Tag Archives: happily ever after

“Don’t You Know: They’re Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution? It Sounds — Like a Whisper!”

“People are not good to each other.

People are not good to each other.

People are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.

I don’t ask them to be.

But sometimes I think about it.”

Charles Bukowski, The Crunch

There is a passion, in all of us.  It boils.  It protests:  In Rome*, Yemen, Africa**.  It pushes to break us out of our skins — out of our boundaries; shackles, limits, laws; cowardice — and to rebel.

Some have chosen to live quietly, getting by.  They seem to cause the least conflict.  And if on occasion they hurt one another — it will be most likely by accident.  A tiny demand will rise in their souls — a tiny rebellion against obedience that has seemingly earned them nothing.

“So, what’s the fucking point?!” I ask.

And they reach for something that the rest of the world won’t miss much.  They reach with passion.  There may be an accidental victim:  He’s gotten in the way of their reaching.

But what’s a little hurt — against a lifetime of groveling?

Nothing.

Others manages to tangle up their egos in the chalk lines of the score board that keeps track of the rat race.  They are a special clan:  They measure life in numbers.  In things.  In values.  Passionately.  To them, there always seems to be a deadline in life, called Work Until:

Work Until:  They get tired of playing.  Work Until:  They gain a debt, then pay it off.  Work Until:  They have a piece of land, for a house or a deathbed.  Until they pay off a palace, a chariot, a marriage, a child’s tuition:  A Happily Ever After.

Work Until:  They never need to work again.  Work Until:  They can rest.  Work Until…

Nothing.

Their days turn into discardable minutes:  Five minutes — Until.  Thirty years — Until.  Another person’s life — Until.  Until, Until, Until, Until.  They pump themselves up against the lackluster crawl of the minutes.  They lose themselves — in things, in numbers.  In scores.  With passion.

Some actually manage to get there:  God bless ‘em!  They get to their anticipated Until, for the sake of which, they’ve sacrificed so many minutes.  And some have even sacrificed their truths.  Their passions.

That’s when the real horror happens:  At the end, they soon discover that nothing, in life, lacks a price.

Nothing.

And they find that the price of Until usually turns out to be gastronomical:  Greed.  Sacrifice.  Health.  Denial.  Nothing.

And that shit isn’t refundable!

“So, what’s the fucking point?!” I ask.

And:

What happens to LOVE — I ask — in such a lifetime of Until?

Find me a man who knows the answer to that.  For I have asked too many men who’ve given me mere accusations in return.  Something about time, or timing.  Readiness and plans.  Something about their Until.  I couldn’t really stick around for their explanations for long:  Their fear was eating up their faces — and my time.  So, find me a man who knows the answer to:  What’s the fucking point?!  I find me one who answers with passion.

Oh, and don’t discount those poor suckers born with extremely sensitive souls.

“It’s okay.  They’ll grow out of it,” pediatricians tell their parents.

Most actually do:  Innocence is rarely immune to life.  

But what happens when they don’t?  Well, then:   Please, say a prayer for those poor suckers:  A Hail Mary for the Sensitives.  For they are stuck here, among us, with no delusion to save them from the ache.  And no Until.

“Oh, but everyone aches!” the others object.

Still, the sensitives get the worse of it, in this life.  They stumble around, among us, like unwanted orphans.  Like innocents.

“But do YOU ache?” they ask.

Poor suckers!  They insist on hitting the truth on the nail.  It’s so annoying!

“Everyone aches,” the others object.

The sensitives study our faces for signs that they aren’t the only ones feeling this much.  It’s innocence, at its worst.  It’s passion.

“Then, what do you do — to cope?” they ask.

“Nothing.”

So, they devote their lifetimes to taking notes.  They write down our words, then regurgitate them, in a prettier form:  Poetry.  Others jot down their sketches, finding beauty in our fear-eaten faces.  And innocence, or whatever is left of it.  Passion.  Some put on reenactments:

“Wouldn’t this make for a better picture, in life?” they ask.

The others scoff, look away.

They do not have the time for truth — Until…

They do not have time — for a revolution.  

No:  They would rather spend their lives suspended until the arrival of Until.  Or, they spend their lifetimes — groveling.

Surely, there will be small griefs that happen until the Until, and they’ll complain and demand attention.  They’ll demand a change, but only enough of it — and only if it’s convenient — and never for the sake of others.

Because everyone aches.  And there is nothing to be done about that.

Nothing.

But what would happen if we gathered our passions into a fist and planted a punch?

* Rallies Across the Globe Protest Economic Policies.  New York Times. October 15, 2011. 

