#19: Cosmic Lessons in Love on the Cusp of Samhain, Day of the Dead, National Men Make Dinner Day and World Vegan Day
Plus: The Friendly Grim Reaper of East Harlem + The Light That Comes In The Dark
Vol. 19
Astromotional Update: Samhain Sampler Platter of Witches and Wounded Healers
EVENT: The Weed Witch Pen Pal Club Kicks Off With International Weed Witch Day on Friday, Nov. 13
The Friendly Grim Reaper of East Harlem
The Light That Comes In The Dark
Weed Witches of the Week: Flor De Toloache
Cosmic Lessons in Love on the Cusp of Samhain, Day of the Dead, National Men Make Dinner Day and World Vegan Day
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Dear coven,
It is the Day of the Dead. Dia De Los Muertos. All Saints Day. And also: National Men Make Dinner Day and World Vegan Day. Yeah, I know. I’ll get to that later.
Today Venus—the planet of love—clashes with emotional Chiron, “the Wounded Healer,” a transit impacting all aspects of wellness: the physical, mental health, emotional, and spiritual. And we are still in Mercury Retrograde. In short: matters of the heart are intense as fuck.
I know you want to talk about sugar skulls, ofrendas, and paying tribute to our ancestors. I’ll touch on that in a bit.
Last night was a bit of a sampler platter of witches, because Samhain has become the universal day of witches. So, I ended up convening with the Witches of New York faction. The Eastern seaboard was lit with witch energy. I hope you witches in the Midcoast, West Coast, South and around the world lit up your sage sticks and bowls last night, while you expressed the full colors of your beautiful selves hidden from the world during a year of isolation
This was a true moment of solidarity in New York City after so much pain and the acceptance that our day-to-day just need to charge forward, as much as it did in the tough times of the past. New York City is not a place that dies—though there is always death here, as there is everywhere.
Halloween was somehow the most fitting and much-needed spiritual center that united the freaks, misfits and families who are called to this city, and the energy that it brings. The sense of community, even during a pandemic on the fringe of an election that has divided this country so fiercely in hate. When the uncertainty of when this will end is so nebulous. We needed joy, color, music, art, expression, love, optimism, healing, and community. I found it everywhere last night. It renewed my soul, and my friends who had been in hiding, texting me to come out and play.
The West Village, in particular, was a spectacle to be seen. Dancing vampires, drag queen popes, furries, baroque maitre d’s and stylish eccentrics congregated outside of Stonewall. The energy was much overdue, even in the drop in temperature. Hearing house music blast down my street on a Saturday night was exactly what I needed after months of subdued silence.
In the words of fellow Pisces witch, friend and poet, Dena Rash Guzman, “Dr. Fauci is crying right now.” True, true. Still, look at these costumes!
The fabulous looking gentleman I met in the photo above wearing the ushanka and Gucci mask was a front line nurse during all phases, but also an intrepid world traveler named Jason. I took his photo and we talked about lunar cycles and witch circles. I thanked him profusely for everything he did, saw and risked to help this city. I can only assume he could give a shit talking about his job and the profuse nature of it, because from what I know having spoken with many of my nurse friends, everyone is over it.
Get your favorite nurse or doctor a bomb ass bath bomb from Witch Baby Soap or a CBD bath bomb Kush Queens.
I’ve provided a recent triple-threat of witchy content for the witchiest week of the witchiest month. It is November now, so this is a month of gratitude and remembrance. We only have a few more days left until the election, and I hope you have taken care of yourselves. The upside is that no matter what, we won’t have to talk about that soon and can look forward to another period of resetting the clock for 2021 soon enough. Thanks for being along with me for this ride.
Yours,
The Weed Witch
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EVENT: The Weed Witch Pen Pal Club Kicks Off With International Weed Witch Day on Friday, Nov. 13
Okay, so just going to be honest; I have a few sign ups for the Weed Witch Pen Pal Club and…I’m only half-sure how this Elfster app works. So, hopefully it will work for all and if not, I will just figure it out.
In honor of Sadie Hawkins Day, World Kindness Day, my grandma's birthday and saying “FUCK YOU” to bad 2020 vibes on Friday the 13th, I have decided to reclaim that day as International Weed Witch Day, an inaugural celebration of outliers from across the country or around the world.
