People. People who need people...

Everyone in New York seems to be in love these days. How do I know this? I ride the subway with all the lovers. A morning commute into the city is not complete until you have had an impossibly hip duo of lovebirds wedge themselves into the train car,  insisting that be the moment they put their tongue in the other person's mouth, while you sit below them silently wondering why life isn't fair. 

A particularly insufferable duo stood above me this morning. The lady complaining, "My roommate doesn't even put her nail polish away after she's done doing her Pinterest nail art," while her impossibly hip boyfriend comforted her by saying, "Well babe, that's the economic tyranny of not being able to afford living by yourself." After I retrieved my eyes that had rolled all the way to the back of my head, I realized something about these ninkumpoops-- they were the other person's person. We all need our people to share our inane thoughts with, and that usually comes in the form of a lover of some sort. A lover who will love you despite your absurdity, and listen to your theories about how your fridge might have a monster inside it. That's what your people do for you, they put up with you. 

Without a Boris to my Natasha these days, I find that my own inane thoughts have nowhere to go. If they aren't accidentally being texted to ex's (Tragic, don't do it. I know you want to, but just don't. It's not worth it. There's a reason you two broke up and it's probably because you share too much. Just don't.), they usually come out in the form of absurd text messages to my friends, who entertain me slightly by pretending to give two shakes of a leg about the thing I saw, or the thing I did, or the thing that I just need someone else to know in case I'm eaten by a rat in the middle of the night-- but we both know it's not their job. That's the job of a boyfriend.....or a therapist, a very patient and well-paid therapist. Or ya know what? A blog. I have this blog sitting right here, why don't I just get some of those things out. 

(Photo credit: Courtney McLean. Sorry I was ignoring you, girl. I was probs texting someone something they didn't give a poo about.)

TEXT MESSAGES MEANT FOR A BOYFRIEND: 

-Can you OD on soy? I think I'm od'ing on soy. I love soy. 

-I think my leg is broken. I'm walking on it and it totally feels broken. 

-I made a hat out of feathers and noodles! Wanna see it? 

-Is quinoa a thing you can do for breakfast? You know what, I'm just gonna do it. I'm doing it! ....How's your Mom?

-I saw a dog who looked like a man outside my apartment today. I should have taken a picture. I didn't. I hate myself....How's work? 

-Is it too early to listen to "The Christmas Shoes" song? 'Cuz I just turned it on, and I'm loving it. I want a wonton. Get me a wonton. I love you. 

-I found a lone tap shoe on the ground. I took it home. Tell no one. 

-Would you rather ride an elephant and have it talk to you, or pee in space and float in your own pee puddle? 

-Some kid was doing hip hop on the train and I was really into it--UNTIL HE KICKED ME IN THE SHIN! ...How's your day?

-I sat on my own donut. 

-If plants could talk, do you think they'd thank me for watering them? Or do you think they'd be like super prideful about it? I'd like to think they'd thank me. 

-Does your mom know I exist? I emailed her and she hasn't responded. I love her. Tell her that, ok? Ugh. Whatever. 

-I'm eating KALE!!!!!!!!

-I love you a lot. That is all. 

At the end of the day, we all need our people. Our people forgive our neuroses, they might actually even consider them charming. Without our people we feel lost. So in a city of 8 million people, there's bound to be one person who wants to be someone else's people, right? I'd like to think so. Until I find one, I will keep to myself the fact that I keep sitting on my own donut. 

xo, 

MaddeBelle

A Gal Grows in Brooklyn

(Madde gets into her bed and snuggles in next to her Twilight Sparkle stuffed animal. She takes her computer off her bedside table. Pulls up Safari and types in "Does Madde Gibba have a blog she forgot about?" http://maddebelle.blogspot.com/ appears on the screen. She blows the dust off, types in her password, and gets going on her new chapter....)


Why hello there. Perhaps you've read this blog before, perhaps you're just stumbling upon it now. Whatever your reason for being here, I say to you...WHAAAAAAAAAAAAATT UPPPPP?????????

Since we last met I have picked up and moved from Minnesota to Brooklyn, New York. I now live in a land of skinny jeans, ironically large and/or tiny hats, glasses that have lenses the size of a giant baby cheek, and IPA's that "you've probably never heard about." So basically, I just picked up and moved to Minneapolis 2.0.  So why not dust off my blog and have a go at sharing too many of my opinions? After all, people can only take so many Facebook status updates before blocking me. So consider this blog my apology to all my Facebook friends who have had to deal with "vaguebooking" and instagram overload.

Ready. Set. Brooklyn.

xoxo, MaddeBelle

An Open Letter to...THE CHRISTMAS HIPPO!

Dear Christmas Hippo,

Well, looks like she asked and she did receive. She wanted you and only you would do, and now you sit in her garage. If I may ask, how often are you getting your promised massage? I bet not often, right? She can barely do her weekly chores of trash emptying and Grandma time. Gee whiz, buddy--I am sorry.

Listen, I heard about the chimney incident on Christmas Eve. That little child said Santa wouldn't mind, but we both know from the scars on your tummy that he minded alright. Not only did he mind, but that old man struggled! He had no choice but to enter through that dirty chimney hole! He's Santa! That's his thing! I know you're a Hippo, but let's talk logic here. It's hard to stuff a fat animal down a chimney! Yes, I called you fat. You are a fat water dinosaur! You belong in the water, not in a moderatly sized claw foot tub in a suburban two-car garage! You're a water dinosaur! DINOSAUR! OF THE WATER!

