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Love Story

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Dear President Obama,

I don’t know if you know this, but back in November you won the election, and we were VERY EXCITED ABOUT IT.

It was a romantic-comedy fairy tale if there ever was one, complete with meeting cute and a montage of us frollicking in the park while Sara Bariellies played in the background and a happily, happily, happily ever after.   You stood outside our window with a boom box.  You made us want to be a better man. We flew across the country to meet you at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day. Nora Ephron couldn’t have written it better.

Six months later, we’re hitting a little bit of a rough patch. We still love each other, obvs–how could we not? But now instead of us running along the river and canoodling at Starbucks, the montage is of you eating dinner alone, us staying at the office until all hours, one side of the bed unslept in. Probably the song is by Iron and Wine or some other sad sack band.

 Maybe we grind our teeth at night and it keeps you awake.  Maybe we hate your friends. Maybe sometimes you try and try and try to explain to us very patiently about universal health care and WE WILL NOT LISTEN BECAUSE WE ARE NITWITS. We argue, and we shout, and we get backed into corners and lose our patience and have to go outside in the backyard and smoke a cigarette because are fighting so loudly the neighbors are starting to peek over the fence. Our sassy girlfriend wants us to kick you to the curb. Your buddies think we’re more trouble than we’re worth.

It’s okay. 

The honeymoon is over, that’s all. Now comes the real relationship. The part where we talk and compromise and try to make it work because we kind of dig each other, because we think it means something, because we’re better together than we’ve been apart. 

Don’t give up on us, okay? We won’t give up on you. 

Also, we’d really like it if we could be played by Sandra Bullock.

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Five Good Things: Run This Town Edition

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1. Being home, finally, for more than a couple of days at a stretch. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks feeling completely disconnected from my life, and I’m excited to spend some time with her. For the weekend: a trip to Crane Beach, Shakespeare on the Common, and (finally, finally, by the skin of our teeth before it closes) the Shepherd Fairey show at the ICA.

2. A boyfriend who will pick you up at the airport, listen to your familial histrionics, then sit in bed and watch TV at a low volume when you pass out at ten o’clock. Also who did the grocery shopping while you were gone. 

3. That episode of Saved by the Bell where Slater randomly has a sister who comes to visit and Zack likes her and they have a sock hop and sing “Come Go With Me”. You know which one I mean? That is like my favorite 22 minutes of television of all time, ever. 

4. Getting up early and completing a small project well. 

5. Gratuitous hip hop jam of the week! [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-QT5pIjygA]

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Turn Turn Turn

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My Great Aunt Betty died on Monday. She was 93, and had four children, and loved to laugh. She helped raise my father when his own mother died, and so in that way I guess she helped raise me, too. 

I spent the week with my family in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, trying to figure out where it is that I am from.

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Hey Miss American Girl

I have these girlfriends. We dig each other a lot. 

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When we are together, which is not often enough, we do a lot of eating. 

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And drinking. 

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And loving on each other. 

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I am because you are, chickens. You are all across the country, and you are safe right here with me. 

 

 

(Photos gakked from M. That’s me in the sunglasses in every single picture. Sometimes I like to act famous.)

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Five Good Things: Summer Vacation Edition

img_01081. SiriusXM Love. You GUYS. Have I talked to you about this already? It’s a whole station devoted to the great ballads of 70s, 80s, and 90s.  It’s amazing. They play Celine Dion every minute. Also, “Lady in Red”.  Also, a benefit of keeping it on constantly is that sometimes you get to listen to your sister sing “Can’t Stop Loving You” while she tries to cut the tape on a FedEx box with an unsharpened pencil because she couldn’t find the scissors. 

2.  How when Tom says, “I made dinner,” he means “I made Bagel Bites,” and even though I am not supposed to find that kind of thing charming, I actually really do. Plus he always shares the Bagel Bites. 

3. Bill Clinton doing that awesome thing he did this week. I mean, yes clearly Bill Clinton is a dirty old man, but he is a dirty old man who knocked on the door of North Korea and said, “I think you have something that belongs to us.” I freaking love Bill Clinton. There I said it. 

4. S t r e t c h i n g. If I know you in real life then odds are I have already whined to you about this, but I’m having all this weirdness with my joints and muscles and basically my whole BODY is a crappity old rubber band you found in your great aunt’s desk and it is kind of papery and has no give left to it at all and when you try to put it around the mail it SNAPS. So…I’m trying to fix that. Toe-touching, breath-taking. You know. 

5. Making the most of this long damp summer of ours.

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Gone.

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In New York with my very best girlfriends for some quality lady time. On the agenda: a giant birthday cake, Julie and Julia, beers on the terrace, lazy summer dinners, long days in the park, experimenting with the new camera, and lots lots lots to discuss. 

I’ve got some stuff planned for around here, though, so keep an eye out. Otherwise, I’ll catch you next week.

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This is More Embarrassing Than My Post About the JoBros

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I have this thing for Taylor Hanson.

It’s been going on a long time. Twelve years, in fact.

That’s the age of a sixth-grader. That’s the length of a prison sentence for aggravated assault. 

I know this. And yet.

There’s nothing cool about Taylor. He has no sense of irony. He’s not so winkingly lame as to be awesome. He’s just….Taylor. Giant and floofty and golden-voiced and singlehandedly trying to repopulate the Earth. A father of four at the ripe old age of 26, he’s the Chinese government’s worst nightmare. In his ill-fitting, brightly colored, questionably accessorized ensembles, I’m pretty sure he’s Tim Gunn’s worst nightmare, too.

But here I am. I love this person. I’ve loved him since I was eleven years old. I don’t know why. I’m over most of my other pubescent weirdness. 

Most of it. 

Anyway, though you’d never know it to listen to the radio, Taylor is still plugging away at his musical career, and he and I have this deal where once or twice a year he does weird,  random things, and I pay money to see them. What’s that, Taylor? You want me to walk around the grounds of Gillette Stadium barefoot in October because it will save little kids from AIDS? Sure, yes! You want me to leave your concert covered in bruises because this pregnant lady in the pit got all feisty on me? Why not? You want me to come see you dressed up in your Andy Warhol costume while you prance around with the white-haired guy from Smashing Pumpkins and the dude who wrote “Stacy’s Mom”?

Absolutely I will.

Tinted Windows is Taylor Hanson’s  new(ish) supergroup, and they made their way to Boston last night, so I dragged my friend L (literally…by her hair) to check them out. They were…special. I don’t know. They were fine. Seeing Taylor without the rest of Hanson is kind of like seeing Jem without the Holograms, but no one hit me and I got to keep my shoes on, so…all in all a good night. 

Right on, TayHan. See you in a couple of months.

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