This is for anyone who wants to connect with another misfit to send them a gift of solidarity, strength and love as a gesture of good will through a peace pipe. By signing up here, you are joining The Weed Witch Pen Pal Club, where you can sign up to connect with another weed witch to send a gift of up to $25 via USPS to brighten someone’s day and also support the United States Postal Service.
The Friendly Grim Reaper of East Harlem
(Photo: Josh Appell via Unsplash)
Yesterday morning, I had an encounter with an exterminator who showed up after I had unexpectedly found a mouse in my house—a solid nudge to myself to get the cat I always wanted, who I hope to name Erwin Maury Fisher.
I like pets with first and last names. The idea of a middle name appeals to me for when I want to scold the cat for being naughty as my chosen child, just so that I can use its full name to shame it for doing something shitty. Cats love doing shitty asshole shit. I love them so much for this reason and imprint with them so well. I am a witch, after all.
This is also somewhat of a more useful, effective and humane form of interspecies murder that absolves my hand, rather than the current glue trap situation that I am not fan of. Cats arguably have better lives than most New Yorkers, by the way. Such adorable little entitled murdering assholes, and yet, so helpful in their love, affection, purring, softness. I am so excited to meet you, Erwin Maury Fisher!
The exterminator arrived in the morning. An old school Italian guy from East Harlem named Greg Vucci, who has a family-owned business called GM Pest Control. He’s not an internet guy, and that’s what I like that about him. The fact New York is still such a “I’ve got a guy” city is one of my favorite things on the planet. Word of mouth and in-person business still kicks the internet to the curb every day here.
“Is being an exterminator your Halloween costume?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m the grim reaper,” he said.
I needed that laugh. Everyone is so fucking tired of this year. And now, I had a man coming to help me commit murder against a poor mouse. I am the worst.
We chatted a long time about the history of New York City. What it was like in the ‘70s and ‘80s. Vucci is an optimist and a humanist. The type of person whose biggest pride point is going above and beyond to help people. He mentioned servicing a woman’s house who had roaches, mice, and oddly, squirrels. Apparently, a tree was growing through the back of her brownstone. He called 411, because he’s not the type of person to simply do his job and leave. He cares about the investment of his community and taking of others, including random trees growing through the backs of houses so that squirrels become a pest problem.
“I don’t care if you believe in Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad—whatever—I just think everyone needs prayer. God is watching over you, Carly.”
I told him I was a Jewitch, and he respected that. He said he wasn’t sure what he believed in, but he was raised in line with Christianity and recognized it loosely, mainly appreciating it for its spiritual values. That was enough for me.
“People need to talk to each other and stop with this texting garbage. I don’t text, I say call me,” he says.
He set his glue traps and went on his way. I love New York moments like this, even in a pandemic.
The Light That Comes In The Dark
Last November, I took an apartment in East Harlem for a brief stint until the end of January when I could no longer deal with the sensory overload of being at-level with the Metro-North train tracks. The Amtrak and MNR blasting through my apartment at all hours had created a terrible situation where even ear plugs layered with noise-cancelling headphones could not erase the noise obscuring my psychic intuition.
The two months I spent in the neighborhood, however, were incredible. I loved the House of Candles and Malcolm Shabazz Harlem Market on 116th, the Greek-owned coffee shop UGC Eats with incredible spanakopita on Park and 117th underneath my apartment, the mac ‘n cheese at Amy Ruth’s, soul food at Sylvia’s and the ridiculous amount of restaurants in that area. Oh god, just thinking about it makes me so hungry.
It was really too bad about my sensitivity to the noise, because it was an incredible apartment with the best landlord: an incredibly gifted and kind artist named Orestes Gonzalez, a longtime New Yorker who also had his share of stories when I visited him in Long Island City. I live for these details. I really loved it up there.
I met so many amazing people in my day-to-day. Part of the joy was being able to greet this beautiful mural every morning by artist, Betsy Z. Casañas, who is based between Puerto Rico and Philadelphia. I had always wondered about the meaning behind this beautiful woman draped in a shawl with the warmest smile. I miss that view, even more than the one I currently have.
“La Luz que Sale de al Oscuridad” or “The Light That Comes In The Dark.” I recalled it after my conversation with Vucci, so I called Betsy to ask her about her piece. There was nothing written on it and I wanted to know.
