Maybe if I wasn't going comMANdo

So.

A small dilemma has arisen. The laundry machine in my complex has been unconnected to the credit card processing thingy that allows me to fill my laundry card with glorious (or at least fruity scented) amounts of fake-ish money. Any normal person would, of course, grudgingly open his or her wallet and pull out a tenner to pony up for this week's load(s). But I am no normal person.

Read: I don't carry cash.

And the management company has continued to assure me that "tomorrow! Tomorrow! They'll love me (or fix the machine)! Tomorrow! It's only a day away" but that started last Tuesday and has not yet come to fruition.

Read: no fruition scent.

Oh man that was a bad joke. Point is - I haven't done laundry since, well, Lord knows when, and I was supposed to do it last Tuesday and have not yet. Bluntly, I've run out of undies.

Fancy.

I was in the last throes of underwear choices - the super lacy but super uncomfortable thongs that make me do a little jig all day. I was like, alright, but it's sunny out, and so I'll do laundry and be back to my granny panties.

But no.

The machine was still defunct. So I went to get cash. And then the ATM was ironically defunct. And so it's now tomorrow, and I haven't done laundry, and I'm out of uncomfy thongs, and so...

I am going commando.

It has led to a few funny encounters. I was wearing shorts (dude, it's nice out) on my deckony, enjoying, in whose words (points to the winner!) "a healthy breeze around my privates" when I realized that my across the yard neighbors were cooking breakfast, and were also enjoying their VIEW of my... well?

Privates. Eep.

Then on my bike ride to school I got a pleasant surprise when I leaned into my seat, and I think I startled the relatively unattractive young man who was crossing my path at that moment. I'm wearing pants today, but still, I feel like everyone knows, and so I've avoided leaning too far forward a la Joe the Plumber.

Or any plumber, really.

But in the end, it's a liberating feeling, not wearing underwear. No panty lines! No wedgies! I'm not wearing underwear today! (Wow, that is the second musical quote in this post. I am impressed with myself).

In short - I'm freeeee.

But I'm not sure I'm going to make this permanent. I mean, it's fun. It's liberating, it's freeeeeeeee. But I like to wear skirts. And I think Mr. Neighbor will be the last voyeur in my life for a while.

Update: Obscure references

So.

I know that sometimes I throw random lines into posts (actually, I think I do it subconsciously in every post, but sometimes I know I'm doing it) and say points to the person who gets it! And usually, because I love you guys, someone gets it really soon. This is often because it's from a romcom, or a Billy Joel or Bon Jovi song, or some 1980s television show.

This was not the case this time around.

In Wednesday's post there were 2 references in the game. The Parent Trap quote "you can call me aunt Vicky," (RIP Natasha Richardson) and the one that no one has gotten. Several people have commented on it, however, and so I thought that we'd do a little update about it. To make the game a little more fun (also, because I probably won't post again until 2pm on Friday), I'll give you the ACTUAL quote, rather than the reference. Now, don't google! And Anna, no fair guessing since I already told you!

The reference in Wednesday's post was:

But other than that, I like being able to walk around naked (it's MY life, ok - serious kudos to whomever gets what I'm referencing)

Which is a little unfair because the actual quote is:

It's MY life, OK? So if I want to live on the beach and walk around naked...

Alright friends. Points to the winner!

On godmothers and maiden aunts: why I'M alone!

So.

This post has been sitting around in my head since I went to the baptism of my youngest cousin Lily when I was in the Jerz for spring break. Actually, it's been hanging out REALLY since I was reading "Listening is an Act of Love" and one of the essays was about maiden aunts. The point of all of this is it gets me wondering - why am I single? And moreover, why am I OK with it?

And why do I think about this this much?

Luckily, Megan from Jezebel pointed me to a LOVELY Huffpo article about this very topic! Well, except it was about why this chick Lea Lane is alone. But it's TOTALLY relevant. Now I um, totes get that you're thinking "yo MA, baptisms? NPR books? Singletons, WHAT?"

And I get that.

