Pretty, docile and not-so-complicated

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.

Names I thought about calling this blog

*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

If whiskey were the blues

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?

Ladies and gentlemen, the future of de-evolution is upon us.

Remember the talking Barbie doll that had everyone up in arms in the mid-90s because she said, “Math is hard.”

This makes her look like Marie Curie.

Apparently. this “Miss Bimbo” –a game that comes equipped with character building challenges, such as “your Miss Bimbo goes on a crash diet, and won’t settle for anything less than 132 lbs” and “with daddy’s money go shopping, but don’t let him find out!”–is all the rage in the UK amongst girls aged 9-16.

While I’ve never thought very highly of Americans, and assumed that digital exercises in shallow and unenlightened thinking could only come from us, I have always expected a much more sophisticated brand of online training from the fathers of modern-day Imperialism.

Why can’t they just teach us us how to take over a third world country, exploit its resources and kill its indigenous peoples like in the good old days?

How to write the long-languishing oratory of your life

Like most writers, I’m really quite fascinated with myself. And I’ve toyed with the idea of writing some sort of auto-biography which adequately depicts my emotional, physical and spiritual trials and tribulations.

I know you’d all just die to read to it.

Although i haven’t worked out the details, I’ve created an outline that I’d like to share with all of you. Please feel free to amend this literary skeleton, as it is a work in progress.

Part 1: I was born in a small town to small town parents. I lived in the meandering drudgery of mid-western existence. As I am an extremely interesting person, and extremely interesting people do no often thrive in such limited circumstances, I fought my way out…due on to my tenacity, vivaciousness and…the fact that no one really wanted me there anyway.

Yadda yadda, blah blah blah…what’s in the middle doesn’t really matter…yadda yadda yadda.

Part 25: Like most truly delicate flowers, I cannot bare the hardship of this cruel world. After many failed relationships, I decide to retreat into a world akin to that of my predecessor, J.D. Salinger. I come out of my house only to get my daily paper, I never give interviews. None of my cats will even talk to me anymore. Occasionally they appear on Oprah, detailing their tragic mistreatment by a woman consumed with the pursuit of do-it-yourself blogger fame.

I’m thinking parts 2-24 should incorporate just about every minute and tedious aspect of my very existence. The time I wore mismatching socks in the 7th grade, the bad haircut I received my junior year of college, and the rather lackluster report card I got in graduate school. In addition I’d like to personally attack every man I’ve ever dated–not because they deserve it–but rather, to add more “color” to an anthology that may or may not be filled with unsubstantiated heresy, half-truths and conjecture.

I’ve really got this bio thing down, don’t you think?

The Lady is a Tramp

Me: I really am starting to despise discussions about “what is art” or “what art is” or “what art isn’t”…all the pretense makes me a little nauseous.

Paul: So, when people have those discussions what do you do? You’re “educated” …you could chime in.

Me: i no longer have the desire to prove that I’m a classy, worldly dame. It’s never gotten me anywhere.

Paul: Oh, but you could prove to the exclusive men in such exclusive intellectuals that you’re desirable. That they’d be lucky to have a lady like you on their shoulder.

Me: Or I could shut up and silently imagine what men that pretentious and self-centered are going to look like when they’re 89 years old and they have no companionship aside from the live-in health assistant. (Pause) I’ll probably find more joy in that.

Paul: You’re really a quite a horrible person.

Taken

Today a little boy ran up to me while I was on my walk and said, “My name is Charlie. And you’re beautiful.”

Thanks, Charlie.

Nachos, bella?

Sometimes I think I spent my past life as an Italian stud.

I think I must have prayed on lonely women who visit Rome in an effort to forget their abusive/closeted gay/simply not interesting enough middle-aged husbands.

I think this because I often find myself invading my male friends personal space when I sense that they are in emotional distress. I don’t consciously do this because I want to sleep with the, but perhaps there is some sort of inner skeaze I haven’t fully reckoned with who hopes to get, at the very least, some sort of monetary reward for the gesture.

Perhaps, another reason I question my former position on earth, is because during such interactions (which more often than not take place at sports bars, pubs or any other place where liquor is cheap and isn’t considered poor taste to purchase alcohol at ten in the morning) I usually comfort them by saying banally worded, yet somewhat toughing in their emotional simplicity, nuggets of pseudo-wisdom that would cause any woman my age to roll her eyes in the back of her head.

For instance, when my males friends say, “god my shitty car SUCKS so bad and I need to get a new one.  SHIT!”

I say, “Emotions are what separate us from robots, go on cry.”

And when they look at me like, what are you talking about you crazed woman? I respond with something like, “Say it like you eat, put it plainly! And lay your head down if you must!”

Usually they don’t understand my simple heart or my philosopher and poet nature.  Most likely I get  a strained stare, questioning whether or not they have been friends with me out of stupidity, desperation or simply plain, tragic oversight.  Sometimes, they offer me nachos.

My rock candy of love

Today I saw 2 little girls and a little boy playing “Rock of Love” with each other. For those of you who don’t know, Rock of Love is a downright terrible (yet, somewhat appealing in the way a bad haircut with too much hairspray is appealing) game show on VH1.  Brett Micheals (everyone’s favorite washed-up rock “musician,” who is probably best known for his sex tape with Pamela Anderson).

The little boy (Brett) was standing outside with the two girls standing across from him.  As I walked by, the little boy pointed to the little girl to his left and said, “Amber, you are my rock of love.”

“Amber” jumped up and down and began to gleefully shout “I’m a rock of love!”

The little girl next to her turned to Amber and yelled, “I wanted to be Amber!”

Then she punched Amber in the stomach.

The great part about this is that it seems life imitates art a lot sooner than we’d expect it to.  The not so great part–”art” is now a cheaply shot, reality show on a stale music network.

Another reason I sometimes hate men.

Do you really need to yell as I’m walking down the street, bothering absolutely no one, lose weight/get a tan/ugly girl etc.

Seriously. I know people. People with very strong stomachs. And I will have you killed.