“That particular piece was, ‘The Light That Comes In The Dark.’ [It’s about] the children of the addicted, what they all go through, what they have they carry, and what they grow up. That was a very particular person I was focusing on. It’s where you have a family member struggling with addiction and you have these innocent children are raised in some of the chaos. I grew up in North Philadelphia where I was in one of the hottest spots, growing up in the former drug corner.
In the ‘80s and ‘90s, there were a lot of things with crack addiction and that stuff. There were a lot of people in the most desperate stage of addiction. I was very inspired by the stories that come from that. The light that stems indistinguishable from folks. With all of this chaos, violence and neighborhoods that are constantly in turmoil. And they still have this light in them that is so inspiring. Some of these experiences would break a lot of people. And it’s really hopeful.
It’s a common story, and it’s definitely one we hear constantly in the neighborhood in inner city neighborhoods where there is a lot of problems with addiction and with recovery. The story is more relatable.”
It was a bit coincidental that I remembered such an important piece of art at this time of sweet remembrance. New York does have a spike in crime, drugs, and fires—but so most do urban centers that have been impacted by the ravages of this year. To pretend that this has not been a problem would be disingenuous. Instead, it presents an enormous opportunity to collectively do some good at bringing light to emerge from the darkness.
I was grateful for her time, her art, and being able to help spread the message of such a valuable piece of work hiding in plain sight that greets Metro-North riders every day without noticing it. All things considered, this year has truly made many so much kinder to one another and excited to connect as human beings, strangers, to network as professionals and friends. Most people want peace. They just want shared resources, as has always been the case.
Facebook has actually become its own center for community groups and free cycles, where even the best intentioned groups sharing baby supplies and food among the community free pile are inevitably co-opted by scammers to everyone’s dismay, ruining it for everyone by taking what isn’t theirs, or conversely demanding everything be free without understanding how much was invested and risked.
There’s a shared sense of trust, and also an utter lack of surprise when a bike tire is stolen or someone flakes. This is New York City, after all. It’s never been a precious or perfect place, but it’s pretty special in how many generations and ethnicities managed to co-exist in one place.
It’s a shared investment in the survival of local businesses and artists, as this is the culture that brings everyone together, to places like Stonewall, as well as larger brands, who have the money to pour into resources that will hopefully allow some space to co-exist for original economic development instead of direct competition. The things that create a functioning community that uplift people based on cooperative opportunities that cycle the feeling of hopelessness, drug addiction, mental illness, housing insecurity—preventably scarier topics than witch costumes, rituals, or the things that go bump in the night. Or “The Light That Comes In The Dark.”
Weed Witches of the Week: Flor De Toloache
Flor De Toloache is a New York-based all-female mariachi band. They’re certainly not under-the-radar anymore as this four-set ensemble are Latin GRAMMY winners who have been making beautiful sounds since 2008. Mariachi music has a pretty fascinating history dating back to the 18th century in rural Western Mexico, and has evolved over the years to inspire derivatives like Ranchera, Tejano music, and Grupera.
Flor de Toloache includes a pan-Latinx mix of backgrounds that “hail from diverse cultural backgrounds such as Mexico, Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic, Cuba, Australia, Colombia, Germany, Italy and the United States. This defines their unique flavor and sound.”
Aside from their fierce looks and beautiful music, I love their witchy vibes self-described as “a band of sisters, with a grace and vibrant beauty that casts a spell over their audiences not unlike the legendary Toloache flower still being used in Mexico as a love potion.” To me, this is the best music ever to honor the Day of the Dead.
Cosmic Lessons in Love on the Cusp of Samhain, Day of the Dead, National Men Make Dinner Day and World Vegan Day
It seems fitting that today is National Men Make Dinner Day and World Vegan Day—two totally unnecessary fake holidays—as I recently dipped my toe back into the New York City dating pool in an attempt to say that I am truly done with holding onto the past.
I set those intentions last night, lit a flame and made peace with the fact that I tried to make amends with those who I had wronged or felt had wronged me. It was up to them now to decide if they wanted to forgive me back. To let go of the past. Because it was no longer going to haunt me. I got shit to do! Nine months of hibernation for this gal-on-the-go is not OK!