Chins up, Christmas Hippo. It will get better for you. Here's the plan. When that selfish little bratty girl goes to sleep this Christmas Eve, I'm going to break into her room, verbally shame her as she sleeps, grab a Fresca from the kitchen, find the garage key, enjoy the Fresca, open the garage, empty your tub, get another Fresca from the kitchen, enjoy half of the second Fresca, and get you the heck out of that 2-car garage. Meet me by the Hello Kitty bike Santa brought that selfish little bratty girl last Christmas that she never touched after she saw you standing there. I'll be the girl holding the two cans of Fresca!

xo,

Madde

Oh, hi. I'm back.

Oh, hi. Yup, I'm back at the blog! Crazy to be back. Ha. Ya. Funny. (awkward silence) You well? Well, that's good, I guess. Me too. Right. Ok. Well. Hmmm...Alright.

....Are you mad at me? Are we in a fight? Mmmk, well I'm not even going to insult you with an apology this time. Summer happened. I was enjoying it. People drift apart. It happens. It doesn't mean I don't care about you. No really! Look, I know you're upset. All I can do is promise that it won't happen again...until next summer, or until I get really busy again. You understand, right?


....can we hug? Please? (Hug your computer. Do it. Do it RIGHT NOW!).....Wow, I know I feel better. Do you?


I love you. Keep reading. I'm not the girl who cried Blog, je promise.

Now, who's ready to hear my skewed perspective on the world?? Let's dive in!

xoxo

Here comes the Debbie Downer...oh, and the Bride! Bum. Bum. BumBum. (RICE!)

When I was 5 my Mother’s cousin flew the whole family out to Seattle to attend her extremely lavish and gigantic fairytale wedding. As the flower girls, my sister and I wore matching white dresses that complimented our matching bowl cuts quite nicely. 5-year old Madde thought this wedding was fabulous because her dress was soaked in sparkles and she got a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the flight home. 23-year old Madde has evolved into think that this wedding and most weddings are pretty redic. 

You see when I turned 23 there was a definite gigantic shift in my life. Suddenly, without warning, my friends started getting engaged and popping out real, live babies! WHAAAT? Because my childhood bowl haircut screwed with my oxygen-intake levels, I have been left incredibly self-involved, and subsequently I can’t help but wonder what this whole wedding business says about me. Here I am at age 23, in what I’ve liked to dub my “Second Puberty,” being distracted by cute boys and playing the field, while my dear childhood friends have found their soul mates and are starting their families. It seemed like just yesterday the same friends were dressing like hussies and flaunting their foobs (future boobs) for any boy who has just sprouted 2 chest hairs. What happened?? When did we stop being little girls and start becoming women? 

(....Alright, let’s talk about the elephant in the room....Yes, I just nearly quoted a Britney Spears song, but stay with me on this one!)

Weddings are a big deal, I hear. Upon reflection, I realized that my 5-year old fabulous wedding experience was the only significant wedding I had ever attended, and the extent of my wedding knowledge stems from years of extensive Romantic Comedy viewing, and seeing “Bridesmaids”...Twice.   

My dear sister, with whom I shared the darling matching bowl cut, will be getting married this September, and the fam and I are beyond excited for her new marriage! We really like the boy, we really like her, we really like this wedding. She’s 4 years older than I and I still think...”Woah! You’re a baby! How are you getting married right now?” I had what Oprah likes to call an “Ah-ha! Moment” recently. A major “Ah-ha! Moment” that changed everything...for now. 

"Ah-ha" with me for a moment...

With weddings come Maid-of-Honor duties, gift buying anxiety, brushing up on the Chicken Dance pressure, and looking appropriate/ showering responsibilities. There are multiple levels of anxiety when it comes to wedding talk with my friends and fam. 

Level 1: 

Insane pressure that this one day has to be ultimate perfection, and all involved are responsible for facilitating the success of this event. This is the level in which you feel like the ultimate wedding planner and imagine reality TV show crews following you around and capturing all this high-stress drama. 

Level 2: 

Bizarre self-involved stress time in which you linger for a moment and wonder if YOU will ever get married yourself. I'm assuming this is a self-soothing mechanism that is the only thing that prevents level 1 from making your head shoot off from the stress of the flower arrangements. 

 Level 2.5: 

The level where you try to explain to your family and pals just exactly WHY you are NOT bringing a “plus one” to the wedding. At some point they will get this weird look on their faces and then say, “Don’t you have a fun gay bestie you could bring! You guys could wear matching outfits!” After crying from the judgement factor, you then consider bringing an actual straight man, but opt out of it because you’re not ready to explain to other guests how he’s NOT your boyfriend, just a friend, and then they proceed through the buffet line and talk about how they always figured you were a lesbian, and how someone had heard you were moving to Iowa very soon with your life-partner, Janet Thunderpaws.  

Level 3:

 The most selfish of all the levels. Here is where you wonder if your dear friends or family will still have time for you in their lives after they get married and become an old maid or father-like man. :) This level requires faith and trust that no matter how fabulous their new husband or wife is, you remain even MORE fabulous. And yes, it is a competition. 

At the end of the day weddings force me to put aside my cynical side for a day and really believe in everlasting love and adoration between two people who love each other. It’s easy to make jokes and be a Debbie Downer when it comes to love. Hell! I’ve devoted over 200 blogs to this very topic (excluding my recent blog about my belly button...you can’t love a belly button...or can you??? I bet Janet Thunderpaws loves hers), but weddings are a time for optimism and the celebration of love. So, with the impending weddings of my dear love ones, I make this promise: I will celebrate all love. 

If my extensive RomCom watching research has taught me anything it would be this, 

You can’t truly love someone else if you don’t truly believe it exists. 

BARF.