I’m not really one to rag on Mondays. Frankly, any day at work feels like Monday feels to the rest of the world so, I’m an equal opportunity hater when it comes to week days. And that’s just where I’m at right now.

But as far as Mondays go, today really embodies the innate essence of Monday.

1) On my way to work this morning, I was thrilled that there was no traffic until I realized that the reason there was no traffic is because the rest of America has the day off today. Not me, though. Not me.

2) This is, word for word, the weather report I heard this morning:
“Good morning! Hey, it’s raining, but at least it’s early, and it’s Monday. Temperatures will be dropping gradually over the day, leaving us with lows in the mid-20’s tonight!”

3) I smacked the everloving dog shit out of my head getting out of the car on my way in to the office.

4) OFFICE HEATERS ARE BROKEN LOL

5) Saw a box of doughnuts on the break table, thought my Monday was turning around. Walking back to my desk, magically grew a clubfoot and tripped twice in twenty seconds, losing my doughnut on the second falter. Did not go back for another doughnut.

But, no one, and I do mean no one, is having a worse Monday than my mother’s cat:

1) If you weren’t going to vote, you should just check your Facebook newsfeed and read the statuses of all the people you don’t ordinarily pay attention to. They’ve all crafted these really articulate, epic, earnest, poetic Facebook statuses about exercising your freedom as an American. It’s all really compelling stuff, and doesn’t sound a thing like anything you’d hear on the news. They’re unbiased, and they just want you to “GO VOTE!!!!!!! :)” no matter who you vote for! Isn’t that so great?

I think next election needs to be based on the candidates’ egregious exclamation point and emoticon use. Apparently, that’s Americans think will convince their fellow Americans to vote.

2) This is a real thing that real people say out of their real mouths:

“It’s called the White House for a reason.”

Posted without commentary.

3) “If we spent more time praying about this election than talking about it, this country would be in much better shape.”

Okay. This is not helpful.

While praying is not absurd, and that the power of positive energy is not to be understated, this is an absurd thing to say. Imagine how well a candidate with the platform, “No Work, All Pray” would do: “I have opinions, but you don’t need to know them. Let’s just wait and see what God thinks.”

Even the most ardent of pray-ers would kick that candidate to the curb. It’s just not how things work. You may not have to listen, but someone has to talk.

4) Speaking of “not how things work,” I guess it’s the cool thing, now, to say that you don’t know who you’re going to vote for because “don’t like/trust” either one of those candidates. Well, look at you, being independent and subversive! No one can tell you what to think! You’re just going to write Mickey Mouse into the ballot on election day, right? HAR!

This is LAZY ideology. I repeat: LAZY. If you want a candidate that you can get behind, that mission needs to start long before election day. You’re not proving a single thing to a single person by writing in a fictional candidate on election day. If you want to make a stand, start TOMORROW. Start campaigning the day after this election, and campaign your ass off until Election Day 2016.

In the meantime, to say “What if everyone in the country took a stand, and decided not to vote for the candidates they’re presented?” is faulty logic. It’s unrealistic, it’s not going to happen. I agree that it would be great if it did. But it won’t. In the meantime, taking the time to wait in line for hours, just to write in Mickey Mouse is a waste of time, and a waste of a vote.

5) PRAYERS AND STICKERS!!!! MAKE SURE YOU GO EXERCISE YOUR FREEDOM AS AN AMERICAN AND VOTE!!!!!!! :)

One of my dearest friends on this planet Earth got engaged this weekend (Note: “got” engaged sounds fine to say out loud, but looks wretched in print. “Became” engaged sounds pretentious, though, like when people say “utilize” instead of “use”. Just know that I am, at present, in a grammatical conundrum and I really don’t know what I should do about it. Likely to do nothing at all).

Her brilliant fiance pulled off perhaps the most epic of proposal surprises, inviting sixty friends and family members to a “surprise birthday party” in her honor, and surprising everyone when they found out they were actually at an engagement party. Needless to say, it was a really beautiful evening, filled to the brim with happy feelings and good, good things (like, this to-die-for buffalo chicken dip that I ate approximately six pounds of).

At one point during the celebration, I was engaged in conversation with a really lovely group of women, which is, in itself, something to note: The sexes still segregate at these things, giving life a nice, seventh grade feel. The difference is that, now, we segregate to avoid each other because we spend too much time with the opposite sex, as opposed to too little. Spending every free moment with a dude (though you may love said dude immensely and boundlessly), really leaves a girl needing a little vapid chatter about nail polish.

So, here I am, standing with this group of women, most of whom I have known since college. In fact, I have probably stood in this same group many times over the years, discussing things I can’t even say out loud now. And as I am mulling over those conversations, I am suddenly all-too-aware of this one. 

Sewing machines? I start to panic.

Wait, I’m sweating. Is that what we’re talking about? Sewing Machines?

