Saturday, November 20, 2004

Be careful what you wish for

Been on my soapbox lately about technology and how I sometimes wish we didn't have cell phones so our world could go at a less hurried and frantic pace. Well, I believe I just got what I deserved.

I couldn't have asked for a better day Friday. Having just seen Wilco on Thursday night and feeling refreshed and revived again for a number of reasons, it was a perfect day. In addition to this beautiful day, an entirely unexpected surprise at 4pm…tickets for Wilco's show that night...what kind of lottery did I just win?

I went with the same friend and we were amped to say the least. For Thursday’s show we were running so late that I completely forgot to grab my bowl before I walked out the door. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget it tonight. In the lobby of the Wiltern I let out a Homer sized, "Doh!" and decided I’m obviously doing too many drugs and it’s causing me to forget things…like bringing my drugs. Oh well...thems the breaks. We bought ourselves a couple of beers and settled in for another night of Tweedy and friends. Not one minute into their first song, an angel from heaven, disguised as the guy sitting next to us, passes us a joint. Could lightning really strike twice? The concert was even better than the night before...my night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it.

I sat in my chair, transfixed and happily high. I decided to send a friend a text, but decided that I first needed a sip of my beer (which was sitting on the floor at my feet). Note: they don't give you the bottle at the Wiltern, they pour it into a big plastic cup. As I brought the cup up off the ground, my beer exploded. The cup is in my hand, I never dropped it, it is not cracked, but my shoes and pants are soaked. I stare at the cup that I was still holding and I am utterly perplexed as to how this happened. My friend looks over at me and whispers, "Did you drop your beer?" Almost sarcastically, I showed him that I was holding the cup in my hand, so NO, obviously I didn't drop it! I didn't knock it into anything; I didn't tilt it over, what the f....!?? It was almost as if something kamikaze’d its way into my malt beverage out of nowhere, I may have even looked up to the heavens above me for a possible explanation. And then, with a marijuana induced delayed reaction, I saw something that looked very familiar floating in my beer. My cell phone.

If they had been playing "I Must Be High" while all this went down, I would have surely lost it.

Lesson learned. No more tempting fate...it seems she's conspired to teach me a lesson. I already miss my text messages.

(You'd think there'd be a lesson here about drugs, but...nope)

Sunday, November 7, 2004

One more blog about boys

I find lately that I would much rather make out with a guy than, to put it bluntly, get laid. I’m just bored, I think, with the idea of sex. I could get laid any night of the week if I wanted to (primarily because it's not hard to find a guy who would refuse sex). The problem is he most likely wouldn't be someone I cared to talk to the next day, or ever again for that matter. There just aren’t that many people out there that I want to share my pink places with. If it's about ‘getting off’, I have the means to do so, and honestly, probably better than anyone could ever do. But of course, you can't cuddle with a vibrator, so we all know that those little battery-operated over achievers are not the answer to the Mars-Venus dilemma.

Sex, for me, is not an affirmation of beauty or sexiness or desirable-ness. I mean, from a physiological perspective, men want to have sex...to insure their place in the kingdom. Animal instinct is to keep your species alive. Males, being an integral part in that structure, instinctively rise to the occasion (pun intended). It really has little to do with whether I wore my black lacey panties or those really cute pink ones with the ruffle. (Seriously, how many times has a girl put on her hottest unmentionables and had them end up on the floor…still inside her sweater?) You could be wearing a potato sack, he won’t care. Sorry, he might care, but it’s not going to stop him from having sex with you. I’m not denying that men are attracted to women for more reasons than just some instinctual motivation, but there is definitely a different frame of mind between the X and Y chromosomes when things start to get sweaty.

Not to be misunderstood, I sincerely and genuinely enjoy the act…immensely. I’m not shy or insecure about it. But I guess because my instinct isn't driving me to fornicate with as many breathing men as possible, I’m longing for things that seem to be more difficult to find. I was presented with one of those “Which would you rather?” questions the other day. I had to choose one quality that was really important to me. And the choice became this: forgettable sex with a guy who made me laugh every day or amazing sex with a guy who had a horrible sense of humor (all other qualities in these make-believe men were exactly the same). I picked comedy.



Anyone know any good jokes?

Monday, November 1, 2004

Do You Woo, Who?

I used to think that holding the door open for a girl and walking her home made him a gentleman. And by him, I mean that guy. The one we are convinced we’re going to find, the one who just gets it. But I’ve realized, while those chivalrous deeds are lovely and appreciated by women universally; they aren’t at the very top of the list (where I once put them) of things a man can do to truly be a gentleman. Don’t get me wrong, those things should always be done without question, but there’s a little more than chivalry that defines a man. This gentleman I speak of is no storybook hero, either. He’s not perfect and he doesn’t like to go shoe shopping with you. He belches and wears the same clothes for a week (there’s something about his scent that makes you crazy about him). He forgets to brush his teeth and complains when he’s sick. But, he makes you feel like the only girl in the world.

The latter statement is what I’ve come to realize makes a truly outstanding man. He likes you and he lets you know it. He holds your hand in public. He asks you out on a date. Properly. And the date by no means need be proper, just the manner in which he asked. Has this tradition just faded away and no one told me? Lately, it seems I run into these guys who flirt for about 34 seconds and…well, that’s it. At this point, I would probably think it was me…and they simply decided they weren’t interested. But then it happens all over again, 34 more seconds suggesting their interest, but this time throw in his expectation that you’ll be waking up at his place in the morning. What is happening?

I’ve always loved the word ‘woo’ and it would be great if boys re-learned how to do it. Maybe they should teach it in school, kind of like sex education. It would be the prerequisite class, promoted as the you-need-this-class-before-you-even-have-to-worry-about-sex-education class. To say I’d like to be ‘courted’ suggests that I should be wearing a corset and holding a parasol. The word is pretty dated. Is there a new word to indicate this desire from a new era of old fashioned girls? And by the way, I’d like to clear up some confusion. I’m not sure how it happens, but somehow ‘old fashioned’ gets misinterpreted as ‘prude’ in the air between her lips and his ears. There is a world of difference.

I hesitate to think that my geographical location has anything to do with this. I constantly hear people say things like, “It’s because you live in L.A.” Well, if everyone in L.A. is not really from L.A., then what is that saying? Is something changing in the role of boy meets girl and I’m just not adapting? Could it be technology? I fear that text messaging is inadvertently keeping us from flirting face to face, thereby causing us to simply forget how. I have to admit, texting has been an enormous icebreaker on more than one occasion. But these occasions seem to have fizzled before they even had a chance to begin and I’m starting to blame this feature on my phone. I liked it better when a boy knew I liked him because I didn’t look away when he gazed at me from across the room, not because I replied with a sideways winking smiley.

I’m a girl. I like being a girl. But I’m starting to forget what it’s like to be giddy. What it’s like to blush when someone utters the name of a boy I can’t stop thinking about. A boy who thinks about me just the same. And goes out of his way to let me know. I’d like to think that the days of time honored wooing aren’t lost to those who play what seems to be a testosterone-fueled numbers game. For as long as I can remember, men have been dubbed the hunter...I get it, it’s human nature. And maybe we’re really not meant to be with one person for the rest of our lives, a tiny part of me believes that may be true. But (trying desperately not to sound pessimistic), lately it seems almost impossible to share a few significant moments with someone let alone a lifetime.