On Sunday, per the suggestion for Day 14, I made eyes at a random little girl, which, yes, reminded me how great it was to be young. Do you ever feel like as you mature into adulthood, you are just becoming more and more like the person you already were when you were 5 and had older male imaginary friends named Diaper Clip and Cheese Spreader? It also was like a drop-kick to my ovaries, which have been in overdrive ever since my friends started getting engaged en masse and I was forced to see “Babies.” Literally, I’m at four engagements so far this summer, and the solstice was just this week. But anyway, on Monday (Day 15), I embraced the modern 26-year-old me and planned a lady party. Well, really a lady reunion of my best friends from college. Keep reading »
Profile for Maude Standish
In her second video blog, Maude Standish embarks upon a dangerous, uncharted mission for The Frisky — her first pedicure ever. When The Frisky 30-Day Breakup Guide instructed her to “buy something pink,” she decided to play footsie, getting some pink polish painted on her virgin toes. Of course, it wasn’t as easy as that… Keep reading »
When I’m feeling down there are three books I turn to: Matilda by Roald Dahl, Alice In Wonderland by
C.S. Lewis Lewis Carroll, and Slouching Towards Bethlehem by Joan Didion. This has been pretty consistent throughout my life. When I was 14 and all my friends decided they didn’t like me in one of those ways that only needs to happen to you once to scar you into thinking that large groups of girls are terrifying, I locked myself in my moodily painted deep purple room and read each one of these in a row. When I was 18 and my boyfriend dumped me three days before prom to go with another girl, I once again turned to these books. When I was in college and I walked in on a guy I thought I was in love with having sex with another girl (his argument was because he didn’t know her name it didn’t matter), the first place I went to was the library. And now, once again, I’m turning to these books to help me through a breakup. Keep reading »
One of my ex’s and my favorite pastimes was going thrifting. We’d take long road trips, crisscrossing around Texas, getting fat off of pounds of barbeque and chocolate malts (with real scoops of ice cream), listening to Townes Van Zandt, taking photos of plaster Statues of Liberty growing old with roadside cactuses, and stopping in small towns for their church-basement thrift stores and roadside junk shops.
So it’s no surprise my whole house is now filled with debris from these adventures. Also, since Mister Frenchy Fry is an artist, I have little watercolors he painted for me, like the one of the albino alligator we saw in the New Orleans zoo (which, rumor has it, wandered loose around the streets after Katrina before being re-caged), and big paintings, Polaroids of storms coming in and of the birthday barbeque he threw for my 21st birthday (when I lost my ID and went back to using my fake for a whole year), and a psychedelic green chair—the one I made him pull over to buy and put in the back of his car. You get the picture: It’s a lot of stuff.
Knowing that not all of it was going to fit in a single box (and that, let’s be honest, I didn’t want to get rid of ALL of it), I opted for two huge plastic containers. I took down the photos of us, even if they were group shots, and put them in. I packed up sweaters of his, a white lace dress he gave me for Christmas and the dress my mom lent me for our first “official” date. I kept packing until they were filled and put them in storage.
The hardest thing to pack up was a tin of our old letters. I met Mister Frenchy Fry when I was still in college and he lived 90 miles away (a two-hour ride on the commuter train) in New York. When we first started dating (even before we became Friendster friends or said we were the big E: “exclusive”) we sent real, paper letters to each other weekly. I would go to campus mail and there would be a package filled with funny drawings, designs for the boat he was going to build for us to ride down the Hudson, a drawing of what he thought the inside of my brain looked like (a lot like Chutes and Ladders with ideas zooming about), our flag featuring an octopus which he sewed by hand, a zine about the feelings I inspired in him, and worst of all, detailed letters written in guy scrawl about the places we were going to go together and how we could take over the world.
Even just writing this my heart is beating faster.
So instead I shoved it into storage and took a 20-minute hot shower.
