Thursday, February 25, 2010

The Mr. T. Chronicles, Chapter 3: Halfway to The End

And so, my dignity firmly over the (apparently nearby) horizon, I caved like a badly-made soufflé midweek and used my phone for what it was meant to be used for.

The following events take place between Saturday, 9am and Sunday, 3am.

tSN: Hi.:) (first sign of incredible weakness – a SMILEY)

MrT: Hey how are you? Why so quiet? (PUNKASS!!)

tSN: Busy busy busy…you know me. (enter aggravation at having texted in the first place. Damn my weak/non-existent will!!)

MrT: I’ve missed you. (Cue giggles, and a stampede away from logic. Goodbye aggravation, hello my inner High School Girl.) (NOTE. Instead of, PUNKASS!! Then why haven’t you texted? It’s OVER! et al, et al)

tSN: :)

MrT: Can I see you tonight?

tSN: (making ZERO effort to be busy, and giving NO thought to saying – what’s that word? – no) What’re you doing tonight?

MrT: We’re doing Flamingo. (hip yet chilled joint for up-and-coming yuppies with an intense desire to prove how urban and successful they are. But good cocktails. Which is a great exchange for my shame.)

tSN: I’ll let you know then. (trying to save a dismally hopeless…whatever)

MrT: Pick you up at 9?

tSN: Determined, aren’t we… (Arrogant, sexy jerk! I won’t give in! I won’t! Ok, we can be resolute tomorrow. What to wear?...)

MrT: Decisive would be the word.

tSN: Ok then. See you at 9.:) (RAWWRRR!!! ALL SYSTEMS GO!)

Flamingo. 2:45 a.m. Great music. Great non-boyfriend talking to other guys and gals (what if he’s bi??!) exhibiting classic Mr. T. symptoms.

tSN: He’s a burr drunk. I don’t think he can drive, babe.

MM: So how’re you going to get home?

tSN: I’ll call a cab. But can’t exactly leave him here, can I. Oh gosh as he trips on a bar stool. I’m terrible at babysitting.

MM: Really? Lol. A man after my own heart. Y’all clearly need to call it a night, though.

tSN: Yeah…think I’ll take him home.

MM: In his car?

tSN: Yeah, then take a cab. Why is he drunk? Aren’t I supposed to be the one drowning my sorrows? Ok here he comes I’ll text you lat

And that is how I found myself at Mr. T.’s house at 3:15 a.m. on a fine Sunday morning.


Tuesday, February 16, 2010

An Essay on Love

So here’s my question. If everyone is so obsessed with finding love, making movies about love, writing songs about love, talking about love, analyzing love, sometimes even stalking love…- if everyone wants to fall in love so much, why is it so hard to then? I mean, logic dictates that if there’re a bunch of people looking for the same thing in other people – I think it’s safe to say that at least half of the world’s population are in search of The One – then should this not increase (drastically so) the odds of therefore falling in love?

I liken it to sex. (I briefly digress here. Has anyone ever read the menus at Books First? The quotes are hilarious. One says, Pizza is a lot like sex. When it’s good, it’s really good, and when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. He. He. He. Back to not digressing.) If you look at the statistics, it is incredibly easier to get laid than to fall in love. That’s because everyone wants that, too. Especially if you’re a nympho. (Which is why prostitutes have more business than priests.) Sex is easy to find. But according to existing literature and film, all whores (I use this word loosely. Haha, pun intended!) are actually looking for meaningful sex, just want love because they’ve been scarred and all one night stands are merely an expression of some deep inner need to be committed to – you got it – The One.

Hmmm. Ok. So what’s going wrong with the Great Love Search? I’ve heard a couple of theories. One is that people look for love in the wrong places. Well then, shouldn’t some benevolent one who has reached the final destination (Happily Ever After) publish a list of conducive places where love can be found? (Aha! Could this be the theory behind the Lonely Hearts Column? And if there’s anywhere that love should be found, should it not be here? Hehe.) And really. Why is there a ‘right’ place to find love? Again, I refer to existing literature and film that generally supports the principle that love can and should be found anywhere. So now. So now what if you’re not there when Aphrodite’s going a-hunting? What if you miss the crucial moment when your destiny was being altered and you are now doomed to loneliness forever? (Who watches Valentine?)