So let me start from the beginning. A few months ago I was reading this AWESOME book, and one of the essays (hm, deja vu, or poor writing ability? Or... both) was about this woman's aunt. The aunt had never married, had been all the kids favorite person, and at some point, the author commented that every family needs a maiden aunt.

Fast forward to spring break.

I was visiting with my grandmother and my aunt Eileen before Lily's baptism when we were talking about my cousin who was Lily's godfather. I was, to be honest, a little miffed about (though completely appreciative of) the fact that I had not been asked to be godmother. Sure, I'm a shitty Catholic. But dude, this is (probably?) the last baby! HELLO! I AM SO COOL.

Which is clearly the no. 1 requisite to be a good madrina.

Anyway, I consoled myself with the fact that I'm trying to convince Maggie and her hubby to make me the godmother to their unborn (and as far as I know, unconceived) child, mostly because Mr. Maggie is a Catholic and barely ANY of the women they know are!!!

Well, except Mr. Maggie's bro's super serious gf.

BUT WHATEVER. So I'm talking about how Maggie said I'd be a fun "aunt" (ehem, godmother, I said), like letting her kids crash at my fabulous apartment in the city, and not telling their mom but you know, still telling her when they passed out but giving them a "fun aunt" guilt trip so they think I'm awesome AND responsible. And I'm saying this to my aunt Eileen, and she's like "yeah, I always thought I was going to be the single fun aunt".

And it occurred to me.

That between the babies being born who SHOULD be my godchildren (harrumph) and those who are not yet born but will think of me as "Cool Aunt MA", I am setting myself up to be a wacky (but FUN!) spinster in life.

Which brings me to why I'M ok I'm alone.

So, Megan points out that one of the best part of Lane's piece is when she says:

[Lane]'s alone because, at least to a degree, she's too used to being alone and not having to justify the weird shit you do when you're alone.

I'm alone because I 'm now used to getting up when I want and drinking from the juice bottles and not shaving my legs and leaving dishes from the night before on my bed and getting up at 3am and seeing a movie and going back to bed at 5am and not hearing a word of scorn.

I think she forgot "peeing with the bathroom door open."

OO!! Remind me to finish that post about peeing with the door open.

But like, that's true. I love my life right now - ok, I don't love that sometimes when I watch too much SVU I get freaked out and have to sleep with the lights on or a flashlight nearby. But other than that, I like being able to walk around naked (it's MY life, ok - serious kudos to whomever gets what I'm referencing), or eat cheese for dinner, or clip my toenails in my bed and vacuum up the bits the next day.

Yeah, I'm a little gross.

But it's true. No one has made me want to give up my life for some more stability, some less cheese eating and some healthier toenail habits.

Also remind me to tell you about how I can't sleep with people.

This post is already rambly enough, so let's get to the point. The absolute crux of the piece, as Megan notes, is when Lane says, "I'm alone because I sometimes like it, so I won't go out and beat the bushes for some nice enough fellow who votes Republican and belches so loud I jump, but who doesn't make me smile enough to put up with strange noises and smells." I mean, that's it right? I'm alone because I'm happy by myself, so happy that trying to find someone else, someone who will do for right now, isn't really... well. Worth it.

Yanno?

Dude, Lilu, I stole that from you. Anyway, I'm alone because I'm happy with it, and the prospect of being the godmother to Maggie's kids and the crazy cousin to Lily (and her sibs) and both to whatever children are in the pipeline (um, ew) isn't unappealing. I get to borrow kids and make them love me, while never having to get a Brazilian when I don't want to, and being able to make cookie dough for the SOLE PURPOSE OF EATING IT.

And hey.

If I'm lucky, maybe I'll end up like Lane's aunt Hilda:

I'm alone because I had an aunt I admired when I was a child. Her name was Hilda, and she drove a pink Caddy with fins and carried a pistol and had blonde hair and was a Harlem slumlord. She lived alone after my Uncle Arty died. She ate out at the Jaeger House in Yorkville and the waiter knew she liked Pinch neat and a veal chop, and she traveled by herself to Bermuda and it all seemed so glamorous.