A lot of people (including commenters here) have been asking me why I’m not angry. Well, I am angry. I’m so mad that sometimes I just start screaming after we talk, or I write him long, verbal-diarrhea emails that tell him just who I think he is (at those moments it’s usually a jerk). But the truth is, I bear as much guilt in the dissolution of something magical as he does, and for every jerky action of his, I’ve responded with an equally bitchy reaction. Neither of us is the villain or the victim—we’re just people trying to figure out how to live in the wake of the disaster called heartbreak.
I hadn’t talked to him since I started living by the book. And then he called, late last night. Every time we talk it’s so confusing. I have to work so hard to fight off the urge to vomit and sob uncontrollably that I’m only half-present in the conversations. Add in a glass or two of wine and a late night and I actually often struggle to figure out what was really said. But basically, he had heard that I had started dating again and wanted to know if I still thought about him. It was all I could do not to tell him about this blog and say, “Hell, yes! I’m basically in a 12-step recovery program, complete with a support group (albeit an online one) to get over you.” Instead I’m pretty sure I just repeated the sentence “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do” over and over again in various tones of pathetic and agreed to meet up to talk this week.
I’m messing this up, aren’t I?
For the next month, Maude will be road-testing our new book, The Frisky 30-Day Breakup Guide, written by Jamie Beckman, documenting her experience along the way. For more information on the book (including where to get your own copy!), click here!
The average American woman will be dumped (i.e., have her heart torn out, while still beating out of her chest, Indiana Jones-style) at least 2.47 times in her life. Well, actually I just made that statistic up. But it sounds realistic, right? Because, for the most part, we have all experienced something akin to heartbreak and know the sort of seasick feeling it can leave you with for days (in my case months) after. And yet, each one of us thinks our breakup story is somehow fundamentally important and riveting for others to hear.
After a breakup we find ourselves repeating the story of our split like it’s a mantra for why we haven’t brushed our hair or have taken to wearing our period panties when it’s not our time of month. Once in a while someone will lean over and give us life advice, like there is no reason to store empty beer bottles under the bed or it’s very weird and inappropriate to constantly let your cat watch you go to the bathroom, and instead of internalizing this valuable information, we’ll take a bite of the grotesquely sweet thing we are eating, and say, “You know I was dumped recently?” Keep reading »
When I woke up today and saw that my task was to create a “Breakup Bible,” my first thought was not a happy one, especially after yesterday’s Facebook debacle. I officially went from having no relationship status (I’m one of those minimalists who never put much info on there anyway) to a tiny, sad heart next to my name with an announcement that I was single (which is actually not entirely true, but I’ll get to that later). I received a flood of condolence emails from people I haven’t talked to in years, which made me feel as if I am now entering a life stage where a black veil would be the only acceptable attire. It was taking more than my usual three cups of wake-me-up to bring me to my happy place, which, admittedly, these days, is occupied half the time by daydreaming about my ex and the other half by cheeseburgers. Keep reading »
Hi, my name is Maude, and I spend Sunday nights crying on my kitchen floor. How’s that for an introduction? Unfortunately for me, it’s true. I can make it the whole week without a single tear. Sure, I’m eating inordinate amounts of ice cream, proving that I’m a total sad-sack stereotype, and true, I can’t listen to my iPod without wanting to crack open a beer, but still, I can make it through the week. Then Sunday night comes, and I’m so exhausted after yet another weekend of over-compensating by running around New York and drinking enough that come 2 a.m. I find myself asking inanimate objects, like bike skeletons left on the street, “Are you my boyfriend?” But by Sunday I give up searching and just end up mopping the kitchen floor with my tears.
As far as I can tell, this weekly crying session has no positive benefit—it’s entirely ineffective as a cleaning mechanism (only about a cheek-sized area actually gets clean), freaks out my cat (and possibly my upstairs neighbors, since I tend not to suffer in silence), and reminds me every week that, while it’s been five months and counting since I was dumped, I’m still not over my ex. Keep reading »