Sad day.

My friend Dan’s cat, Sammy, is, in the most polite terms, a bit of a hellion. To illustrate this let me Sometimes, because it’s funny for someone slightly sadistic like me to make a grown man sound like the theoretical cat voices on I can has cheeseburger.com, I ask Dan to imitate Sammy.

Today I asked him, “Dan, what would Sammy say if she met George Bush?”

Dan: Oh, to GWB? She’d be like, “ohai! you a fuckface! i no lieks you!” Then George would reach to shake her paw, and Sammycat would bitchslap him and the secret service would try to tackle her, but she’d be too quick and get away so they’d catch Danny and send him to Guantanamo Bay.

Romeo had Juliet.

Sonny had Cher.

Gay men have Celine Dion.

I need a muse.

Please fill out the below application:

1. Name

2, Social Security #

3. List relevant experience in the field of standing still for two or more hours while I gaze at your form and ponder it’s inherit beauty:

4. List any past crimes that may or may not have been crimes of passion, lust or vengeance:

5. Please tell me what you adore about me, like most artistic people I have tragically low self esteem and need constant reassurance from everyone that is close to me:

6. Are you willing to grow your hair very long (I am told many muses have long hair):

Please send all resumes and cover letters to girlwithoutashootingstar@gmail.com.

Serious inquiries only.

I’ve taken to drinking Sangiovese and eating cheese made in the Italian alps over sun-dried tomatoes and crostini in an effort to properly evoke and italian “ambiance.”

Bella is my name right now. But I’m the only one who refers to myself as such.

I’ve planned out my itinerary, the airline I want to take (Air Italia), as well as perfectly envisioned myself in a full-skirted dress with buttons ascending down the front straight out of a Rosselini movie. I’m half way there.

In my mind, anyway.

Lately I’ve found myself feverishly entering every single New Yorker caption contest that I can.

This is what my dreams have come to.

At the botanical gardens, under the creamy lotuses, pink roses and aromatic blue bells lies a carefully detailed description of each prized flower’s specific aesthetic and practical contributions to our natural world. Plus, their name, in Latin.

Underneath the faded green spruce trees, that pop up every now and again, awkwardly mingled with short patches of vibrant reds and violets, reads a sign that says simply this: “Required Plant.”

What it means, I don’t know, but I think if there ever was a time to consider a career in plant therapy, it would be now.

I’m going to Italy in the fall via air Italia!

Hopefully, lots of eager Italian men will say beautiful things to me in a language that I cannot understand.

Somehow, maybe because I tried, or maybe because I was terribly bored, I’ve read about three reviews for that new Patrick Dempsey movie, “Made of Honor.” I really need to buy a book, I know, but I just can’t resist checking up on the occasional chick flick.

I have a soft spot for romance, as most of you can tell.

So, I guess this movie is really formulaic–a splash of millionaire playboy dating dumb blonds here, a dab of his best friend being the only quality woman he’s ever met (and a brunette!), a smidgeon of him not entirely coming to terms with the fact that he’s completely in love her with, about an hour and a half in the oven and-voila! You’ve got a really bland romantic comedy that plays on just about every played-out stereotype you could possibly imagine.

I heart Hollywood.

What I also heart, is this whole worn-out notion that these “I love the only quality woman I’ve ever met” men and women best-friend snooze fests prey on. As we all know, every well-to-do, attractive man between the ages of 25 and 40 has only ever met one intelligent, kind and attractive in a down-to-earth-could-take-her home-to-meet-mom kind of way. I mean really, only about 2.5% of all women are actually like that. The rest of us are just overly tanned, overly primped bimbettes who are only good for a roll in the hay now and again. Obviously, I was single for six years because I’m so very dumb and men just don’t find me very interesting.

Unfortunately, men aren’t much better according to Hollywood. Apparently you all preen about, oblivious to all but your most superficial emotions for, oh, twenty or thirty years, and then suddenly realize how dead you are inside. But it’s always too late for the male-bonehead.

I wonder. Could it possibly be…that maybe…men don’t settle on the “right” woman right away, not because there are so few bright, interesting and cultured women out there, but because there are so many? Perhaps men actually look for this? And it’s not always enough reason to date someone simply because they have good vocabulary? Why settle for one articulate, well-traveled, educated gal when many of you probably know at least 20 of them? Perhaps, maybe, some kind of actual “connection” is necessary? And perhaps the time should be right as well? Hey, I’m just a girl, I don’t know, but I’m throwing it out there.

I’m really not going to participate in this whole “you’re single because you’re ugly/dumb/crazy” thing that “the pretty people of California” attempt to force-feed me. Oh could I have a side of self-loathing too? Thanks! Let’s face it, sometimes the right men/women aren’t around to fall head over heels in love with, but there can still be plenty of great people/relationships in your life. Just because you have a fling, doesn’t mean you’re void of substance.

Oh, and, I’ve never met anyone over the age of 18 who was in love with their best friend. Seriously. You’re friends for a reason. Most people know that.

Even girls.

*I_hate_everyone.com

*No good in your goodbying.com

*Just say no to men and chocolate.com

*I act immature and I am immature.com

*Don’t tell me I look like a real woman.com

*Smart girlz media.com

*Rawr sigh and blah.com

*Gettin even avec la men.com

Yesterday at a dark, Irish bar in Wicker Park….

Man (to a small and meek looking young woman drinking a gin and tonic, while he is nursing what looked to be whiskey on the rocks): You better watch it lady, that stuff can be hard on you.

Woman (looking sullen): It’s ok, it’s going to last me all night:

Man (drunkenly putting his hand on her shoulder and almost losing his balance on his stool): You got some troubles or something? I can help with troubles, you know.

Woman (growing slightly disgusted, and moving away from him): No, that’s ok…you can just drink your whiskey.

Man: Whiskey? Lady, I can’t handle whiskey.  I don’t drink, you know. This here is apple juice on ice.

Woman (quizzically): Oh, so you’re just like this?