Except let's get a few things straight. I'm a brunette, the waiters will bring me pizza margheritas and chianti, and I travel alone to the Dominican Republic. The pink cadillac I will keep, but the only kind of slumlord I plan on being is to Maggie's drunk kids.

"Hello pet, you may call me Aunt" MA.

(Ok, whoever gets that reference ALSO wins the prize! It may be the crazy wacky spinster prize, but hey, you win!)

Sweet dreams are made of this

So.

Since the new year I have been having INCREDIBLY vivid dreams. I'd have gone into them before, but most are pretty dull, just very realistic and detailed. However, there have been a few out there ones:

• I was taking a final (it occurs to me that this is 1 of 2 where a test figured largely into bad dreams) and the DCPD called us all out because they heard someone in the building had a bomb and then they hosed us down. Suddenly I was in the Colosseum in Rome and soaking wet, but you know, not a terrorist so I got to leave and hang out in my fave city EVER.
• One time I dreamt that I was in a class with my high school mentor who passed away three years ago (RIP. I miss you every day) and there was something she needed to teach me but wanted me to get there myself. And we knew she only had a few days left, and she kept being like, MA, what do YOU think.
  
• I had a dream where I was taking a midterm and this guy in my program that I HATE came in and started talking to my professor, and I got so angry I started attacking him. Like, shaking him so hard that I thought his head would fall off. Strangely High School Ex was the proctor, and Evil Corp Ex was one of the guys who restrained me after I went crazy.

Do you feel like you've been let in on the crazy more so than usual? I do. Bombs, dead mentors and physical attacks. Sigh.

Anyway.

Last night I had a dream that I was in Iraq with a bunch of people from my program, and we couldn't get a cab. This was the thread of the dream, what ensued was a series of unfortunate (and hilarious) events where we tried to get wherever we were going (Grace called/woke me up before I found out). I'm not sure EXACTLY where that was, or why we had lost our group, but I DO know that in my dream Iraq looked a lot like Brazil (which I am pretty sure is not the case) and that there were horses everywhere, like there are dogs in Italy, and they were very friendly horses who were much obliged to take us places.

Um. Right. I'm crazy?

Also, a professor of a class I currently have was there, and it was pretty clear in my dream that I was INTO him. And here's the rub my friends (oh you thought it was the crazy terrorism? No no no). In the above listed dreams, for the next like, TWO WEEKS that I saw the guy that I dream-attacked at school I got VERY embarassed, even though he had no idea that I had maimed him in my dream. We'd be walking towards each other in the hall, and when I would usually have shot him a venomous look, I would avert my eyes and scurry past.

Sad.

And NOW that I've had this dream - not a sexy dream per se, I can deal with those because they happen all the time - I know that I'm going to walk into class later today all bashful because in my dream I was throwing myself at him.

I'm a little dream slut.

Do you guys have these dreams? How do you get over them? They FEEL SO REAL.

Except the part when I'm soaking wet in the middle of Rome trying to find a gelateria where there aren't any bombs. I mean, don't get me wrong, totally possible, but it didn't feel PARTICULARLY real.

Facebook better be effing joking

So.

I just signed on to facebook, because I was in church this morning and ran into a girl I haven't seen since 2002 and thought, hey, the next step is facebook.

The next step is ALWAYS facebook.

Anyway, I had like, seventeen gabillion notifications because now facebook lets everyone and their mothers “notify” me about stupid gifts and crap to send to my friends – by the way, facebook app people, I do not give a shit about the majority of my “friends” on facebook, so I’m not going to spend a dollar sending a little icon to them – and so, anyway, the POINT IS, facebook told me that three people had viewed my page and TOLD ME WHO THEY WERE.

That’s right. I know who’s stalking me.

Which sounds great for about TWO seconds, until you realize that THAT MEANS PEOPLE YOU’RE STALKING CAN SEE YOU TOO!!!

I’m wigging out man.

I use facebook for the normal stuff – comment on things, look at new pictures of myself, try to customize my page to make me look super awesome to all – but mostly I use it to STALK PEOPLE!! AND IT’S NOT STALKING IF THEY KNOW I’M DOING IT.

