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Rebecca Coale - aka Becky - is a writer, musician and producer. She and childhood best friend Jessica Donalds created Dating & Hookup and founded J&R Creative Media. Becky blogs about love poetry and modern life & womanhood. She lives with her husband, Howard Coale, and their family in Manhattan and Philadelphia.
It’s a New Year. A lot of us are saying: things are gonna be different. We’ve resolved to make it so.
But here’s a hope and wish for all of us, dear WTF?! readers. As everything changes around us – at the speed of light. No wait, faster! Amidst the swirling madness that is f*cked up modern life and love, may we stay, always, ourselves. May we become…only, and even moreso…ourselves. May we realize – and stay true to – ourselves.
We’re Millennials. Go make it so. Here’s a Love Poem to speed you on your way.
Ain’t it the truth?
Hard as it is to be unattractive, what with making less money, getting passed over for promotions, and not getting laid as much, let’s take a moment to acknowledge that it’s hard being hot as well.
Check out the sobfest (which, OK, is actually pretty thoughtful) at Reddit prompted by this question:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjRB7bFwLy0&feature=related
A few months ago, I contemplated how the Princess Club had grown up. We lady babies of the 80′s were raised on the strong-willed, independent-yet-hopelessly-romantic likes of Ariel, Jasmine and Belle, with VHS re-issuings of classic, fated beauties like Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella thrown in for good measure. Were we lucky to have such spunky, plucky, well-starred role models? Do we have them to thank for our empowered notions of self and our refusal to settle for anything less than…well…everything?
Or did these idealized heroines, with their tiny waists and wide-eyed innocence, embody impossible standards of beauty and allure for us? Did these fairy tales set us up for disappointment and disillusionment? Would we be saying “I do” instead of “WTF?!” if only Ariel hadn’t defied her father and her way of life and been willing to make every kind of ultimate sacrifice for Prince Eric?
Fascinating questions, all. But, as it turns out, a moot point of little continuing relevance. Because the Disney Princess have been booted out of town, for good.
So I’m back with my guitar. Again.
We’ve been on-and-off since senior year of college, when I first played long and well enough to get callouses on my fingers. But then I fell hard and fast for the piano in the basement of my dorm. That battered old beast was missing several keys and was frequently out of tune, but I could stay up all night playing and writing without disturbing my roommate.
Coming soon (or, in July) to a theater near you! Two romantic comedies in which a guy and a girl who are friends start having casual sex.
This is good news, because it means we get to watch really attractive people getting down. Unfortunately, however, both films seem to offer a heavy dose of emotional confusion and strife, especially Ivan Reitman’s NO STRINGS ATTACHED (“I can’t date her she’s my oldest friend!”).
You don’t have to, um, have seen either movie to bring on this spoiler: despite our heroes’ hopes and dreams of idyllic, sexy NSA non-relationships, they can’t help but feel that spark of…connection! romance! love?
It’s true. Kids these days. Can’t talk to ‘em. Can’t email ‘em. But they can fix your computer. WTF?!?!?!
The disconnect is funny until it’s not (ie – when you realize your parents’ advice is often useless). There is now a perceived generation gap that is higher than ever – even in 1969. For real. Social media, technology and Millennials have conspired in an (inadvertent?) revolution that even Vietnam, civil rights and hippies couldn’t provoke.
So here we are in 2010, wondering on this site (and in Austin!) what the f*ck is up with our love lives. Because, you know, I have lots of opinions on world poverty, healthcare, education reform, the economy and First Amendment rights, but what does this text message mean??????
This is my new favorite Facebook page. “Thanks For Coming To My House To Sit There And Text Other People.” You can Like it here.
Let’s take a moment. These kids look like they’re 12! (Ok, probably they are about 16 like my brother.)
Yet they are calling out an annoying fact of life which, if I must suffer it as an old-fart-27-year-old, must be 1,000 times worse for them. We all know who they’re talking about! Those annoying people who can’t be in the moment they’re in – at dinner, watching TV, in a meeting, on the train, at the park, in a bar – because they’re too busy texting, tweeting, emailing, playing solitaire, getting hit up on Skout ETC.