This is why no one can give you closure except for yourself, and the overall premise of forgiveness and letting go. To remove judgment because you have cast it onto others as they have cast it onto you. You wipe the slate clean, allow everyone back in with a second chance, knowing some will choose to hold onto judgment forever. Can’t win ‘em all.
Everyone in our circle had done the same, the forces that brought together 12 unlikely strangers under the coven of New York. Each one of us brought our rituals: earth, fire, water, smoke. Baked goods and wine. Offerings. Men and women. Different rituals and ancestors. Handwritten notes. Arriving with the intention of letting go of whatever they needed to in order to make peace with themselves and create space for what wanted more of, under the beautifully intense and rare blue moon that shined so brightly in the darkness of Prospect Park along the shimmering water, tucked away in the reeds as others gathered similarly for their birthday parties, their church gatherings and raves.
(Photo: Dia De Los Muertos by Cristian Newman via Unsplash)
On the Day of the Dead, it is typical to piece together an ofrenda, a home altar honoring and individual who has died. These are often filled with the deceased’s favorite food items—mole, pan dulce, a bottle or shot of tequila or mezcal—images of saints, candles, marigold flowers, and the sugar skulls known as calaveras. These items typically represent the four elements, much other united rituals, with burning sacred copal to ward away evil spirits.
I’ve always wanted to see the Day of the Dead in Mexico City, but I had a second close best mid-October of last year when I was treated to a mystical experience at the Thompson Hotel in Cabo San Lucas—a stunning property overlooking the El Arco and the Bahia Cabo San Lucas horizon and modeled in the style of camera obscura by Arquitectura de Interiores’ Marisabel Gómez Vázquez. There, I was treated to a much-needed getaway with a cacao breathwork ceremony by Ofelia Bojórquez of Mujeres Medicina, who practices holistic psychotherapy.
Cabo San Lucas is considered a holy place, the patron saint of “artists, physicians, bachelors, surgeons, students and butchers; his feast day is October 18.” I had no idea about this, but I was down with a protector of all of the things. The coast anchored by peninsula known as Lovers Beach and Divorce Beach—the former referencing the gentle and sandy shore facing the bay and latter facing the rocky and tumultuous waves of the Pacific. Seems like a pretty fitting place to do a mystical cacao breathwork ceremony to purge my heart and soul of torment.
I cried. Hysterically. It felt so good. I just released everything. I couldn’t tell if I hexed myself or another witch had done it, but either way, we both were getting what we deserved. Sooner or later. Ofelia healed me through her gentle and empathetic touch. I had no idea she does tarot therapy, but loved that was a practice. She ended up in Hudson Valley a few months later at the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors. Our paths had crossed and it felt like destiny.
Every morning while I was there, I would great the ocean and let the salty air kiss my skin as I snuck tokes of grass from the balcony over coffee and chilaquiles with both red and green sauce—I wanted both. I still dream of that hotel. The sunshine, the air, the mezcal. The people who worked there, who were so kind. The in-room bathtub and enormous showers that I had all to myself. I dream of flying there, to that magical place, someday in a beautiful future.
Back in Brooklyn, it was the evening of Samhain, not Day of the Dead, so we created a multi-denominational space, where everyone brought their rituals. Baby witches. One of them had recently arrived from out west, and it was first time in a circle—as was mine. I practice my rituals privately, but was so happy to find the coven.
“My parents don’t approve of my lifestyle” she said.
Still. In 2020. Lighting candles, making offerings, engaging in rituals, finding a unique connection with the world, threatens her parents “way of life” and seeing the world in a mystical sense of spirituality and meaning.
Another witch was preparing for a move to the Midwest. I taught them about the Georgian wine that I spoke of in Volume 17, and they taught me about their rituals and ancestors under the beautiful blue moon. Speckled in gold dust in their cheeks and smug sticks on their third eye with a special spot reserved just for me.
A male business writer had shown up, who mentioned that he covered cannabis for his outlet. I couldn’t tell if he was just there for the novelty of it, because he took a piss and left before we started, but not until after drinking some of the wine.
The Eastern seaboard witchcraft still felt clandestine in nature and somewhat rebellious under the eye of the helicopter watch. The air was chill and everyone was dressed in black, except me: I was wearing a bright pumpkin colored jacket, like Thelma from Scooby Doo.