** “Occupy”Protest Turns Violent in Rome.  Al Jazeera.  October 15, 2011. 

‘Cause My Momma Taught Me Better Than That!

Once upon a time, I had a lover…

(What does this have to do with today’s celebration of Mamas’ Day?  Hmm, I dunno.  Maybe ‘cause my motha is the most sexually liberated woman I’ve ever known?  Or because, after every break-up, she is the first to bless me to “Go forth — and fuck!”

Or to quote her more precisely, that shawty says:  “Vhen van penis leavez — replace vith anozzer!  NEXT!”

Motha’s pretty rad, in an insane kinda way.)

So, anyway:  Once upon a time, I had a lover.  A friend of a friend, he’d been flirting with me for years, warming up all of my orifices with not just his Tall, Dark and Handsome routine but with his talent to make me laugh that equalled to that of my motha’s.  (See:  my shawty is gonna be all o’er this rant blog!)  But the one thing I’ve learned from a previously debauched affair of my late twenties is this:  Never settle for leftovers.

You see:  The player — had a girl, and a lovely one at that.  Of some exotic Eastern European heritage, she was driving him insane with that untamed, shameless sexuality we Slavs are known for; but also with her snappy ‘tude.  After the first few years, the girl’s sassiness transformed into bitchiness, and she was making this player suffer, for real.  But no matter how much he complained to me about being mistreated, I kept my ears open — but my Frederick’s of Hollywood on.

Naturally, when the mean Eastern European dumped his confused American ass — he came running to me; and call me an idiot, I received him with my arms — and legs — open.  (Frederick’s of Hollywood — OFF!)  But instead of nurturing him through his break-up into my Next Ideal Boyfriend (Tall, Dark and Handsome), I agreed to act as a stand-in for the woman who’s walked out on him such a short time ago, her perfume still lingered in the air.  And in his bedroom.  And in his car.  I mean:  I could taste the lovely inside his mouth!  Brutal.  Yet, still:  I signed-up to be the rebound.

When we agree to that, my darling sistas, I guarantee we don’t make our mamas proud.  So, okay:  I’ve refrained from the dignity-raping, karma-wrecking, heart-breaking role of the Other Woman.  But when I climbed on top of that player right after the Love of His Life has climbed off — I did myself no justice at all.  For lost loves take time to mourn; and not until the brokenhearted commit to wrapping-up their tragic acts can they be willing to start the next chapter.

Once upon a time, I sat butt-naked on this player’s kitchen counter to compensate for our height difference; and while I was nibbling on frozen mangos and his neck, he pulled away and said:

“When you walked in tonight…”

“Yeah?” I purred, moving on to the earlobes — and more mangos; but he stopped me by cradling my chin with his manly hand the size of my lil’ Eastern European face.

“You looked so beautiful — I thought, ‘WHY IS SHE HERE?!’”

Once upon a time ago, I shrugged off the player’s comment as some odd compliment by a man which would take me years to decipher.  I didn’t have years!  I was a horny woman, on a mission!

But after just a month, that affair would go shit.  Despite our friendship (or perhaps because of it), the man treated me with flippancy and indifference; while I kept telling myself that after enough time, he’d snap out of it — and there I’d be, in all my goodness ‘n’ glory.  And, of course:  We’d live “happily ever after”!  But one night, he stood me up for a film date — and surprisingly quickly, I was over his manly taint.  (That man was lucky my motha was never made privy to that ending of our love story; or she’d pull a Tony Soprano on his ass — and the Tall, Dark and Handsome would be no more.)

Last night, something crawled up my ass.  (Settle down!  I wasn’t having sex.)  I couldn’t sleep.  Oh, yes!  I remember:  I was releasing the most recent love of mine, upon his request.  It took me a couple of weeks to stop throwing tantrums and realize the man just didn’t want me.  Despite the excuses he granted me:  bottom line — he wanted out!

With my self-delusions evaporating on every exhale, I slid open my windows and turned off the lights, letting the hollers of youth playing their Hollyweird games on my street enter my sanctuary.  How I was hoping that their voices would overcrowd the one dominant one in my head — and in my very gut where there lives my motha’s intuition — and I would distract myself enough to reunite with the illusion that I finally got the man I wanted!

“He’ll change his mind.”

“He’ll come back.”

Yet, there I sat, in the dark.  Alone.  Alone — again.

In the midst of this post-break-up meditation, I heard the ghost of the Tall, Dark and Handsome…  and asshole!  (Sorry:  Motha has taught me better than to lose my graces; but during break-ups (and behind the wheel of my sports car), I often suffer from Tourette’s.)