Seriously. Could you put the bberry down for one second and finish reading my blog post?
“Darling, some of my best friends are exes…”
(paraphrased Tallulah Bankhead)
He’s your ex because you dumped him as soon as you got to college and realized varsity cross country runners were hot.
He’s your ex because he “wasn’t ready to commit” after a few days / weeks / months of…whatever…!
He’s your ex because you didn’t feel like yourself with him; somehow after years of growing together you somehow had grown apart.
He’s your ex because it just wasn’t working, and he wasn’t willing to keep working on it.
He’s your ex because. Yeah. Well. That text message. Moving on.
These (post-dating) days, there are endless varieties of exes. It makes sense, given the overwhelming complexity of our make-it-up-as-you-go, self-realized, technology-enabled lives. He could end up filling any number of roles in your dah, right? So it only makes sense that he would also play any number of roles in your life after your “relationship” ends.
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou her maid art far more fair than she.
Be not her maid, since she is envious.
– Romeo & Juliet
We think we know what love is. We think we have felt love before. We think we know when we have been in love.
We’ve all dreamed of – and some of us have found – The One.
So WTF is THIS flow chart? Who the f*ck’s love life is THIS?
Last week in San Fran (that evening out on the town when I wasn’t calling back that guy I really like), I found myself eagerly signing up for SKOUT – ie – the largest location-based online dating community on the internet.
That’s right! Why scroll through endless dating profiles and message people back and forth for indeterminate periods of time, before finally meeting up with them and realizing they look nothing like their photos? Who has time for that? Why not see who is in your immediate vicinity and start chatting with them right now?! The impatience of modern techno-romance – as Jess dubs it - won’t let us have it any other way.
I was game…
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YgvKCfZqxrQ
**SPOILER ALERT! We’re gonna talk about it all! Don’t read further if you’re not caught up!**
Mad Men Season 4
There’s lots to LOVE about Mad Men this season – but not a whole lot to LUST over.
I make this statement with dismay, because Mad Men was one of the first shows I watched with libidinous abandon for this WTF?! series on hot men, sex, fantasy and television. Why do women (like me!) lust after – and fall for – lying, cheating bastards like Don Draper? What is it that underlies their intense erotic allure?
Whatever “it” is, it has been conspicuously missing from Mad Men so far in Season 4. Don in his dark, shabby apartment. Don misspeaking like a rookie to a gossip-mongering journalist. Don losing the account for which he won the Cleo (and generally bucking under the pressure of a Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce under seige.) Don retreating to an underwater reverie as he swims laps in an effort to cut down on the booze. Don failing his struggling adolescent daughter. Don emabarking on a potentially meaningful relationship with a woman every ounce his savvy, upstart, tenacious peer.
Ew Ew Ew! Season 4 is a cold shower of un-arousing plot points.
But it’s making me think.
My interview with The New York Times Style section today got me thinking.
I would say I noticed my first wrinkles about two years ago. I was 25. I was looking in the mirror one morning and I smiled. Then I noticed the creases around my eyes. There had always been creases around my eyes, emanating out from the tips like so many finely drawn pencil lines. But that day, I noticed, the creases were deeper. They seemed like permanent, fleshy caverns in my skin.
My initial reaction was of elation. I had smile wrinkles! I thought of how much time (a lot) I had spent laughing and smiling in my life (so far). I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my wacky-but-loveable family who shared my insane sense of humor. For my girlfriends, who had made the miseries and tribulations of adolescence so much more bearable and laughable than had I been going through it all alone. For the boys I had (already) loved, not loved, and sort-of loved, but in any case had enjoyed fun-if-mostly-awkward times with. So much “life experience” is deliriously funny in retrospect. And I cherished those memories.
Every year that I had gotten “older,” I’d also gotten happier. Why wouldn’t I want the evidence of joyous life written on my face? The slight hint of wrinkle was a badge of honor. Right?