The other day when I was brave enough to get my hair cut a teeny-tiny bit (that's right good people, I agreed to long layers, thereby updating my Ted Bundy victim look from the 70s by a little, opting for a more current 70s style which I love -- thanks Stacey!), my friend and I laughed about how you can always tell gifts from exes to your beloved because they exude an aura of evil. Okay, I concede that I might be overstating the case here, but damned if I don't know who something is from without being told and can get the creeps from an inantimate object all the same. I once dated someone who had a bag full of mixed tapes women had made him and some that he had made for other women. They rolled around on the floorboard of his car, some containing truly horrible songs, many I'm sorry to say had a lot of Peter Gabriel on them. People assume I like Peter Gabriel because he once wrote a crappy whiney song about Anne Sexton where he bleats over and over again, Looking for mercy street, looking for mercy street until the listener wishes he'd find the fucking street and shut up. Chicks are supposed to dig that sort of sad sack crap in the same way we're supposed to love Coldplay because of the moody British rocker saying things that don't make a lick of sense, but he says them with an accent which is supposed to count for being deep. It makes one long for the high school years when Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love" was all you needed.
Strangely enough, most women distance themselves from their current beloved's past, an impossible task if you ask me. I once had a student who had all the stuff from his one true love (a woman who was not his wife -- how did I know this? -- Well, I'm mildly psychic and many of his essays started, I hate my wife so much . . . ) in a locked safety deposit box so his wife wouldn't burn it. This strikes me as sad, sadder than being forced to listen to a mixed tape without any Marvin Gaye on it. Our pasts give the present weight and none of us are without an odd menagarie of things that meant something at one time. I even have stuff from my old boyfriend's ex-girlfriends (one of the stranger moments in that relationship was being given a ton of clothes by one of my exes that women had left over at his house -- I wanted to throw them out, but I liked too many of them so practicality won over jealously). Perhaps the strangest object I have from someone else's love is a box of body paints from the early eighties, all in colors not found in nature. The box with a turquoise unicorn on it says, Try something new! Take a chance with a new love! The paints have dried up, never have been used. I feel an odd tenderness toward it and saved it from being thrown out. The box, while dated with its puff paint garish color scheme is dated, the sentiment, one can hope, never will be.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Everything is bad including me,/ But being bad is good policy,/ It protects me from your past,/ 'till your memory's gone at last/ Everything is bad including me. " Reverend Horton Heat
Drinking movie suggestion: What Happened Was
Benedictions and Maledictions
Happy Wednesday, everyone! I found a great book with drink ads from the 70s in it and will be posting them off and on all week for your viewing pleasure.