Kind of is the, you know, definition of stalking.

So I click on the link, and it takes me to a page that doesn’t exist. Moreover, once I click on my notifications again – it’s MISSING! It’s a conspiracy!! A CONSPIRACY I TELL YOU. And if my friend sitting next to me hadn’t seen it for himself I might just be inclined to believe that I was imagining things.

But obviously I was not.

And the problem is, I often get facebook apps and changes before most people, for whatever reason (and I’ve come to believe it is because I was as close to an original facebooker as possible). And that means that they are probably testing a new program that lets people know who has seen their profile. And that means that soon they will add it.

And that means shortly thereafter I will quit facebook.

Seriously. I’ve never even really thought about quitting before, with all that nonsense about them owning information about my life, and them switching layouts and adding minifeeds and what have you. But if they take away my stalking ability, they are taking away their purpose in my life.

So be warned facebook – no outing me, or else you’re out.

In which I become a person I hate

So.

I went to college with a bunch of pretentious mother fuckers who judged every single person on the content of their dorm bookshelves. I called them the Intellectual Elite, or IE for short, and my mother blames these people for the massive dumbing down slash airheaded insertion that occurred in my speech patterns and conversation topics over my years at that school. I so did NOT want to be associated with these assholes that I refused to converse in a decibel that was lower than a shriek and about topics that you'd read about in the first section of the New York Times.

The style section was ok.

But seriously. The guys were just total misogynist pricks and the girls were total misogynists without pricks, and so anything that smacked of femininity was labeled suspect. Thus, my entire movie collection - heavy on the Julia Roberts, light on the Kurosawa, made me ripe for torment. Anyone who even kind of enjoyed books that wouldn't show up on the AP English Literature exam was deemed plebian at best, or more likely, a simpleminded knave.

So right. No Harry Potter.

I feel I should state that this point that I loved college. LOVED college. The majority of my favorite people in the WORLD are from my years in Chicago, and I would not trade it for anything.

But I would kick the assholes out.

Which is why it pains me to know that I'm about to - TEMPORARILY - join their IE Club and say, my peeps gotta be well read.

Srsly.

There was a post on Jezebel today (maybe yesterday, I don't know, I'm on vacation) about how college kids are "rejecting Melville for escapist fantasy" the likes of which is seen in Twilight, and yes, Harry Potter. Some professor is quoted as saying, "there is nary a student in the classroom ... who wouldn't pronounce Stephen King a better author than Donald Barthelme or William Vollmann."

And that, my friends, is wrong.

While there is no accounting for taste AT ALL, the fact of the matter is that some stuff is empirically better than others. For example, The Godfather is a better film than When Harry Met Sally. Do I enjoy WHMS more? Hells yes (although I love the Godfather too, don't get me wrong, it's AWESOME), but the Godfather is, inherently, of better quality. When I read, as I currently am, Midnight's Children I'm not sitting there comparing it to Harry Potter. And of course you can BET your BIPPY I'd list JK Rowling on my top 3 all-time list of fave authors, leaving my buddy Salman waaaaaaaay down the list. And in a battle to the death, Harry would wave his wand, swish swish! and kick Saleem's ass in a literary battle of gloriousness.

But Salman wins on quality control.

And that's OK. To quote a Julia Roberts movie, sometimes people prefer jello over creme brulee. But people, if you're going to be friends with me, you gotta TRY the creme brulee.

Besides, making fun of the IE is so much sweeter with dessert.

Hoboken St. Patrick's Day by the numbers

So.

If last year was the year when the Hoboken PD and I were at odds (solely in a numerical sense - half the tix, 2x the fun) this year is the year I think we might agree - this may be my last Hobo St. Patty's.

Well. Maybe.

