Romantic Comedy?

I do enjoy a good romance.  97% of the time, I'm referring to the ones that are fake and on screen...2.5% of the time I'm referring to the ones that I make up in my head, and the remaining .5% is  a mixed bag of: 1) my one-ish relationship; 2) a romp in the sack that ends on a good note; and 3) amazing take-out dinners, with take-out dinners in a very decent lead ahead of the other two.  I didn't used to cry at anything I'd see on screen--no sweet movies; or television with a thought provoking, kind, and hopeful message; not even commercials for tutoring services.  I'm not sure if it's because sensitivity and sentiment (not to be confused with sediment) grew with age, or because it wasn't even a thought in my mind that whatever romantic and lovely scene that I would see on a screen couldn't or wouldn't ever really happen to me in my life, so there was no need for tears or fears.  Because, I so willfully thought, of course super sweet Brad Pitt was going to get hit by a car and die, come back as the Angel of Death, fall in love with me--a doctor with a trust fund, he'd speak Jamaican to my patients, decide he wanted to have me enough to kill me and take me with him to heaven/hell but then decide to spare me after my father (who'd have a British accent) pleaded for him to reconsider, he'd go back to heaven/hell, and then re-emerge unscathed as the Brad Pitt character that got hit by the car in the beginning of the movie, and would come back to life and watch fireworks with me at my dad's mansion in the Hamptons (Meet Joe Black, yes please).  And don't be silly, of course that hot senior Jake Ryan would initially not notice me at school because he was dating the hot senior chick with the big boobs, but then he'd track me down at my high-as-a-kite sister's wedding and be waiting outside of the church in a Chicago suburb, his angelic presence only to be revealed when the wedding crowd dispersed, and then he'd whisk me off in his expensive red car, neither of us caring that I was missing the reception, and we'd end up sitting on top of his dining room table with a birthday cake in between us as we made out (and yes, this was going to happen on my 16th birthday like in 16 Candles).  Yes, I thought this was all possible in my naïve youth.  Damn you, Hollywood, and your trickery embedded in messages of love and hope with hunks!

Cut to, I'm 31 in two-ish weeks, and have never had an actual Valentine.  There's been no one who has or would "walk 500 miles and then walk 500 more and then fall down at my door," no John Cusack standing outside of my house with a boombox over his head, no meet-cute with Tom Hanks at the top of the Empire State Building (Sleepless in Seattle/Brentwood?)or in the middle of a New York garden where our meeting after some clandestine email activity (You've Got Mail) was simply, "mmmmagic."  Every year, usually twice a year (Valentine's Day and Christmas), another romantic movie premise gets kicked off my list of "Possible Real-Life Love Scenarios" after I watch it and realize that what I'm watching  is not how my interactions with the male species have ever gone down.  Ever.  My romantic life has been closer to Night at the Roxbury meets The Truth About Cats & Dogs meets the first half of Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion meets a Roto Rooter commercial.  Yes, that great.  So, perhaps it's a no-brainer why I now cry at run of the mill rom-com movies.  However, I still have no explanation for tears during Care Bears cartoons or Sylvan Learning commercials.

I'm not all cynicism, though.  Even now, as I sit on my couch with my niece's dog (who I am now the legal guardian of, as my niece is off to be all that she can be in the Army), and we both stare at my front door with our sad little hearts, waiting for whoever left our lives to come back to us as a redemptive soundtrack gets bumped up in the background, knowing full well all that awaits is iTunes and half bottle of Belvedere, and the only thing coming through my front door tonight is the sound of CNN blaring from my creepy old neighbor's TV set next door.  However, I still have an inner Bridget Jones, that is optimistic.  I keep the optimism under wraps more often than not, but it's there, tucked into Spanxy granny briefs four sizes too small in order to impress the hot boy at the party with my artificially flatter tummy, and smooth ass and thighs, in order that he might like what he thinks he sees and stays long after the illusion is gone.  It's a very slim glimmer of optimism, slimmer now more than ever (I hope my ass follows suit), but it's present.

Maybe the previously mentioned "not-a-match match" who lived his life (and our "interlude," as it were) as though he were in Jerry Maguire was onto something.  Maybe he just wanted the happy ending, where love wins, completes, and has Renee Zellweger at "hello."  Though if he really knew me, he would've known I'm not quite as easy as Renee, and it takes a whole lot more than a "hello" to have me.  A horse-drawn pumpkin-converted carriage would be a good start, followed by an, "I'm sorry for being a douche" Valentine's Day card (regardless of the day, I'm not that unreasonable) or vice versa.