I hadn’t been able to make it up to Salem this year or throughout the Hudson Valley, typically among the witchiest places to spend the season. Lyndhurst Mansion, which is renowned for its Halloween decorations, hosted an outdoor event this year that I missed because I was too consumed with phone banking for the election. It’s an annual event, so I hope to make it next year, along with the Wassaic Project, an immersive experimental artist collaboration usually hosts an amazing haunted house. This year, it was a parade. (P.S. If you’re an artist, they currently an open call for their 2021 summer exhibition. The deadline is 11/16).
Everything had been canceled. The festive dog parades in Brooklyn and Tompkins Square. All virtual events.
We wore masks, brought hand sanitizer, created a safe distance among ourselves, and shrouded within a circle of salt and illuminated as the sounds of helicopters loomed above and a man screamed into the night.
I came in tow with the following:
Rosemary: Earth. Universal symbol of remembrance, paying homage to the dead. Love and loyalty for the living, often used at weddings and funerals. Speaking of: I kind of want to rewatch Four Weddings and a Funeral to see if holds up. Please let me know what you think of this film for The Weed Witch Film Club.
A seashell from eastern shore of Ireland: Earth. The unique feminine bond between earth and sea. Symbolic for prosperity and abundance. Used for holding ash from smudge sticks and herbs. Or, in my case, a joint and a stick of palo santo.
Calcite: Earth. A powerful cleanser of negative energy and amplifier of psychic consciousness, connecting the mind and body to soul experiences. Meditate with the stone on your third eye to open your chakras and free your mind. Kind of that that En Vogue song I like a lot.
Lepidolite: Earth. An emotional healing stone, soothing for stress and depression that activates the third eye and cosmic intuition, amplifying the powers of 8 in numerology. The “stone of transition,” associated with releasing negative energy and encouraging self-love, trust and fearless independence.
Sea salt and water lotus candle: Water. Also, I had already burned through my Double Action Reversal candle.
Statue of Anubis: The Egyptian god of death. Picked up at Pharoah’s Cave in New Orleans.
Mummy Hitter from Rompotodo: Fire. A custom gift from an O.G. weed witch ceramic artist based in Argentina.
Rkatsiteli Qvevri from Velistsikhe Veranda ($22): Earth. An orange natural wine produced in Georgia. Further reading: How Magical Cheeseboats and Natural Wine Saved Georgia After Soviet Occupation
Palo santo ($1 from Urban Asanas): Fire. “Holy Wood.” Harvested sustainably from dead trees in South America. Used to clear the air of bad spirits, raising vibrational patterns for meditation, enhancing creativity, and magic. Often used for its calming effect on the immune and nervous systems, treating common illnesses like colds, flu symptoms, stress, asthma, headaches, anxiety, depression, inflammation, and emotional pain.
Etienne Aigner labradorite pendant. Earth. Stone of transformation. Used for change, imparting strength and perseverance. “It balances and protects the aura, raises consciousness and grounds spiritual energies. Labradorite treats disorders of the eyes and brain, stimulates mental acuity, and relieves anxiety and stress.”
A half-smoked joint of “Charge” sativa by Canndescent. Fire. Effects: alert, euphoric, energetic.
A white mini gourd. Earth. Because it’s decorative gourd season, motherfuckers.
A cinnamon broom whisk. Earth. Regarded for its “antioxidant, anti-inflammatory, antidiabetic, and antimicrobial properties, and that they might offer protection from cancer and cardiovascular disease, among other conditions.” Also, it was adorable.
My intentions for the full moon: invite love, abundance, opportunity, and friendship; to release hate, fear and self-doubt.
Immediately following the meeting, I met so many witches out on Halloween. A gorgeous silver long locced witch with a corset, boots and hat, who without a broom. I handed her my cinnamon whisk and sent her on her way off East Broadway. The energy felt recharged.
Still, there was one matter of the heart that I had not properly dealt with and experiencing self-doubt: a recent match on Hinge.
In the Before Times, this wouldn’t have mattered so much. Somehow, on this rare blue moon, during this horrible-terrible year, where I had set such strong intentions, I decided that I wanted to give New York City’s straight men the benefit of the doubt. I was tired of fighting with everyone, including men.