In any case, it was certainly a much more pathetic year, as you'll see. But let's be honest - I had a fanfuckingtastic time. So here it is:
my 2009 Hoboken St. Patty's day

• Hour at which I started drinking - 9am
• Hour at which I turned in my last midterm - 10am
• Hours late that my midterm was - 17
• Hour at which I took my first nap - 12pm
• Hour at which I took my second nap - 4pm
• Hour at which I took my third nap - 6pm
• Hour at which I passed out - 8pm
• Hour at which I woke up, realized Maggie's neighbors were singing "I got friends in loooooooooow places" and contemplated getting back up - 10pm
• Hour at which I said, fuck THAT - 10:01pm
  
• Bottles of champagne consumed - 6
• Bottles of champagne personally consumed - 2
• Number of times I broke Lent - 3
• Number of slices of pizza consumed - 3 (but no relation, I'm not dumb enough to give up pizza for Lent)
• Number of friends/family members in town I did NOT get together with: 14
  
• Number of times I shouted incomprehensible things: infinite
• Number of times I then laughed hysterically: infinite

So as you see friends, mama's getting old. Super old. There's something about crashing BEFORE NOON that really says "maybe I shouldn't be drinking in the morning anymore". But we shall see.

Maybe next year I'll just drink IN bed. Then laugh hysterically.

Happy Amateur Day!

So.

It is OFFICIALLY Hoboken St. Patrick's Day! I'm currently tucked away in Maggie and Mr. Maggie's guest room (that I have politely and not so politely asked that they rename "MA's Room," but nothing doing.)

(So far.)

And to judge by the amount of people coming off the PATH with me at 11pm with overnight bags, pillows, blankets and sleeping bags up the wazoo, I'm not the only one who's kicking it in Hobo, prepping for tomorrow.

Or today. Whatever.

I'm headed to bed, but I wanted to say to all y'all in Hoboken today - POP ME AN EMAIL! WE WILL HANG OUT! OR AT LEAST I WILL SHOUT DRUNKEN THINGS IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION! Have fun everyone!

And don't get tickets.

MA hearts NY. And... pizza!

So.

As I made my way off that ill-fated bus yesterday afternoon, I was preoccupied with trying to maneuver my huge-especially-for-such-a-short-visit-ass bag while trying to mentally calculate the walk to Port Authority in conjunction with the next available buses to my parents' house in the Borough. But as I stepped off the bus and onto the street the only thought that came to mind was "mmmmmmm. Real pizza!"

Ok. I have to stop here for a second.

This is not another post in which I hate on DC pizza. I know that that has been my stance in the past (um, several times) but that all changed on Wednesday night when I went to Coppi's with Restaurant Refugee.

And learned that in fact, DC has excellent pizza.

Refugee took umbrage with the fact that I kept dissing on DC's cheesey-and-tomatoey-goodness eateries (or lack thereof) as have so many, so when the challenge was thrown down, I accepted. We met at Coppi's, we had some wine, and we sampled the Siracusa.

And it was heavenly.

There were tart tomatoes. There was warmed feta. And the sausage. OOOOH the sausage. It was so good, I ate it all with relish.

Not the pickly stuff. Just serious enjoyment.

But after discussing its gloriousness with Refugee, I realized that I have been imprecise. So I want to be clearer with my complaint about pizza in DC (and elsewhere!!) while giving praise where praise is due.

Namely, to fancy DC pizza.

The PROBLEM that I have found in places outside of the New Jersey/New York metro area is the quality and style of DELIVERY pizza. It should be noted that this includes, well, Rome. You know.

In Italy.

It is not the higher-class joints that I have a problem with. I have found fancy pizza I enjoy everywhere, from DOC in Chicago to now Coppi's in DC. But my question is, can I order it to my house on a Friday night.

And the answer, my friends, is no.

When I was growing up we ate pizza (as I lovingly detailed) every Friday, making it a cherished tradition like decorating the Christmas tree, celebrating the Fourth of July with fireworks, or making new year resolutions.

Or eating pasta on Sundays.

The point is, when I moved to Chicago and realized that not only could I not order pizza on Fridays without (a) Contributing money to the myth that Dominoes is real pizza, (b) ordering something that tasted like cheese and jarred sun dried tomatoes on cardboard, or (c) suffering a coronary at age 19 because of 1 too many thick crusted pies, I wept.

