Vol. 1, Post #38 Brat, But Make It Old

Lean in to messy? Maybe there's something to learn here. My ongoing sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A dating odyssey for Young Olds, AKA, people with readers.

Y’all know who Charli XCX is, yes? The British singer-performer and Ultimate Messy Club Girl was the flavor of the moment with Brat Summer, which gave way to Brat Autumn (including this performance at nearby Storm King Art Center earlier this month.)

So why is she here in my Substack (besides the fact that the remix of her song “Guess” with Billie Eilish is a fav jerk-me-off infectious pop hit, given that I once enjoyed a former lover who had a panties fetish)?

What does Brat POV have to offer you, my Dear Readers, all of us Young Olds, who probably see the inside of a club sandwich more than we see the inside of actual club?

I mean, look at this craziness (or skip ahead to minute 3:38 for the Chloe Sevigny cameo).

Charli defined the “Brat” album ethos as “me, my flaws, my fuck ups, my ego all rolled into one.”

On TikTok, Charli explained a bit more, “[Brat] is just like that girl who is a little messy and likes to party and maybe says some dumb things sometimes. Who feels herself but maybe also has a breakdown. But kind of like, parties through it, is very honest, very blunt. A little bit volatile. Like, does dumb things. But it’s brat. You’re brat. That’s brat.”

Take away the “parties through it” nonsense out of my version of Brat LVI (that’s 56, since, hey, I am), because, at this point, any partying that goes on is pretty tame, and while I know a few of you still enjoy a bump or a pill, those days are long over for me. But the “little messy” part? The “feels herself but maybe also has a breakdown” part? Yup, right there with you, Sister.

There was a time in my younger adult life, post-divorce, while dating and looking for my next partner, when the idea of being messy in any way, shape, or form scared the shit out of me. Not because I wanted to give off the idea that I was perfect, because excuse me, have we met? More along the lines of I wanted to give the impression that any needs I had could be handled by me and me alone. The idea of being “messy” — i.e., flawed, needy, inconsistent, (and now a small voice) ahem, human — well, that was not who I was, nor was it how I intended to put myself out there in the world.

This probably explains a lot about the partners that I chose over the last 18 years. Above ^^^, I wrote “post-divorce” because I am using my divorce from my son’s father as the tipping point to when I went into a Mess Free Zone, and by that, I mean, the delusional notion that any needs I had could be either handled internally or just quashed as I attended to the much more demanding needs of my partner. I think a lot of you Young Olds can relate, right?

So lemme unpack that a bit more.

Over the last 18 years, I’ve been in four major relationships, three with men, one with a woman, three of whom I lived with, one of whom I saw in a long-distance partnership, two straight, one bi and poly, one just garden variety lesbian.

Wow, that’s A LOT of living in 18 years, isn’t it? I like to say that since a child is born and matures into adulthood over 18 years, it’s almost like I lived through my own rebirth and maturation. Like all childhoods, this one had a ton of growing pains.

The relationships ranged from just over a year to almost a decade and while wildly different in so many ways, can be categorized like this: I gladly gave, and they gladly took. Not because they were greedy, or even manipulative. But rather, because I could be fairly need-free, given how I grew up, and because they (all of those partners that followed my divorce to my ex-husband) had chips on their shoulders the size of boulders. All of those partners were compelled by a strong woman who could “run the show” (me) and at the same time, all of these partners suffered from various challenges in self-esteem.

A very pragmatic friend said to me once, as a nearly ten-year relationship was ending mere months after this same ex showed up at my house and got on her knees, literally, begging me to not give up on us, “In the end, all the things that H. loved about you, all the things that H. was so attracted to when you met, those are the same things that make her feel bad about herself and her deficiencies, so of course she had to leave.” This friend knew both my ex and me very well, so I took her at her word, but at the time, I really didn’t understand any of it. Boy, I understand it now.