“WHY IS SHE HERE?!” reiterated the player; and suddenly I realized that besides being complimentary at the time, his comment was a recognition of his unworthiness — of me! — and his unreadiness to be with a magnificent woman my motha has taught me to be.  He needed to pay his dues, still; to suffer through more bitches in his life; until he himself realized that he deserved to reach for the goodness I was proposing with my taut body (again: thanks, mom!) and my generous, compassionate, exceptional heart (ditto!).

Now, this rant is not about horn-tooting.  (Hah!  That sounds naughty:  “horn-tooting”.)  It’s more than that.  This — is a fucking parade through your towns, cities and hamlets, my ladies.  To celebrate you — the magnificent daughters of your magnificent mothers — is my mission.  But since I may not be around during your own personal lapses of self-worth, I pray you listen to your mamas; for they are the ones reminding us that we deserve to be loved by men who, day in and day out, strive to be worthy of us. 

But then again, in this unhappily ending story, it’s not about our self-esteem (and if you ever let a player affect it, I myself will go Tony Soprano on your taut asses).  It’s about the men’s.

Until then, we, good girls, are better left alone — and single — and magnificent, just like our mamas:

From a Happy Ending — to Ending Happily

With some couples, it just doesn’t work out.  That’s the sad and unfortunate tale, my darling boys ‘n’ girls — a tale as old as civilization itself — that some relationships never reach their Happily Ever After.  Scratch that:  Some loves don’t even have a remote chance to reach their mid-way potential.  They’re just never meant to.

Because unless a love is on its very first round for both participants who are completely innocent and unscathed, someone steps into it while carrying a load or two of baggage.  Someone’s father didn’t love them enough.  Someone’s mother was a fuck-up.  Someone’s ex mistreated them.  Someone else had a history of settling for less than what they deserved.  She got cheated on.  He ended up not trusting humanity and fearing the vulnerability of love.  Oh, the reasons for the baggage are endless, my darlings!  I had seen enough of them to start believing that that very baggage is pretty much a permanent part of the process; and if not that, it’s an unexpected third character.

I mean:  Look at Romeo and Juliet.

Those two kiddos were lucky enough to experience the rare coincidence when both parties love each other equally and, what’s utterly amazing, for the very first time.  But even in the case of these two “star-crossed lovers,” they did not start-up their famed affair without a couple of issues in tow.  Even though their baggage didn’t originate from previously failed affairs, these two teenage lovers had inherited plenty of it from their families.  And once there is baggage — the affair cannot remain light.  Sooner or later someone’s gotta start reshuffling their shit, impose some transference upon their new lover, repeat a pattern or freak-out entirely.

And sometimes, a love affair is predetermined to not work out.  Back to our unfortunate kiddos in Verona, their Happy Ending was doomed from the get-go.  As for the rest of us who have lived — and loved — enough, we can’t even figure out if we’ve chosen our future beloveds to fit the pattern or to escape it.  Because when it comes to one’s history and one’s future — they are two codependent aspects.

“Damn, V!  That’s a grim outlook,” you may say.

Well, there is hope in it yet, my dear comrades.  With the help of some therapy and mutual communication, a love has a chance of surviving being bashed by egos.  But it takes hard work, of course.  However, I never said that the hopefulness came at a reasonable price.

But today’s rant blog is not even about love:  It’s about the loss of it.

Allow me to ask you this poignant question, my dear comrades (for such is my destiny — to be poignant; and “yourr velkom”!):  Why must we insist on making each break-up messy?  What’s with all the finger pointing, and the issue having, and the claims of righteousness, and the entitlement to justice?  Besides the reshuffle of things and bodies that must naturally occur when a Happily Ever After doesn’t work out, most failed lovers refuse to walk away without pulling some final punches.  Whatever happened to calling it quits without losing the grasp on grace; if not for the sake of the two people that the lovers have grown to become, then for the sake of the initial more smitten and kinder players they were in the beginning of the affair?

This has been puzzling me lately, I must confess, my comrades.  In the light of my recent willingness to make my new love story work out while simultaneously seeking my forgiveness of the previously failed ones, I’ve been rewinding some of my past break-ups.  (So, okay:  I’m masochistic a lil’!)  It’s like a bloody home movie marathon in my head these days!

And what I’ve discovered was that regardless the promises of kindness and the vows “to love and to hold,” in the final chapter of my every love story, shit got messy.  Even after I’ve wised-up enough to stop confusing screaming phone calls and slammed doors as an expressions of that same love, the drama (for the lack of a better word) didn’t stop.  Because even if I’ve decided to walk away without losing my graces, the other — often poorly chosen from the start partner — made it messy.

