Lately I'm beginning to wonder if there's something wrong with my lack of interest in marriage. Many of my friends are happily married or engaged, and tonight I found out that a friendly acquaintance has just been married for the second time. I have known him through his first marriage, his divorce, and now I know him as a married man again. Of course I wish him and his bride the best, but some strange part of me wonders if I'm lagging developmentally. Shouldn't I be dreaming of the white dress and honeymoon? Instead, the main appeal of my own hypothetical wedding is the copious amount of expensive cake I'll be able to shove into my mouth.

Don't get me wrong; I'm genuinely happy for my married friends, and I get happy/weepy at their weddings. But when I think about being married myself, I become anxious. I imagine that when you are married, you are not allowed to eat cereal for dinner, or to walk around pantsless in a nonsexual way, or to take off for a solo vacation, or to sleep alone. I like doing all of these things. Maybe my opinion will change over time, but I have been dating for about 15 years and have yet to worry about becoming an old maid.

Labels: marriage, neuroses

Oh, Paul Weller. They don't make men like they used to. I've always had this thing for quasi-mod style, particularly when peacocked by dark-haired young men. Hedi Slimane does too, to an extent that perhaps Paul deserved a royalty check from Dior.



I love how dorky Tony Wilson is here, too.

Labels: men i would have dated

In high school, I had two great record-store crushes. The first has become a music writer, and when I looked him up a few years ago, I was disappointed to learn that his flirtation with becoming a cad had mutated into a full-blown love affair. He was condescending toward me in a way that amused me more than anything else. So I'm happy to keep him filed away in the mental box of happy teenage memories.

And then there is Derek, who everyone called DVG. He was one of my favorite people back in Kalamazoo; he was always drawing on scraps of paper, and I still have a tiny post-it note with one of his scrawls on it. Some drunk guy had come into the store where I worked, and as I told him the story, he drew a hilarious caricature of the man. I loved it. And so I was so happy to open the New York Times and see his work next to letters about Wagner's ring cycle. (Which, of course, reminds me of Marc, and brings two good people together in one happy thought.)

After watching the new Madonna video, all I could think is, "Ugh, I have got to go to a gym." The woman is 20 years my senior, and she could probably knock me down just by flicking her pinky at me. Strong woman. Still, there's something sad about Madonna's claim that she works out for three hours a day. It's not that I don't believe her; it's that she's one of the world's most powerful women outside of government, she's dripping with money, she can do whatever she wants to, and yet she spends an eighth of her day exercising. Were I in her position, I would not do this, but maybe she likes it.

Lately I'm worried that I should be exercising more. My doctor says my blood pressure is "below normal," which makes me think it's only a matter of time before my heart stops completely. Which, of course, it is, but I'd hoped to have at least four more decades before that happens. And I could really do without people telling me that I have "meat on my bones," which then makes me think that I look doughy or something.

I feel OK with my body for the most part, and I feel healthy, so what reason is there to go to a gym? Even if I did wind up looking cut like Madonna, I wouldn't really get credit for it because I'm not pushing 50. My plan, instead, is to start working out around age 45, so then people will marvel at my flexibility. I'll be like Jean Brodie, a woman in her prime.

Personally, I might take this story about Pete Wentz with a grain of salt, especially because it was published on April 1, has terrible Photoshop work, includes the phrase "cosmetic derring-do," and has a link to a picture of a certain short-legged Munchkin cat announcing April Fool's Day. But amusingly enough, a few legitimate magazine blogs have reported it as fact. Oh, sweet triumph.

Labels: nemeses

By nature I am a somewhat anxious person when it comes to money. I often worry that I'm not saving enough, that I'm not making enough, that perhaps I should take on a weekend job just to create more of a nest egg. When I started my first salaried job, I dutifully socked 8% of my income away in a 401(k) (and of course, now at 9%, still I worry that it's not enough). I credit this financial freakiness to a childhood spent knowing that we didn't have enough money, and when we did, it wasn't always spent wisely. I love my father, but at age 77, he still hasn't mastered this very simple concept: Spend less than what you earn.

This is why I am constantly trying to figure out how to save more money. Especially now that I am almost 30, I feel like I need to invest more of it. I love the magic of compound interest and I already panic that 22 was too old to start investing my money. There are only a few problems with this:

1. Make 1.5 times former salary, yet banking the "raise" makes me feel like I merely pay higher taxes but do not benefit from bigger paycheck.


2. Am scared of investing outside of 401k. 401k is like warm, tax-deferred blanket. Mutual funds are like unknown, potentially scary blanket made of snakes.


3. I don't really have any furniture. Aside from the bed, everything was bought on Craigslist. My dresser was $30, and although I don't love it, I don't really need a new dresser, and therefore I cannot bring myself to buy a dresser that will ultimately lose its value.
4. Oddly, though, I am not cheap. I donate to various good causes each month, I don't buy only generic food at the store, I eat out at least twice a week. But lately I just don't want more stuff. Not even the things you supposedly need, such as a dresser made within the last 60 years.
   
   

Like I said, I'm a little anxious about it.

In my iTunes, I label songs in their proper genre (Power Pop, Punk, Hip-hop, Soul) but sometimes I give songs special labels. So, for example, a fuzz-pop Markus Acher track is "Morr-ish," for the Berlin-based label, as are all songs that remind me of a certain sound. And Bunny in the City is the only song whose label is simply "Awesome."

And then there are those filed under "sad-bastard music," which I listened to today. I wasn't in a sad mood (emphasis on the past tense), but while cleaning my apartment, I thought it would be perfectly fine, until Johnny Cash came warbling up. (Lem!) So, in case you, too, were having a lovely day but need a little pathos to sink it, here you go.