Dating is already exhausting and often loveless affair in this city. Because the term “dating” is so easily taken out of turn. The app experience, in particular, has reduced this word and its expectations to such a nuanced and confusing degree, where who can tell anyone’s intentions? What is “dating”? It’s such an open-ended term. We have labels anymore, and sometimes that is frustrating when you’re trying to create some sense of boundaries and place at a time when they're all flying out the window. It’s been this way for years. Plus, pandemic?
Sometimes a fuck buddy situation turns into a long-lasting relationship; while others chastise you for feeling anything at all for using Tindr. Hinge seemed like “the good app,” the one that you’re supposed to find someone to delete it.
After being dealt such a such a rough hand, I had left myself open to whomever enters. I was moving slowly because I had so much doubt, to find someone who valued my brain and heart as much my body. Physical and emotional intimacy now feels so much more dangerous because of coronavirus.
Though, I have dated and slept with far too many people over the years, I had zero interest in becoming “the relationship expert” whose entire beat is to assure people that it’s OK to be single. You just are or you aren’t. Feast or famine. It's all relative. There are so many lonely people out there, but making a true connection is a very special thing. The entire of notion of how we discuss relationships as society is such a construct.
Weed Witch Reads For Tender Hearts
Shout out to my former roommate and gifted feminist voice, Kelli Maria Korducki, whose book “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” (Amazon/IndieBound) deserves to be uplifted time and again for approaching such a complex topic of love, marriage, and relationships through an intersectional lens.
Ada Calhoun also just released a great book, too, called “Why We Can't Sleep: Women's New Midlife Crisis” (Amazon/IndieBound), advice from Gen X—something that I leaned on very hard on this year, as I reached out to so many writers and friends I respected when I couldn’t understand why any of this was happening that every woman I knew.
The cancer scare this past month was pretty emotional to go to through alone, knowing so many friends were dealing with other things. I kept having this horrible recurring dream where I was the cancer poster girl for the cannabis movement. Nobody wants that, just like nobody wants cancer or to think of their lives being treated with kid gloves.
Shondaland actually has a whole thing about cancer from five women. October was Breast Cancer Awareness Month, an event that every woman I know hates being reminded of the Komen pinking problem: the 5Ks to run to fundraise medical research, while simultaneously fighting your government that keeps defunding to pump money into the military instead of social services and bailing out insurance companies. The same now as it ever was.
I started taking all of these photos of my body in sexy lingerie at my most beautiful moment of self-love, trying not to cry just so I could remember myself in this loving way, in case I had to go through chemo. I wanted to show off my body so badly, to celebrate it and be proud.
So, let’s just say that I had been a very sensitive place, thinking about the past, present and future. It is wild to me that the pandemic has been going on long enough for me to have had a cancer scare. After awhile, you just have to accept that this is a thing that is just going to be there.
So, what were the men of Manhattan during this time in isolation? I have slowly been starting to find out. Pretty normal there, too—for better or worse.
I recently spent a few days engaged in a virtual conversation gearing for my first real date with a guy who seemed like a really nice catch. A friendly stoner chef with a little bit of a vegan meal, who I met on Hinge. He was seemed very kind, handsome and a 40-years-old former line cook who found a good niche selling comic books to “nerds who can’t get puss.” Crass, in sort of an obtuse way, not necessarily a bad human. A self-described “Brooklyn kid from the block,” and “an asshole,” so whatever. Takes one to know one, I guess.
In most of my past dating experiences, I’ve noticed that it’s pretty common that men tend to say what they mean and bring up the underlying issues from the depths of their psyche, while lightheartedly making it into a “joke.” Red flags include statements, such as: “I am depressed and tried to kill myself once.” “My dad was a crack addict, but at least I have this bottle of Jameson.” “Sorry I am late. I ate a 711 taquito on the way here and got diarrhea.” “Listen, I am capitalist. I just don’t get why Bernie is so mean to billionaires.” “I am a libertarian.”
After awhile, you start wondering why your time feels so wasted, and can’t sort out why it always feels like you’re digging through the same flea-infested bin at the resale store looking for that one rare designer handbag with a slightly damaged, but fixable strap. The one bag you want to carry around every day and never wear any of the others. “How did this get discarded? It must be karma.”
I don’t feel bad objectifying men as handbags. If the worst thing that happens to you is that earning the trust, affection and loyalty of a woman who needs no man at all, who is able to love another person as much as the thing that provides the most utility in her life with a little style and zero complaints, then it should be taken as a compliment and a beautiful metaphor for an ideal and functioning relationship of two equals. Equally objectifying each other, then signing a contract.
