I Like it Gentle, too

A while ago, I wrote about liking it rough, and I haven’t changed. But I do diversify. Lately, I’ve needed things to be gentler. The news of the world burns like acid in my gut, the Florida days are hot, dark and wet, and my not-so-friend, the D is drifting too near, too often.

So I’m taking it gentle with me, keeping my world a little smaller and my walls a little closer and my surfaces a little fluffier. Call it an emotional blanket fort.Or even a blanket nest, à la Robot Hugs.

My home remedy:

Naps. There are no words for how I love you, naps.

Hugs from my husband. My husband is a world-class hugger. It is the first thing about him I fell in love with. One hug, and I was home. I can get these free, whenever I want (not to brag).

Cuddles from my small boy. Also giggles. Also smiles. Also silliness. Also, the chance to be his hero in whatever way I can which usually involves finding things I should make him find himself or giving him treats he doesn’t really need. I don’t care, you should see his eyes.

Scheduled chats with my cherished friend, John, who always makes me feel loved.

Regular (near constant!) words with my living, loving, brilliant, hilarious diary/therapist Angela. Seriously, though. You need to come home.

Music. Yes, I’m obsessed, and NO, I’m not sorry. (New album, Positive Songs for Negative People is out in just three days!)

The Next Storm and Glorious You are perfect for my blanket fort.

Old, and not-that-old movies. I just watched French Kiss, and had gentle, if slightly impure thoughts about Kevin Kline. I will drop everything if An Affair to Remember is on. But for real, downy, fleecy movie gentle, I always watch Harvey. Elwood P. Dowd has it figured out, and come on — Jimmy Stewart. Look at that face.

Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, “In this world, Elwood, you must be” – she always called me Elwood – “In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.” Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

Hugs to all you all out there – unless that makes you uneasy, then I’ll just invite you to my blanket fort to eat cereal and watch movies.

I Like it Rough

No, not that. Get your mind out of the gutter. OK, maybe a little that, but this isn’t that kind of blog.

I’m talking about stuff. Things. Well, everything. I like, no I love imperfections. I love dirt and unfinished surfaces and potential. I like musicians who sing startling, unexpected songs with scratchy or angry voices. I love to say bad words, and I love to hear bad words. And I LOVE to hear bad words in songs.

Frank Turner

Frank Turner – Plain Sailing Weather

Andrew Hozier

Hozier – It Will Come Back

There’s a word for that, you know? The emotional release you get from swearing. It’s called lalochezia, and it is a thing.

I like art that is imperfectly perfect with rough surfaces and dark lines and things that look like mistakes but aren’t.

And I like homes that look lived in. Even if I was a naturally tidy person, which I clearly am not, my house would never be perfectly tidy, because I live in it. And so does my spouse and child. We LIVE in the house. We run around inside and do “science” projects and eat spaghetti here. We dance and wrestle with stuffed animals and spill cereal. There are patches in the walls and loose floorboards and books EVERWHERE.

I’m uncomfortable around people who seem to have their shit together. If I really like them, I’ll do them a favor and imagine a flaw for them. Generally, I give them some kind of compulsion or germophobia, because I can honestly not fathom HOW they have their shit together. It has to be some sort of disorder, right?

I know people with perfect manners and perfect hair and perfect morals who can freeze your soul if you stand too close to them. Or people who are so sure they have it all figured out that trying to talk to them is like trying to walk on wet ice. There’s nothing to grab onto, nowhere to go and no way to get there.

According to Facebook, there are a lot of perfect kids out there, poor dears. They excel at everything, tops of their class, they do the dishes without being asked and never pout or raise their voices.

My kid likes to run around in his underwear and say “fart” a lot. What can you expect from my kid? He cleans up beautifully; he has the most disarming big grey, green, brown eyes, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen. And I do love to see him nice and tidy, but I don’t know. When he has spaghetti sauce on his face, everything he says just seems cuter.

I don’t want him to think he has to be perfect, and really there is no worry about that. He knows.

I like candid photos of people laughing so hard their mouths are opened and the looks on their faces are ridiculous. I love gag reels of people giggling so hard they can’t breathe.

I love antiheroes. Who doesn’t? I love Loki, Lisbeth Salandar, Léon Montana and Natasha Romanoff.

I’m an imperfect friend. When you’re upset, I won’t give you solutions or advice or even reassurance. I will say, “OH MY GOD! THAT SUCKS!”

That’s my trainwreck vow: If you come to me with a problem, I will say, “THAT SUCKS!” If you tell me someone was mean to you, I’ll say, “WHAT?! WHAT AN ASSHOLE!” Or, I’ll say what my friend Stephanie says, “Just give me a name and an address.” If you tell me you want a cookie, I’m going to tell you to go for it, or give you one if I have one. If you tell me you want wine, I’m going to hand you a corkscrew.* If you tell me you want coffee, I’ll have some with you. (I’ll have a cookie or wine with you, too.)

*unless I’ve made a solemn vow to save you from yourself. I keep my vows.

I’ll do all that because my friends would do that for me. I have surrounded myself with wonderful people who understand that real is so much better than perfect. I’m so lucky to love people who know that it’s better to cry and shout and swear and laugh than sit in a prison made of “appropriate” and “polite” and God help me, “feminine.”

Fuck that.