In the end, my darling boys ‘n’ girls, it all worked out, of course.  The broken hearts healed.  New loves eventually arrived.  In some cases, there even blossomed a lovely friendship between my exes and I.  But the residual guilt or the overall heaviness from an ungraceful break-up hung around for a bit; slowing down the process of healing and imposing itself onto the next affair.

So, why, I must repeat, this “much ado about nothing”?  Why can’t we, lovers, agree to depart without leaving each other undamaged?

Isn’t there a way to call it quits without the two prizefighters trying to pull those final punches that would knock the wind out of their opponent?  And instead of utilizing the energy of all that anger and mourning toward inflicting pain, may I dare suggest redirecting it toward summoning some gratitude for the obvious privilege of having loved at all?  And if a Happy Ending is just not meant to be, can an affair’s ending happen with some contentment, at least?

Big Break? Big Balls!

Back in my Motha’ Russia, there is a saying:

“Moscow wasn’t built overnight.”

Say whaaaat?  Okay, I’ll translate.

Any grandiose endeavor by the human mind, soul or imagination takes time to build.  Or in the words of my gorgeous lover:

“Anything worth having — takes a lot of hard work.”

Which is exactly why I was never a believer in the bullshit fairytales of Big Breaks and Overnight Sensations.

First off, I wasn’t born here; and neither was I a lucky bastard to be born to a family that would support me.  Quite quickly — oh, say, by the age of five — it became clear that not only was capable of taking care of myself, I was expected to do so.  So, when I left the anarchy of Motha’ Land’s last decade of the 20th century, I didn’t climb off the boat at Ellis Island expecting to tread upon pathways paved with easy money and other people’s easy “yeses.”  I was ready to bust my slim, tomboyish ass and earn my way; and I was NOT willing to make my step heavier by stuffing my mind with delusions of lottery fairytales.

And thusly, I did.  Oh, how I did that, my comrades!  For the sake of mere survival at first — for a decade! — I worked anywhere between two to five jobs while carrying a full-time class load in college and grad school; and then — as any American — I decided to practice my right to pursue a dream.  And, let me tell you:  This cat went for it!  Trying out every major in college.  Entertaining dozens of professions.  Taking-up internships on the Isle of Manhattana, just because she could.  Trying her hand at every art form, at least once.  You’d think this wild cat actually had nine lives to spare!  (All the while, the list of survival jobs and sleepless nights and financial sacrifices continued to accumulate.)

Now, if you’ve chosen to settle in either the metropolis of LA-LA or the other Center of the Universe (love you, New York — but it’s complicated with us!); you know that everybody is trying to be a Somebody.  That’s the reason for these two opposing cities’ magnificence and an occasional cause for annoyance.  But if you’ve come here to participate in the race, you’ve most likely been made a witness of the following event.  Say, a Somebody’s name comes up.  Or better yet, that Somebody appears in a national commercial while you’re vegging out on the couch with your aspiring actor friends.  You KNOW, there is going to be someone to holler:

“OH!  THAT’S MY FRIEND!”

Yep, we live in a close proximity to other people’s dreams coming true.  I myself have  a couple of comrades who are either on the verge of their first well-paid job of significant exposure, or are already working actors and writers.  And I’ll tell you this:  There was nothing “Overnight” in the pursuit of their dreams.  Just like the rest of us, they worked restaurant jobs and temp gigs and those soul-draining office jobs, at all of which they’ve been painfully overqualified, yet underpaid.  They’ve wasted their days in the soul-draining background holding areas and did the grind of audience work (otherwise known as the Freak Show of Humanity).  So by the time their personal Big Ben struck the hour of the Big Break, those hustlers have paid their dues.  They’ve done the legwork, you see; have knocked on dozen of doors; mailed enough head shots and reels and clippings to pay for a house downpayment.  They’ve been tortured by doubt and daunting competition and endless rejections.

My personal fascination is always with the journey that takes after the Happily Ever After.  What happens after the Big Break; or in the morning when you finally wake up as a Somebody?  From what I’ve witnessed:

—  First:  Your friendships get tested.  If you’ve had the balls to reach for any dream of seeming impossibility, you better be equipped with the self-possession and the courage of rediscovering the true content of your friendships. Some of your people will stick around, god bless their exceptional souls (at which point, I pray you have the wits to claim them as your permanent family).  But others — will flake off!  Be prepared:  Some friends will demonstrate very odd behavior that’ll leave you feeling disappointed or lonely.  So, may your god of choice grant you the wisdom and the grace to handle the life-changing reshuffle.