This is why I believe in a woman’s right to choose: men have historically been so unreliable. They can’t even be relied on to show up with a condom most of the time, or get a birth control shot “because of the side effects” while leaving that burden on us, along with all of our “choices” then try to legally strip that choice away. Some women become the worst in this, digging their stiletto heels into one another to get ahead in the world of men, buying up this bullshit narrative, becoming just as bad as them and continuing to put us all behind.
The whole point if men and women are equals, then the gender binary no longer exists and you can do whatever the fuck you want because you’re working together instead tearing each other apart in the name of love and business. Wow, imagine that.
He helpfully reminded me of what it was like dating in New York City in The Before Times when I was a heartless bitch after years of cycling through endless emotionless sexcapades throughout Brooklyn; I helpfully reminded him that we are living in a pandemic and social uprising during an economic downturn on a rare full blue moon during Mercury Retrograde, so shit has been weird.
But mainly, a sweet start turned into a tumultuous finish over the interpretation of the word “dating.”
“You’ll get no pressure from me, handsome. I’m not looking to hook up at 40 or get married yesterday. To be candid, I’m not even interested in dating. Hoping to find someone cool. If not, at least I gave it a go.”
Companionship?
“I probably could have told you this is either your first time being single in awhile or you’re recently coming out of something. Just seems to be the way of the environment.”
The one where we were in isolation and an unexpected pandemic?
“More like two folks just having the back of the other. Absolutely not platonic, yet also not up each other’s ass. A healthy balance of being around each other, being high, urban exploration, room-shaking sex, positivity, learning, creating meals, just being an ear to listen on the days where shit is going terrible or great. Obviously more facets, but I thought that was a good start.”
I think that’s called dating.
“Ummmm, you just said you were on were on Tinder before. Minus the sex aspect, not much of the other stuff can be found on there. Dating feels like work. I merely like to want the person to be around and hopefully that’s a mutual feeling! Also, and this is certainly a feeling not carried by most, even though dating sounds like a term devoid of unique experiences that of an obligatory nature.”
Dating feels like work. I got hung up on that part. And it triggered a fight. Because he seemed to have everything he wanted worked out so neatly, and yet, we didn’t have the same understanding of the word “dating.”
I was curious if I was crazy or he was an asshole or if it was both of us, so I asked a friend objectively. And it was a tough one. To his credit, my understanding was that he was defining dating as “dating multiple people” whereas I was stuck on the “work” part to sound like a lack of commitment or accountability.
We actually wanted the exact same thing: a monogamous relationship. But miscommunications in this heated debate over text and phone, both made us become the worst versions of ourselves. He became a victim, which was precisely what I didn’t want; and I became the crazy bitch again, also not what I wanted.
Ultimately, it doesn’t matter because we just weren’t a good match or it was a misunderstanding. But putting oneself out there at a time right now—when time feels like a construct. The year I wanted to get everyone offline, as I declared early in 2020.
I won’t bore you with the rest of this, but there was one thing he said at the end that really stuck with me:
“I can’t stop being me regardless of how others perceive and act towards me. This environment is highly based on what others have done and not my specific interactions. Can’t say that’s very comfortable paying for the sins of others, but such is life I guess. I’m completely removed from that world if I can help it. I’m secure in who I am and what I bring to the table.”
He had the decency to call me this morning, though, to let me get out whatever I needed to, while also being an enormous asshole who seemed to do it just to be self-righteous about it. And actually, I am grateful for that. Somehow I got the experience what I never had before of getting closure with our human voices, and it was just as equally unsatisfying as being ghosted. I sent him multiple texts trying to tell him off on behalf of all women, and we got the opportunity to discuss at length, in hopes that maybe I could resolve this by explaining just what was upsetting to me, find some mutual understanding and part on good terms. No dice.
I said, “Why did you feel the need to define labels before a first date? I don’t care if you date me or not, but you should note that whomever you date, this will continue to be a problem for you. You don’t actually see any problems with your own behavior. Even when I apologize or acknowledge your kind acts, to be fair and reasonable, you still refuse to see anything from outside of your own lens.”
Ultimately, we both ended up telling each other the very thing we should have been telling ourselves. Honesty truly is the new irony.
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