Openly.

And then as again, I've covered, I moved to New York, and better, Hoboken and had a reunion of sorts with pizza. Never again was a Friday night without my cheese and tomato goodness. Never again did I need to weep in front of people I had just met who mistakenly thought I was homesick and sad about 9/11, and when I choked out, "nooooo I'm PIZZA sick and sad about your piss-poor quality of that amazing food" judged me for the next four years.

Oh it happened.

Anyway, when I moved to Virginia I worried that this would again be a problem. And literally the morning after I moved in, when Rachel (who as you'll recall, is a Jersey girl herself) suggested we ordered pizza for breakfast, I consented thinking, if Rach likes it, I'm sure I will too.

No. No I did not.

And so that (and subsequent disappointments) is why I hate on DC pizza. It is not because DC does not have good pizza. It is because I cannot pick up the phone and order said pizza to my house in my fleece pajama bottoms and grad school shirt without a bra, touseled messy hair while looking like a girl who spent 5+ hours on a bus yesterday and then ate a bunch of incredibly yummy (but bad-for-the-complexion) homemade chicken parm and then sit on my couch watching horrendously bad TV until it arrives.

Which oh wait, I just did.

So continue to judge me if you must DC defenders. I did not mean to sweep the entire city aside in one stroke. However, I could not care less because my pizza just arrived and it is literally singing my name.

I hate the effing Girl Scouts

So.

When I was 6 I joined Brownie Troop whatever, and along with Rachel got all my little badges (we don't need no stinkin' badges!) by learning things I don't remember, going on camping trips I need extensive therapy to forget, and selling lots and lots of cookies.

Lots. And lots.

We all know the drill - Thin Mints. Caramel Delights (don't GIVE me this Samoa shit). Peanut Butter Patties. I mean - these are the things that heaven is made of, no? And every year when those calendar-shaped booklets showed up at my house my (v. thin) mother showed her support and bought boxes from me. And then I ate lots and lots of cookies.

Lots. And lots.

Later in life, when I lost the Girl Scout or Christian or whatever path, I bought them from other sources - neighbors, little sisters of friends, the daughter of my high school mentor. Those minty wafers, it must be said, are like crack cocaine or at the very least Pringles - once you pop, you just can't stop!

Until all four boxes are gone.

I remember my first year at college realizing in horror that I didn't know any Girl Scouts from whom I could score a hit. Luckily the dorm master had a daughter that was the appropriate age, and I forked over my in-short-supply cash to get my hands on the minty goodness.

However.

The cookies always come in late February, early March. You know what else comes in late February, early March? Jebus. And his apostles. And their march through the freaking dessert.

Oh right. Desert.

And years and years ago I started giving up sweets for Lent. And every year I'd hide those cookies (often from Arielle, who was a bitch (YES THAT'S RIGHT) who would bring them over and then taunt me about not being Jewish) until Easter and then CHOW. THE FUCK. DOWN.

Yum.

It's been years of torture that I've endured. Post-college I got them from my secretary at Evil Corp, who had a daughter who was working towards her gold star. They'd sit in my office until Good Friday, when I'd be heading to the Borough, and I'd bring a box or at the very least a column of cookies for the train ride back to the city. And last year, as I was brushing the dark peppermint crumbs off my lap as I got off the NJ Transit train in Hoboken, I caught a glimpse of myself in the ticket window. I was a 24 year old woman, with a job and an apartment and a 401K.

Who had chocolate in the corners of her mouth.

It was then I decided - no more. NO MORE. The cycle had gone on too long as it was, and there needed to be an intervention. I swore that that was the last year, when the last bit of coconut was dumped into my mouth from its plastic prison (because I wasn't about to toss the cookies I had ALREADY purchased, who do you think I am?!) that would be it.

IT! I tell you.

So this year I ignored all the signs. I walked quickly by as professors in my program held out those calendar-like booklets. I didn't answer the door when I spotted those brown sashes. I conveniently was out of cash when I passed the girls selling boxes.

Actually, I really was. I don't carry cash.