My thoughts are racing. What can I contribute, here? I almost never overcook my Ramen, I could throw that in somewhere. But I’m snapped back to the reality of my ignorance.

Oh, my God, I think. What in the HELL is a bobbin?

“Time out,” I finally say to the group. “Can we just take a moment of silence for what we would have been talking about five years ago?”

The walk-of-shame talk, the “how many drinks did you have?” talk, the sorority talk, the “what do you think he meant by that?” talk, the VAPID NAIL POLISH CHATTER is suddenly a thing of the not-so-distant past.

Suddenly, we are in our mid-to-late 20.s. Suddenly, most of us are married (NOT ME THOUGH THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE LOL), and some of us are even somebody’s mother, which is fucking horrifying. And not that we don’t still engage in vapid chatter because, of course, we do; no less than fifty times did I touch my friend’s flat tummy and try to wish a fetus into it (That’s how it works, right?).  But, apparently, just as I was getting good at nail polish chatter, we have a shiny new set of vapidities (I just made that word up, and I’m keeping it) to discuss, like baby blanket fabric.

It’s not for better, and it’s not for worse. It just is. But, still, I think the vapidities of yesteryear deserve a moment of silence. So, while you’re on your way to Crate & Barrel to get that new crock pot your friends have been raving about, take a moment to bid a fond adieu to the girls we used to be.

As long as we’re being honest, 20.somethings, some weeks I have to set aside some daily time to sit in my car and cry. This morning I spent thirty minutes fantasizing about sneezing as hard as I can in a co-worker’s face. The point: in the wake of mental breakdowns and passive-aggressive daydreams, I have little left to give in the way of creativity.

My professional life is ruining this blog. And while it provides egregious potential for material, it’s all extremely self-incriminating. In recent months, I have not been able to come up with a single coherent post idea that would not get me fired.

And that’s the truth.

The amount of “over” I am about the “it” of the Shabby-Chic wedding trend can not be overstated. If you are a middle class suburbanite, there is no reason your save-the-date should picture you and your fiance flirting on top of a distressed dresser in the middle of the woods. You might as well just send a post-it that says, “We’re paying a wedding planner $20,000 to shit hay and wrap it in a burlap bow.”

The likelihood that such a save-the-date picture is reflective of your actual life together is - and I’m going out on a limb here - zero. I can say this with utmost confidence, because if it was reflective of your real life, you wouldn’t want a “shabby-chic” wedding, because you’d know that “shabby-chic” is cousin Jessup building an altar out of rotting lumber and a tarp. 

Also, this just in:
Things that have a place at your wedding: Your groom, your marriage license, an open bar.

Things that have no place at your wedding: Cowboy boots.

I really hate to be a traitor to my generation, but this simply isn’t right. You’ve chosen to walk into the rest of your life wearing shoes whose innate purpose is to allow us to trudge comfortably through piles of shit. What kind of tone does that set for the rest of your marriage?

P.S. The next Mason jar I see at a wedding is getting puked in.

1) This is Moxie. I guess, technically, she is my boyfriend’s dog, but I have been allowed significant involvement. Today, she looked at me like this:

Today is alright.

2) One of my mother’s truest life joys is the very existence of the Oscar Mayer Wiener Mobile, so the significance of a weeniemobile sighting cannot be overstated. It’s a little nod from the Universe, an encouraging cosmic pop on the ass— Go get ‘em, Tiger!

Here’s our girl, living her dream:

Today is alright.

3) My main squeeze has a birthday tomorrow. I won’t tell you exactly how old he is because he’s a little sensitive, but he was born in 1986 and that was 20.six years ago, so you do the math. I can’t thank him enough for being born.

Today is alright.

4) In two months this week, I will be on my way to Orlando to visit the happiest place on earth. In celebration of my 20.fourth birthday, my mom has planned a magnificent trip, complete with jaunts to Disney World and Universal Studios (more specifically, to “Hogwarts,” as she calls it).

Here is a picture from my last trip to Disney World. Take note of the man in the background’s fetching racer back, prehistoric lime green norts, and fanny pack. Do not take note of my scrunchie:

Today is alright.

5) My friend, Alicia, went to Italy and brought back a stick of Italian lip balm that is absolutely everything to me right now.

Today is alright.

Chick-Fil-A opposes gay marriage. The question I have for you is: Why is this news? Chick-Fil-A has never hidden the fact that it is an organization steeped in “Christian values,” never straying from that little-known eleventh commandment, “Thou shalt not serve chicken on Sundays.”

Chick-Fil-A was never going to be any kind of foothold in the uphill climb to marriage equality. The only difference between what we knew yesterday and what we know today, is that today someone actually said it out loud. And, at the risk of sounding irreverent…who cares? I mean, did I miss something? Was the fate of the entire marriage equality movement teetering on whether or not Dan Cathy, the president of a “traditional,” “Christian” organization supported it? 

