What do you want to tell people about it?

I’m proud to announce that I am officially a co-host of the podcast, “My Bleeding Ears.”  The executive producer (aka my husband, Larry) asked me last week and I was honored to accept.  One of the job requirements is that I write a blog once a month that maybe has something to do with the podcast.  He suggested that the first one focus on “our dynamic.”  My inner teenager (let’s call her Jeva) rolled her eyes because she’s the part of me who knows that feelings are stupid and admitting to them leaves your soft underbelly exposed.  She hates anything that isn't sarcasm.

Ugh even just then I took a pause from writing this to look at Buzzfeed because I don’t like telling you this stuff.  Did you know the Honey Bunches of Oats lady is retiring?  She is, and I for one am really happy for her.  It’s unclear from the article whether she’ll receive royalties when the commercials air in the future, but she better. 

Ok, our dynamic.  When Larry first suggested that topic, I had no idea what I would write. When he asked me to write a blog, I thought he was asking me to report out on the horror movies I watch without him, or the ones we talk about on the podcast. I felt better about having those boundaries.
 

Because, what do you guys care about who we are as a couple?  You don’t. Why would you? You have your own stuff. 

Then today, I watched The Incredible Jessica James. The title character is a struggling playwright who teaches theater to grade-schoolers. At one point, one of her students, Shandra, tells her she can’t write about how she feels regarding [whatever subject; doesn’t matter] because she doesn’t feel anything.  Jessica encourages her to write four sentences about that lack of feeling. Shandra does this, and after Jessica praises her for articulating a very complicated state of mind that anyone can relate to, she says, “This is your one and only life.  What do you want to tell people about it?”  

Out loud on the train to work, much to the confusion of several other passengers, [Jeva] said, “Ugh, fine.”  I do want to tell people about it. 

I met Larry when I was 25.  I had decided to take a break from dating, and yeah it’s not like anyone was outside my window protesting that life choice, shut up.  It’s still a decision I made.  Then I met him.  You know how when you like someone, you project all kinds of things onto them to assure yourself that you belong together because otherwise you are clearly going to die alone?  Do most people do that, or am I the weirdo?  Well, I wasn’t going to do that with him.  Yes, he had nice teeth. Yes, he was a movie nerd.  Yes, he mentioned an obscure movie that I actually owned in our first conversation.  I wasn’t going to read into any of that, because that’s what I do, and then I have to undo all that crazy emotional stuff I did to myself once the relationship is over.

That was some private stuff I just wrote.  I’ve never written that or even said it out loud.  Jeva wants me to delete it and start again, but I’m not going to.

Men and women of science define love as an intense feeling of familiarity. I like that definition.  It puts a very large and labyrinthine feeling into a kind of perspective for me.  Makes it seem logical.  Like I can exist without it. 

When I met Larry, I really believe I had reached a point where I was ready, even looking forward to, living without that kind of romantic love. Also, he was Star Wars and I was Star Trek, so nice teeth or not, it couldn't work, duh. That made this blossoming whatever-it-was seem safer still.  What I didn't know then is that Larry had already done a good amount of individual soul searching just before we met. I don't know if he would call it that, but I would.

Everyone exists in this world alone, and no one will ever truly know anyone.  I lifted that from any number of authors; the one that comes to mind first is Mary Shelley, the last is Bret Easton Ellis, but that doesn’t make the sentiment any less true. 

Our dynamic.  So, how do I write about our dynamic?  Well, we are really different people.  I’ve known that since the beginning and accepted it.  I didn’t try to force us into an identity as I’d done in past relationships.  I think we work because I don’t know FEELINGS BLECH STOP. -Jeva

In our podcast, we are going to have similar and differing opinions.  I’m pretty sure that’s all he wanted me to focus on when he pitched the idea to me, but I have defied both him and Jeva to give you a teeny insight into who we are together. We’ll almost always agree about practical effects over CGI.  Maybe that makes us purists, but practical effects are usually better and if you disagree, you are the worst.  We both grew up watching horror films with our parents. Larry’s mom loved Army of Darkness; my dad and I have watched Fright Night countless times together. (And, Mom, we totally watched Invaders from Mars together, I remember.) We both love documentaries about horror, but not when the documentarian didn’t get the rights to show clips of the movie.  How can we assess the practical effects without clips? Be better. 

Different things scare/entertain us (and that statement is not exclusive to horror movies). Like how Sucker Punch didn't offend him to his very core and that almost hurts my feelings. Or that he didn't think Suicide Squad was that bad, like HOW CAN YOU NOT HAVE A STRONG REACTION TO A MOVIE LIKE THAT. Or that his genre of horror is squarely in the 80s realm, and while I have a few favorites that I watched with my dad, my true loves are horror movies from the 90s. He’s The Thing to my I Know What You Did Last Summer.  The Blob to my Urban Legends.  We work because that last sentence really means something to me, and I know it will mean the same thing to him.  We all live and die alone, but sometimes we are really lucky and get to spend a lot of time with someone who makes us feel like we’re not. Alone. Larry is my someone.

And in the spirit of our mostly horror-themed podcast, we also die alone when we say things like, “I’ll be right back,” or partake in alcohol and drugs, or run up the stairs instead of out the front door, or enjoy sex out of wedlock, or investigate a strange noise, or make proclamations that the serial killer is totally dead now and we can all go back to camp, or generally trust anyone ever.  So we’re probably not out of the woods yet.  (I promised Jeva she could end with a bad horror movie-type pun.

BOOM.)