But then today. I walked into the student lounge at school. And there, staring up at me from an innocent looking plate were Ms. Mint and Miss Patty.

I wanted to scream.

No, I didn't eat them. I love Jebus too much for that. Slash I don't REALLY want to upgrade my suite in hell. Slash am vaguely scared of breaking Lent because my grandma might find out. But the point is - there they were. Sitting. Staring.

LAUGHING at me.

And so I had to leave. I took my computer and my memo and my ipod and I took some quiet time in the conference room. And when I returned, the cookies were gone. Their dealer had only brought in as much as she could carry.

But they'll be back. They'll always be back.

The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to Break-up Music

So.

I'm watching High Fidelity which has put me in a "what am I doing with my life/maybe all this love stuff is bullshit/god I have horrible taste in music/John Cusack is my ideal man/why don't I go running after men in the rain/why don't men stand outside at phone booths in the rain for me/I miss Chicago" mood.

Yes.

In any case it seems like the perfect time to finally do this post I've been tossing around in my head for quite a while - the top 5 songs for breaking up. Since it's been forever since I've been in a romantic relationship (that wasn't in my head) I'm almost ashamed to say where this post is coming from.

Almost.

But the first week after (wait for it...) President Obama's inauguration, with the closing of Gitmo and the removal of the global gag rule, I felt like I was coming out of an abusive relationship (which, at the time, didn't have the horrifying salience it does now). I kept listening to songs I had listened to during the last weeks of the Bush admin, and none of them made sense. They were all ANGRY. Or DEPRESSED. Or... BARGAINING? Or in denial?

Ok not those last two so much.

But now the songs I wanted to listen to were full of - you got it! - acceptance. It felt glorious. And it occurred to me that the last time this had happened was after my last big break-up, when I listened to sad, woe-is-me songs interspersed with "fuck you motherfucker I'm so much fucking better than you" songs. A lot of these were lovingly provided by Becca.

God love her.

The point is, after I got over the sadness, all that music seemed a little out of place to me. Kind of like listening to "Margaritaville" in the middle of February. Or Christmas music in July.

Which, ok, sometimes I do.

But the POINT IS. Break-up music is in a category all its own. And it's important to recognize that all break-up songs are not created equal, in that you don't want to listen to "I Hate Everything About You" when you're in the mood for "The First Cut is the Deepest".

Cause that would be tragic.

So you've gotten dumped. Because let's face it, if you've done the dumping, do you need the break-up playlist? You're in shock. You're in need of some musical therapy. So the following is my guide to break-up music: 5 songs for each of the 5 (Kubler-Ross defined) stages of grief. Yeehaw!!!! Or... tear?

Whatever.

The Always a Drunk, Never a Bride Guide to Break-up Music

Denial:

1. Don't Stop Believing - Journey
2. Fantasy - Mariah Carey
3. I Hate Everything About You (so why do I love you) - Three Days Grace
   
4. Love is a Battlefield - Pat Benatar
5. Don't Speak - No Doubt
   

Anger:

1. Song for the Dumped - Ben Folds
2. Not Ready to Make Nice - Dixie Chicks
3. Get Out - Jojo
4. You Oughta Know - Alanis
5. Since You've Been Gone - Kelly Clarkson
   

Bargaining:

1. How Am I Supposed to Live Without You - Zack Attack
   
2. I Can't Make You Love Me - Bonnie Raitt
3. Just Call Out My Name - Carole King
4. You Were Meant for Me - Jewel
5. The Good Kind - the Wreckers
   

Depression:

1. All by Myself - Celine Dion
2. With or Without You - U2
3. I'm With You - Avril Lavigne
4. Ain't No Sunshine - Bill Withers
5. Hallelujah - Rufus Wainwright
   

Acceptance:

1. I'm a Survivor - Destiny's Child
   
2. Happiness - You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
   
3. Chocolate - Snow Patrol
   
4. I'll Be Okay - Amanda Marshall
5. Respect, by Aretha Franklin

So what do y'all think? And listen to, when you're sad, denying, angry, etc?