Archive - 2013

1
Bumpkins r us
2
I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married | Pop Chassid
3
The Fox Lie About the March on Washington GOP Invitations
4
At the movies
5
Lottery ≠ Tax
6
NOT a Christian Nation… Get it?
7
Missed Connection
8
Design Overkill
9
▶ The Camp Gyno – YouTube
10
Why pay for the cow…?

I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married | Pop Chassid

 

I Didn’t Love My Wife When We Got Married

 

Interesting article.  I could barely get past the crazy fact that they were engaged in two months and married in three.  But in any case, although I basically agree with the author of this piece, I have a slightly different take on love and marriage.

Yes, love is about giving to the other person… but more than that, romantic love (true love, not the infatuation of the first year for the very young) isn’t so much an emotion as it is a DECISION.  Love is a decision you make every day to put your relationship (in effect, a distinct entity) before your personal ego.  It’s a choice you make to weather the bad times — even when you’re mad (because you’re right and he’s wrong, or some other stupid thing that doesn’t remotely matter)… or you’re not “getting your needs met”… or it’s no longer fun… or you simply one day don’t “feel it.”

Be a grownup and get over yourself.

As a matter of fact, I think the whole “loss of passion” concept is childish, a way to justify laziness, basically a lame excuse.  Passion does not, and cannot, exist in a vacuum.  It has to be nurtured.  Even when you don’t feel it, if you’ve made that commitment, you work your ass off to bring it back.  There’s nothing magical about love.  It’s hard work.

True love means striving to give not 50/50, not 60/40, but 100/100 percent.  When the going gets rough, when “life” gets in the way, when illness or a family crisis or personal disappointments or money problems or any number of other challenges come up, you or your partner might end up temporarily giving less and/or taking more… but overall you both aim for 100 percent so that you’re always covered.

When both people in the relationship make that 100/100 investment, the return is huge.  And it is hugely satisfying.

At the movies

Earlier today, my mom asked me if I’d seen the movie “42” yet.

To which I responded, “Mom, you should never ask me if I’ve seen a particular movie YET; just ask me if I’ve seen it.”

Because — and this applies to ALL movies — chances are I haven’t seen it, and won’t ever.

Besides the unpleasantness of the modern-day movie theater experience (noise, filth, rudeness, discomfort, outrageous cost), I simply prefer episodic television to cinematic feature films.  I’m all about character over plot, and a well-written/acted/directed TV series allows for a gradual knowing of the characters and the opportunity to see them evolve. It’s exceedingly rare to find anything approaching that in a two-hour movie.

Missed Connection

This made me laugh and cry and FEEL a whole hell of a lot. I hope the author is actually out there writing short stories, using this fabricated Craigslist post as a marketing tool; otherwise, it sure is a waste of talent.

Missed Connection – m4w.

Since Craiglist postings up and disappear after awhile, the above link will eventually lead to a dead end… so here’s the text:

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT
Missed Connection – m4w
I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.

I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

Posting ID: 3985247459

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

Design Overkill

Arts-and-crafts style elements add warmth and visual interest to a home…. but you don’t want to overdo it. Furnishing a craftsman bungalow with craftsman furniture + craftsman lighting/decor is akin to deep-frying pork steaks stuff with sausage, slathering them with gravy, and then topping that with cheddar cheese sauce and bacon. Although such a gastronomical atrocity might appeal to some people… so never mind.

▶ The Camp Gyno – YouTube

I LOVE this so much — total GIRL POWER!

If only we’d had something like this back in the early 1970s, the girls of my generation might have been confidently celebrating “the red badge of courage” rather than shamefully enduring “the curse.” In any case, I’m glad that young women today can feel proud of and comfortable with their natural bodily functions.

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