— And then, there will always be an army of acquaintances who will want a piece of it:  A piece of your Somebody-ness and the overdue prosperity that most likely comes with it. Again, keep clutching on to your chosen people; because after the noise hushes down, they’ll still be the only ones having your back.

— Finally, my favorite part:  And the work — continues. From what I’ve learned in my insignificant yet loaded with turmoil eight previous lives:  The work never stops.  And to that, I say:  Mazel tov!  If you’re one of those lucky dreamers to grab at least a handful of what you’ve reached for, may you continue to ask for more. So, here is to your endurance and patience, your courage to dream and the balls to handle the consequences!

Single White She-Male

Ladies!

Let this wild cat on her eighth life tell you how it is:  A successful relationship is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Take my word for it.  For most of us, our lives haven’t been ravaged by war or incurable disease or poverty.  We aren’t oppressed on the daily basis into a category of borderline servants in a male-dominated culture.  We are free to choose the cities of our residence, the degrees on our diplomas and the length of our hair.  So, if you happened to live in the First World Country — such as this ever-so-fascinating experiment of the U.S. of A. — that allows for enough leisure time to entertain the concept of CHOICE, you’ve got yourself a complicated task on your hands.

CHOICE. My favorite word.  Ever!  Maybe it’s because in the country of my origin — my badass Motha’ Russia — I wasn’t granted too many of choices.  Or perhaps, the hellholes of my previous six lives have prevented me from making “love” my favorite word.  But to me, a choice is the highest privilege a free man and woman can have; and if it’s been granted to you by birth — well, then:  You’re one lucky mother fucker!  No, wait.  I spoke too soon.  Now that I’ve finally advanced my station in life beyond survival of a mere immigrant, I am starting to understand that one’s right to choose comes with a responsibility.

The very purpose of my humble existence, I believe, is too collect the stories of humanity — and then, retell them; and my favorite subjects — are the magnificent creatures of my own gender.  So, as one of those coolest Amazons I’ve adopted for a sister has once told me:

“It is our responsibility — to live a good life.”

She herself was born into a culture in which women better fit into a category of things.  Having been thrown around enough by her family, she got her wits together at a criminally young age (for, I believe, NO child should inherit the suffering of his or her parents!) — and she fled.  On the coast of her new and democratic country, she spent decades molding herself into an independent, powerful woman with an income that beats most men’s, allows her to explore the world and grants her access to every possible opportunity that arouses her curiosity.  Bare-handedly, she wrangled with her — ah, here’s that word again! — choices of partners, and to this day, has refused to settle for (drumroll, ladies!) less than what she deserves.

Say, you’ve finally found “The One.”  (I cringe here a little, my lovely ladies, because I would be so very, very, very careful with granting that title to anyone other than your self.  There is no more crucial relationship in life than THE one you have — with YOU! And if you haven’t invested in that honest and intimate and most important love of your life, then you will neither be a happy partner nor make a partner happy.)

So, back to “The One.”  You’ve done the legwork and the self-examination.  You’ve explored your choices.  You’ve suffered enough in bad match-ups to live up to your better expectations; and here you are:  coupled up with a partner that suits you best.  You’re done!  You’re on the threshold of your Happily Ever After.  Hallelujah!  Right?

Nyet!

I must break it to you, ladies, but the tale of your Happily Ever After will demand continuous commitment and work.  Here is my beef with fairytales:  After an epic search for love by their heroines, these tales we’ve lapped up as little girls cut-off abruptly once the match-up finally happens.  No one tells us about how Cinderella deals with moving into the Prince Charming’s bachelor pad and handles his messy living habits.  Or whether or not the Pea Princess welcomes all the other hard things her man presents in bed due to his insatiable sexual appetite.  Does Snow White agree to her in-laws’ demands to change her last name; and is her Prince chill with her having a multitude of male friends?  When Rapunzel pops out her babies, gets a job and decides to cut off her hair, how does that sit with her lover; and how do they get past the negotiation?  See what I mean, ladies?  The questions, the work, the communication and the diplomacy required for a successful relationship — are never-ending.

So, I wish you courage in pursuit of your fairytales, the gorgeous sisters of my gender; because courage is exactly what it takes to remain in love with yourself, another person, or this whole living deal. May you stay curious, continue changing and may your partner have the balls to keep up.  But here is my most crucial spiel:  Pah-lease, remain authentic to yourself in your own story writing. Don’t follow other women’s choices, especially if those choices haven’t been examined, but predetermined by fear, laziness or the majority’s dogma.  If you are lucky enough to have choices — don’t take them for granted. You are free to write your own fucking fairytales, my Amazons; and besides that being a privilege — it is your bloody responsibility to do so.