Another is the ‘Ýou haven’t met The One’ philosophy. Okay, really. Am I supposed to believe that there is ONE person handpicked for me in the entire world, the only person I can be truly happy with? That sounds like male cow fertilizer to me. Again, what if you never meet this person because they’re in Bermuda, and you live in…not Bermuda, and you never visit because of the tales of horror surrounding that general geographical location. I’m just saying. And how do you know The One? Do they wear a sign? In a parallel universe, perhaps. And what if you get married and then meet The One, or who you think is The One, split up, meet another The One…are you then pre-conditioned to a remake of Elizabeth Taylor’s life? I think anyone can be The One. You’re the one who picks The One. They’re YOUR One. I’m still in the process of tearing this theory down, though. Give me time.

And then there’s the ‘Don’t look for love and it’ll find you.’ HA! EVERYONE’S LOOKING FOR LOVE. So screw that. I laugh in the face of that untruth. (Refer to 2nd line of paragraph. 1st word.)

I think that if there’s anything Sex and The City taught me, it’s that don’t bother looking for love before the age of 30. Anyone who is in love before then is the exception to the rule, i.e. not you. Good men are a dying breed – because they’re getting closer and closer to 70, haha, and are thus harder to find at 21.

I have no conclusive end to this essay. It was just a rant inspired by watching romcoms at 3 in the morning. Can I just say that Hugh Grant is such a beautiful, beautiful man, in spite of his DUI episode, and I could be quite happily convinced to have his babies. Or at least, try making them. See? Demand and Supply. I’m just saying.


Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Mr. T. Chronicles: Chapter 2: The Middle

Phones can be so incompliant. No matter how long you stare at them, they refuse to ring. Or buzz. Or go shove the shoulder of the person you want to holla and MAKE THEM TALK TO YOU. Sigh.

I was once again, willing WITH ALL MY MIGHT Mr. T. to text me. The ultimate female pastime. I had managed to get myself into a rather sticky situation. It had started out quite promising; a no-strings-attached (and really awesome) physical liaison. I unfortunately had not counted on my treacherous heart falling for the elusive Mr. T. Which left me in this state: supposedly in a BootyBuddy relationship, but liking the guy I’m not supposed to be emotionally attached to. The inner turmoil was amusing (because I got myself into it with no firearms or mind-altering drugs involved) and yet agonizing, because he wasn’t supposed to know (no matter how bad an actor I was. If I hadn’t admitted to anything, I was sticking to the script. But how long could I keep it up…). So I couldn’t call him or text him or anything (refer to The Mr. T. Chronicles: Prequel) because those weren’t the dynamics of our understanding…and I couldn’t see him either because again, dynamics. Casual lunch dates were a figment of my wistful imagination…usually we’d just skip to dessert. Marion had already caught me sneaking about her office and given me suspicious looks…the cat was clawing its way out of the bag, really. So that left me here…about to put a hurt on my phone because the screen hadn’t changed since the last time I looked at it 20 seconds ago.

In my defense…or in my delusion, I had begun to feel like there was something more on his side too. But being female, you can never really trust your gut where…um…dessert…is involved. Dessert tends to cloud your judgment. But still. Like when he-

BZZ!! There IS a God. Oh wait….He may be sleeping. It wasn’t Mr. T. Of course it wasn’t. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it. I silently and inwardly shook my fist at the cold, cruel world.

Well well well. It was Mr. M. Those guys who are on the ‘Maybe’ list, but only because there was someone very prominenTly feaTured on The ‘CurrenT’ lisT. If you caTch my drifT. I texted hiM back, and conTinued To waiT-

BZZ!! O….k. Mr. M. again. Saying a couple of interesting things. Hmmm. He wasn’t usually this proactive. And there was another text within two minutes of the next one… Damnation. Drinks? Really? I mean, Mr. M. was tempting enough, make no mistake, he fit right into my weakness for fine men, but…he wasn’t Mr. T. So now. But then again, I wasn’t in a relationship with Mr. T., so why the feeling of disloyalty to something that didn’t exist?

Ok, so I needed a sign. Any sign. Aaaaaaaaaany day now. Some supernatural arrow to point me in the right direction. I was desperate here. Caught between two really, really soft places. I needed something to tell me-