As I navigated the other relationships that followed with S., B., and F., I didn’t connect the dots. They were all very different people and the lives I lived with each of them were rich, sometimes slightly off-kilter, full of curiosity and new experiences. But in the end, what broke us up? Well, in two instances, there was nagging substance abuse that led to the chasms because that’s a deal breaker, but what really cleaved us in half every time was precisely what my old pal referenced. These relationships were ones in which I was elevated to a pedestal so high that I was unreachable by my partners. I was Everything (mommy, boss lady, lover, maid, cook, best friend, sex kitten, shrink — except one very important element. I was never Messy. Messy was what other people did and was something for which I had a mop and bucket constantly at the ready. So not messy. So not Brat.

Of course, I’m semi-teasing about the Brat thing but it’s actually something that I’m thinking about quite a bit right now and I’m asking you, my Young Olds who like to run the show and take care of everyone’s needs because you can and because you’re good at it: What’s your take on being messy yourself? Can you get comfortable with it?

I found that previously, I could not. And that’s what changed. That’s where me and my girl Charli are riding off into the night together (even though I’ll be falling asleep at the wheel, so she’ll have to drive).

Let me give you a really microscopic slice of what I’m talking about, to show my former mindset in a way that’s not illustrated by the usual fireworks of breakups or any big dramatic situation at all. This story is about a suitcase.

Back when my son was still living at home but often on summer tour with a music school, some of us adults joined the fun and went abroad with the band, so that after performances and festival appearances were over, we could use the trip as stepping off points for other travel. We did this for several years, seeing parts of the world not just through our children’s eyes but also in the company of dear friends. As such, parts of those friends’ relationships were also exposed on these trips.

One morning in Italy, as we prepared to leave our hotel and head across Sicily to our next stop, we told our kids to meet downstairs with their bags, and kids being kids, they were lagging behind, so the adults were the first ones ready to go. Some of us ran out to grab coffee, some of us ran to the neighboring farmacia (you all probably know that European pharmacies have great shopping opportunities, especially for us ladies who love skincare products).

I was waiting outside with my bag, when one of my pals came out with both his bag and the bag belonging to my other pal, his girlfriend, rolling both of them up to the van where our driver sat.

This “puzzled” me — and I do mean, puzzled. You see, on these summer music tours, we had been given strict instructions to each bring only ONE piece of luggage, and for that matter, were encouraged to bring a rolling suitcase, for ease in getting around with the larger group, only doing carry-ons, etc.

We took this sort of thing seriously — the weeks leading up to these trips with the music school were full of the adults raiding the “travel size” section of the local Target, as well as bemoaning how many pairs of shoes we could (or could not) bring along. And since some of us were traveling after the shows were over, sometimes for a few more weeks, our suitcases were bulging. Nevertheless, one suitcase per person was the rule, so here we were, finished with the tour that ended in Germany, now ready to explore Italy as a smaller group. Still with just one bag each. Easy to manage, right?

As I watched my friend roll up to the van with both suitcases, the first thing that went through my mind was, “How come he’s got both of their suitcases? Can’t she carry [roll] her own suitcase? I mean, c’mon!”

Read that again.

I was watching my friend kindly carry (roll) his girlfriend’s suitcase, along with his own, and I was both perplexed at why he was doing that, as well as I’m sure, making note that I DIDN’T NEED ANYONE TO ROLL MY SUITCASE FOR ME BECAUSE I’M A COMPLETELY INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHO CAN DO ANYTHING SHE WANTS FOR HERSELF.

Now, lest you think the ^^^all caps thing means I was yelling inside my head, I wasn’t. I was simply noting that it was a sweet gesture, but again, nothing I required. Nothing I’d ASK anyone to do for me, Ms. Never Needy.

Now, let me contrast that (2016) with my foray to Brooklyn last week with The Boyfriend. Who, it should be noted, not only carried my overnight bag, but also went and got his car upon our checkout from our hotel, so he could drive me and my overnight bag back to my car. In other words, I barely lifted a finger.

I’ll keep going. While in Brooklyn, we went to the New York Wine & Food Festival and guess who was never without a napkin or a plastic utensil as we perused the booths and eats? That would be me. The Boyfriend was ON IT.