Interestingly enough, or maybe not, as I type this and finish my fourth vodka based beverage and my cheeks are numb, suddenly anything is possible again.  I could be that easy, where a simple knock at the door followed by a "hello" just might suffice, and complete me.

.....unless at my door is the creepy neighbor.

Spin Class

I recently gave up cable.  As in, I turned off my service and turned in the cable box.  I held on to the remote for a couple weeks, since I have an extremely difficult time saying goodbye.  One could call this my pre-Lent sacrifice several months early (I tend to be early to parties/events, too, but I'm working on that [i.e., circling the block for however long it takes for me to arrive with the masses, or just after them] since I've discovered the whole early arrival obligation of help-the-host-set-up makes me feel less of a guest and more like "the help" and I gave up being in the domestic help industry a few years ago when I got a "real job" that pays less [plus, my Spanglish was lacking]).  OR it's me giving into the fact that I should be living under a freeway overpass, with a Ralph's shopping cart serving as my roll-in closet, and my early morning showers provided by homeowners that do not believe in water conservation and have exceptionally green lawns.  In addition to my dismal bank accounts (I have three, which would be slightly more impressive if their combined balances would have a number, any number, in front of the decimal point), I thought the lack of television would compel me to do something more constructive with my time, like write, workout, soak up some vitamin D, or perhaps, if I was really bored, actively participate in life instead of live it vicariously through Iron Chefs, dog whisperers, and Real not-Housewives.  None of the aforementioned things have happened often enough to make this little "experiment" worth it.  I've been watching DVDs where the girl gets the guy/guy gets the girls/kid gets the puppy/Kate Beckinsale gets out of a Thai prison/Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifinakis and Ed Helms get over their hangover, all of which make me lonely and depressed, or reading Craigslist postings (whatever, everyone without the Hallmark Channel and The Nanny marathons does this on Friday and Saturday nights) that make me laugh, and then feel lonely and depressed that I'm not a "BBW," "submissive," "dominatrix," "420 friendly," or "under 30" gal that Craig's friends are, by and large, in search of falling into everlasting, or nightly, love with.  I've also been eating more, which, given my financial status, makes no sense.  The poor are not supposed to be Rubenesque (great word, learned it on Craigslist = active learning).  So to combat most of these issues (except my non-BBW/dominatrix/420 friendly-ness, I decided to make actual and regular use of my gym membership again.  To my delight the treadmill didn't break during my run, and since that went so well, I thought to myself,  "why not kick my molasses-like post-Christmas metabolism into high gear and take a spin class??"  Of course.  Why not?

Several reasons why not.  Most of which I'll share.

This latest class I indulged in was not my first, mind you.  I've taken three others, but for some reason I've never had as vile and, frankly, rude an experience as I did during this last endeavor.  My heart races before going into any situation that I see as a potential battle; for example--interviews, signing a one-year lease or agreement of any kind that requires my commitment, dates, sexual encounters, and group workout classes.  Nevermind that there's a good chance I'll be in an enclosed space and less than three feet away from a stranger while sweating (applicable in all of the above examples), but add in an instructor with a mic and fast moving body parts, and I get a little apprehensive about what I willingly signed myself up for.  I signed up online and picked a bike that was in the far corner of the room, furthest away from ridicule and seemingly far enough away from the bikes that would be to my right and left.  Upon entering the actual room, the situation was not as depicted.  Yes, I was in a far corner, but no I was not far away from the bikes to my left and right.  I was actually cornered in.  My only hope was that  the bikes that had me cornered would be unoccupied, hopes that were dashed immediately by a Rubenesque (love that word, thanks, Craig) older-something woman, who looked just as pathetic as me, but with proper spin shoes.

The instructor couldn't have been sweeter.  She set me up with the gear, the little feet buckets that attach to the pedals for those of us who aren't serious and don't pay $400 for shoes that were meant for spinning, or are just coordinationally retarded, and adjusted my bike to, presumably, suit my body.  Her energetic and enthusiastic nature was, at first, reassuring that I would survive my little hour long bike ride.  I had no idea that 20 minutes in, I'd want to throw one of my foot buckets at her head, or hope that her sweat would make her mic short out and class would be immediately over as the bikers in the front would try to resuscitate her electrically charged body.  I started pedaling casually, to I guess warm up (I was just doing what the people with the fancy shoes were doing) before the actual start of the class, already deciding that my ass and I would not be friends by the time this was over.   And then, the mic was turned on, the music was turned up, the door was closed and we were off.

