painted room with sharp headaches?). The alienated work scenarios go on and on and on. I created cartoons to lighten up job training handbooks for Wells Fargo employees. Ana Marie Cox was once my boss. Honky career trajectory extraordinaire. But when will I own the means of production, goddamn it?!! 4:02 PM Friday, June 19, 2009 MILKING IT Producing enough nourishment (bonus: in your gigantic breasts) to feed a small human is an immensely satisfying and enjoyable part of being a mother. It is also as time-consuming as a part-time job. If you already have a full-time job (say, writing about tv for an online magazine) and another part-time job (say, writing a book about your insane childhood) and you have another small human (one named Tinkerbell who goes boneless when she's told she can't eat Cheezits for dinner), then nursing and pumping and pumping and nursing can be more than a little exhausting. Yes, it is satisfying to create food out of thin air, enough food to feed a tiny African nation. Yes, it is rewarding to have enormous tits. But make no mistake about it, breastfeeding isn't just a hobby. It's a career. A career that sometimes requires you to duck into a closet, attach suction cups to your (huge) tracts of land, and relax to the gentle strains of "awoooonga, awoooonga, awoooonga," all the while hoping that no innocent human wanders in and is instantly scarred for life. At a time when my (big, large, gigantic) breasts are producing more milk than most small organic dairy farms. I take solace in reading "Blacktating", a blog about lactating by a woman of color, a woman of color who makes me wish I were a woman of color, too, so that I, too, could blacktate. We could blacktate together, and call each other sister and shit. Oh, how very sad it is to be a tragic honky and not a beautiful black woman (with enormous, gargantuan breasts)! Here's The Blacktator herself on a subject I was just stewing about this very morning: "Most men who are successful and wealthy and have kids have a wife at home who is holdin' it down, cooking, cleaning and raising the kids. Women at the top of their games either don't have kids or have a husband who is a stay-at-home dad." Am I completely crazy for only recently having noticed that most mothers who work (hard) and feed their children (from their massive breasts) are going completely crazy? Why, just this morning I was away from the house, writing great stuff, on a roll, really feeling it, and then... I had to rush home and pump (nourishing breastmilk) (out of my big, big, big boobies). How inconvenient! And yet, it's truly awesome, having (extra large) jugs full of (free) milk. Taxing, time-consuming, impossible, but awesome. Lactating in a nutshell. (I'm sure blacktating is even better.) 2:30 PM Thursday, June 18, 2009 I SURRENDER! I'm not a joiner, I'm not a team player, but here I am on Twitter. What do I do now? Any suggestions? What's so good about this fresh hell anyway? I'm experiencing a rare rush of open-mindedness, so please, enlighten me. 11:07 AM Thursday, June 11, 2009 LIFE IS TWEET Twitter is the curse of the modern age. You heard it here first -- or you would've if I had twittered it or tweeted it or whatever the fuck. Look, I just want to warn you that I may be twittering soon, but don't fucking blame me for it because it's not my fucking fault. Personally, I think twitter is the stupidest streak of ass-hattery since hot wings (goddamn it I hate hot wings!). Here's what I don't understand: Why should the writer, a beast made to exist alone, in the dark, stinking up some sorry corner of the world with only his or her bad head to guide him or her, be asked to fire off half-baked thoughts around the clock like some drunk talk show host? Why? Why would we want the writer, dull know-it-all that he or she so often is, to go and pollute our lives with his or her steady stream of opinionated tripe? What scary state of affairs is this, that the jackassery of a nation of blowhards must be broadcast hither and thither just so everyone's "brand" can be "built"? Bad enough that I jumped on the web early (like every third jerk on the streets of San Francisco in 1995) and jumped on the blogwagon in the pioneering days (like every unemployed writer in the universe in 2001). I don't want no part of this goddamn chaotic twittering buffoonitude! Soon, people won't even have to type to twitter, because they'll have hands-free, voice recognition set ups that allow them to broadcast the sorry contents of their empty heads to the entire globe around the clock. Mine would go like this: I want oatmeal cookies. I need a nap. Who's on Oprah today? Yes, that will really help my brand a lot. What's for lunch? Where am I? I want cookies. 12:31 PM Thursday, May 28, 2009 JUST SAY NO TO HUGS Brace yourselves, parents. The new trouble with teenagers today isn't texting or lipstick parties or even MySpace predators. It’s hugging. According to the New York Times, teenagers don't say hi or nod or high-five anymore. They don't even wave or yell whassup? or wink or smile. They hug. Silently. What's even more disturbing, though, is the way they talk about it. “We’re not afraid, we just get in and hug,” offers Danny Schneider, a high school junior who the Times reporter does not describe as emotionally unstable or a social outcast. Apparently teenagers today view hugging as an act of real courage. Like middle-aged couples at a yoga retreat or fragile twelve-steppers, teens go around hugging each other – warmly, affectionately, sincerely, like they mean it -- all day long. What the hell is wrong with them? What ever happened to far more respectable teen past times of rolling houses or sniffing airplane glue? What ever happened to getting drunk on brandy pilfered from your friend's dad's liquor cabinet, then puking all over his brand new couch? Bad enough that texting "ROTFL" has replaced rolling on the floor groping a pubescent boy you've hardly spoken to before. But now hugging has replaced shooting heroin? I'm just not sure I want to live in a world where teenagers are too busy embracing to drive around town beating each other's mailboxes to smithereens with baseball bats. Do these kids really imagine that hugging is a suitable replacement for sticking their tongues down each other's throats? Don't they realize that an embrace will never lead to premature pregnancy or STDs, which build character in otherwise naïve, overly optimistic young people? “Touching and physical contact is very dangerous territory,” Noreen Hajinlian, the principal of George G. White School who banned hugging two years ago, told the Times. Hajinlian, like many school administrators, sees these impromptu outbursts of affection as roughly akin to, say, drinking a 40-ouncer of Schlitz Malt Liquor one night and unknowingly diving into an empty rock quarry. It seems that, for today's teachers and school officials, hugging in the hallways is a lot like huffing spray paint, then riding your cousin's Yamaha motorcycle down a gravel road to see if you can make it fishtail. Personally, I'm not worried about these kids' safety, I'm worried about their self-respect. "We like to get cozy,” Katie Dea, an eighth grader in San Francisco told the Times reporter, who didn't describe her as wildly delusional or a hopeless misfit. Get cozy? Can she be serious? Wait a minute. Get cozy. We're not afraid. Maybe heroin is making a comeback after all! That would certainly explain a lot of the hugging out there. Yes, that has to be it! There's not a hugging epidemic, really, it's just that teens nationwide are wandering the hallways of their schools in a dope-addled haze! Ah, now at least I can sleep at night. 11:53 AM all contents © the rabbit blog 2001-2009

me staff writer at salon.com, co-creator of filler, author of the memoir disaster preparedness due from riverhead press in fall 2010 my stuff salon filler twitter good stuff I wrote hoarding shows cured my hoarding real brand managers of nyc climates of intolerance in dog we trust faster, pregnant lady! gen x apology recessionary bending expecting the worst an excellent filler more filler press laist interview la weekly interview ojr interview barrelhouse interview some random old stuff fillerama hen & bunny childless whore RSS write to rabbit, damn it! archive! current color rabbit illustration by terry colon rabbit girl illustration by terry colon with assembly by jay anderson white rabbit illustration by loretta lopez all letters to the rabbit become the property of the rabbit blog