It should be stated that most people I know who call themselves Christians would disagree entirely with Dan Cathy’s ideas of “Christian values,” and, while I am not a Christian, I have to say that I agree with them. Do I think that Dan Cathy’s “values” are backward? Yes. Do I think that what he is saying is wrong? Yes. But I do not think that it was wrong of him to say it.

Dan Cathy didn’t declare war on the gay community. To the best of my knowledge, he didn’t call anyone a “faggot,” nor did he resolve to stop serving chicken to gay people. He said what should have been assumed years ago, which is that, as religious values, especially Christian values, have been the biggest argument against marriage equality, it should be no surprise to anyone that an organization that prides itself, first and foremost, on its “Christian values,” was probably not in support of marriage equality. Hence, if you are boycotting today, you should have been boycotting yesterday and last year, and the year before that.

Needless to say, I will not be boycotting Chick-Fil-A, as, firstly, I have a vested, romantic interest in the Chick-Fil-A sandwich and I simply do not want to. Secondly, I believe in fighting the fights you can win, and Chick-Fil-A never even had a dog in the marriage equality fight. Thirdly, if a certain large percentage of the country opposes gay marriage, it would stand to reason that the same percentage of a smaller population  (like, say, all the CEOs and presidents of major American coroprations) would oppose gay marriage as well. You can’t just boycott every one who thinks differently than you do. OR, maybe you can!  Maybe we should force gay-friendly businesses to display a rainbow flag on the front of all of their stores so we know who to boycott. I think I remember a similar situation in not-so-distant European history where that worked out for everybody.

I guess my point is: what’s your point? If you’re throwing a temper tantrum now, in this moment, because someone thinks differently than you, then you should be up in arms all day, every day. 

I disagree with Dan Cathy. That being said, I disagree just as much with this boycott.  It robs the pro-marriage equality front of its credibility. The underdog does not have the luxury of being so volatile as to pitch a fit any time someone pushes back. This boycott is an egregious waste of energy and passion, bringing the worst kind of attention to the best kind of cause. 

This is the third time I have re-written this post in the past few days. I really can’t quite get it right so I’m just going to cut to the chase.

The bottom line is this: No one is in as unique a position to make you regret dating them as a musician.

I would know, and I do know; there’s not a single guy I can be linked to who did not, at one point or another, fall into this category—trumpet players, guitarists, singers, engineers, drummers… and drummers… and drummers…

Dating a musician is great in just as many ways as it’s not. He’s sweet and poetic and he serenades you and, oh my God, you both love Almost Famous, and THAT is destiny.  And that is all well and good, but let’s fast forward to the part where it ends, which, nine times out of ten, it will, because you will run out of responses to How do you like this song? and I wrote this just for you, and  What do you think about this chord progression? And, Listen to this and Do you think this riff is, like, Clapton-esque or closer to Dylan? And WHATEVER WHATEVER WHATEVER. WHATEVER, MAN, WHAT . THE. FUCK. EVER. Can’t we just eat or something? [Side note: No. You probably can’t. Another thing to remember: the starving artist thing is only cute when you’re not actually starving. ]

The first thing you’ll regret, is the fact that everything you walked into the relationship loving, you now hate. If you decide to date musicians, be prepared to retire scads and scores of once-beloved songs into the abyss of yesterday. They’re not yours anymore; you donated them to the “we”, to the “us”. You will never hear them the same. You will never get them back. And your car radio will most likely take a few beatings in the fray of trying to forget.

“Try” is the operative word, here. Most breakups happen, presumably, because each party wants to get away from the other. If you date a musician you will never be able to get far enough away. Upon a breakup with a musician, your relationship is no longer a relationship. Those fights you had, those annoying things you do, everything you said and didn’t mean are simple memories to you. But what is better fodder for a song than a love lost? Nothing, that’s what. And that’s exactly what you’ll be:

A love lost.
A sad chorus.
A not-so-subtly-named song on an album.

There could be a million miles and a lifetime between you, but that doesn’t stop your phone from ringing off the hook when the album comes out— the album you didn’t know about, didn’t willingly contribute to, and will never listen to. It doesn’t stop your dirty laundry from being aired to everyone you know, or stop them from asking questions, or forcing you to remember things that you have every right to forget if you want to. A million miles and a lifetime doesn’t save you from experiencing a new level of humiliation every time someone hits “repeat”.

Do you know that Delilah met the Plain White T’s guy on a subway ONE time? Delilah is probably married to some stockbroker, cringing every time she hears the song some random creep wrote for her. It doesn’t matter who she actually is, or whether or not she ever wanted to be the sad song that put him on the map. They only met once. She was never even his, and he claimed her with a song. There is nothing romantic about being immortalized on someone else’s terms.

 Musicians always get the last laugh because they have the means to strip you down to a bare, simplistic memory, and put you on display.

The bottom line is this: No one is in as unique a position to make you regret dating them as a musician…

except, perhaps, a writer.