After Brooklyn, this happened. I was being a little bit petulant about my upcoming birthday in February. With some travel bank dollars expiring soon, I asked The Boyfriend to spend some time with me while we discussed a few different destination trips. In that moment, he had other stuff he needed to do, but I needed to discuss it, and I didn’t want to wait; let’s face it, I may have even been a little obnoxious about it. BF very sweetly stopped what he was doing, and we booked New Orleans. And in a weird way? I was proud of myself that, obnoxious or not, I made my needs loud and clear.

Are you scratching your heads, like “What the fuck is wrong with Abbe? These are just simple niceties, not big whoops. Has no one ever been kind to her before? Is this why she found that suitcase story so interesting?”

And to answer you, Dear Readers, it’s not that I’ve never been treated kindly. I certainly have, countless times. It’s that in both my single life post-divorce, as well as my dating life post divorce, I reverted back to what was very learned behavior from my extremely chaotic childhood: No one is here to take care of you, therefore, you take care of everything. Always.

Therefore, never be messy. Never be Brat.

And of course, you know that in part, I’m penning this post because it’s two weeks till the fucking election and GOD KNOWS it’s gonna be messy beyond belief (< that link goes to my latest piece on this horror show in Jenny Magazine) and I’m sort of poking fun at all of this, as well as myself, but in all attempts at humor, there is, of course, plenty of Real Feels. And probably some pain.

It pains me to realize that only now — 18 years after my divorce to my ex-husband, who is a doll (I never hesitate to say that. He’s a gem), I’ve embraced the messy side of me, who, yes, WANTS my boyfriend to carry my suitcase, make sure I have plenty of napkins, texts me to make sure I am home safely.

It’s not been easy to get comfortable here, in what I’ll call my So-Called Messy Life.

(I’ll pause for a Jordan Catalano moment, because I’m always up for a Jordan Catalano moment and besides, he reminds me of at least three people that I’ve dated. Jesus Fucking Christ.)

If the Suitcase Story hasn’t put you entirely to sleep, here comes another barn burner, not about a suitcase but about a pair of eyeglasses.

The scene is roughly 2016 or so and I’m having some wine and late-night convo with a friend who is also going through a breakup, although he’s bit newer in it and I’ve been split with H. for about a year now. We’re commiserating, him sitting on the sofa, me on a floor cushion. He asks to show me something on his phone and I realize I need my reading glasses, which are in the kitchen. “I’ll go get them,” I say, starting to lumber to my feet.

“No, I’ll get them,” he says.

“No, I got it.”

“NO,” he says, “You’re lounging on the floor, just relax, I’ll get them.”

My friend stood up and walked into the next room to grab my glasses as I ran and re-ran that conversation in my head (in that moment and for the next few years, even still today). Why did I challenge him on getting my glasses for me?

I think that one of the things I’m realizing in this chapter, not just as a Young Old, but as a Tired Person, is that it’s OK to let someone take the lead and, fine, I’ll say it, take care of me and do the little things that I’m realizing are not that little. That some of these things scare me a little bit? Well, you know what? Even more reason to do them. I know I’ve said a few times in other posts here that I’m trying to not be such a cunt. Maybe I’m actually trying to be a Brat, with a caveat or two. Clean up on Aisle Two!? Ah, fuck it. Someone else can handle it.

It might not be Brat, but it’s as close to it as I may get. How about you?

Housekeeping Time!

1. We WILL get to that delayed post on lubes, never fear!

2. For those of you who remember the end of this post, in which I and others get yucked out by a Facebook group that was created to critique men’s online dating profiles, you’ll be amused to note that the creator of that group penned an editorial about it on another Substack, in which she defended her position and said it’s “fair game” to make fun of spelling and grammar. Hope someone told her that there are several typos in that editorial as well as one word used entirely incorrectly (it’s “jibing” not “jiving”). At least six readers sent me links to this, so a good laugh was enjoyed by all. As noted on this hot mess, which is offensive beyond belief, God Bless America.

3. And speaking of America, on November 6th, naturally, we’ll be on hiatus because OF COURSE WE WILL — but looking ahead, I have a request from a reader that goes like this: “You haven’t posted anything super ‘dirty’ in awhile.” So I’m taking suggestions. Got a filthy subject you want me to wax on about? Email me at whatsshovegottodowithit@gmail.com and let’s see how perverted you really are.