There was no graceful way out, as 30 seconds in, I started to develop a callous on my lady bits.  By the three minute mark, my corner of the room started to smell like someone shit their pants out of fear.  It wasn't me, but it's equally embarrassing just to be in the general vicinity of the Bog of Eternal Stench because in the eyes of others, I could be the culprit.  But the instructor was saying such Zen-like phrases like, "Remember why you're here, in this studio, taking this class, and fight for it.  Let go of everything else," and I did my best to transcend the stink.  I wanted to turn to my neighbor and say, "well, don't let go of everything," but I guess my brain-to-mouth filter was turned off by the chapped ass I was quickly developing.  The only miniscule reprieve I received was when we would pedal standing up, until my ankle would unceremoniously decide that it did not want to pedal while standing and give out from sheer exhaust and put me back into the cement-like saddle.  I'd like to be able to say that from the immense discomfort I forgot all about everything else, alas, I did not.  I became resentful and angry at the 25-year old instructor's voice, there was no way she could really believe what she was saying.  I didn't.  "Forget all your worries.  Forget what he did to you.  There is no try, just do!"

"Wait," I thought, "did she just say, 'forget what he did to you?'"  Ahh.  Clarity.  Her annoying rantings now made sense.  This was a girl biking up that mythical hill, away from her heartache while I was desperately wanting to run away from my cooch-ache.  But neither of us were going to be successful in this hour.  I powered through it, only by becoming numb from the groin down, something that may have been visually apparent given the look I received from the douche a few bikes down to my right who kept looking at me with a concerned face.  Brain-to-mouth filter released, I shot back at him with my death look and mouthed "mind your business!" to him.  He immediately looked at his bicep and then faced forward, and I felt better, like I could finish the last five minutes of this trip through the Hell Himalayas.

And I did.  After a full hour of self-imposed torture, I peeled my nether-regions off of the banana seat, and hobbled out of the room, cold from my own sweat drenched clothing, and vowing never to go back into that room again if I know what's good for me (and my ass).  Two days later, physically I'm 95% recovered.  Mentally, well those scars are for life.

Elevator

I have long waited for the day where I can have that moment in an elevator where I just say or do something that is completely out of the norm (aside from marveling at the steelwork, or watching the numbers light up above the doors as I go up floor by floor)--the moment that catches everyone else in the elevator off-guard and throws them into a tizzy-ish state, or makes them feel like schmucks for not being sociable and even saying so much as a "hello" while sharing the same confined airspace with strangers for 15 seconds (although, I never really want to spark up a conversation with anyone I’m not not genuinely interested in, so this whole scenario really is a catch-22 for me). Well, some older lady totally stole my moment in a whole foods parking garage/elevator.

There were four or five of us boarding the steel box, one of which being this fun-looking (note, not funny-looking, although, her knit cap and pink lipstick made me chuckle a little inside) older woman, whose name, I’ll guess, was "Gertie." I would say she was in her early to mid-seventies (mind you, my age and name approximations are about as good as my distance and length measuring without a ruler or tape measure, or my ability to decipher which side of the street is south/north/east/or west when the sun is not up or I am without my compass that I don't own). She was talking outside of the elevator, which, I later realized, was to no one in particular, just those of us who were in earshot. I have no clue what she was talking about, because I didn't think she was directing anything to me in particular. And because, I live in my own little world most of the time and tune everyone else out....or because I was on the lookout for my would-be significant other, who I imagine I would just happen to run into one day in a whole foods parking lot (I hear the alias and never been kissed hottie Michael Vartan met his fiancé in a whole foods parking lot, and the rest will be Hollywood happily-almost-ever-after history for them). Anyway...

The doors opened and we all took our respective places within the elevator, careful not to stand anywhere near each other or make eye contact. "Gertie" just kept on talking, which is when I realized, it was directed at no one in particular. And then, right there, she called each and every one of us out, mid-sentence. "Operation: elevator jackass" had commenced, although, shamefully, it was not by my doing. And as she continued her rant, without missing a beat, she went into, "and of course we all become anti-social in an elevator, which makes no sense. 'Let's not say anything and sit in our own quietness, two feet from each other.' ridiculous really...."

I initially was looking down as she began spouting this geniosity, and then quickly looked up at her when I realized what was happening, sort of with a, "how dare you!" look, mixed with an "exactly!" and a slightly solemn, "this is what my future looks like, in a knit cap and hot pink lipstick." I chuckled, and heard other people smile (you know, the kind of smile that is accompanied by a short, small puff of air that comes out of the nose, sort of signaling the beginning of amusement, but an action that is very non-committal and can quickly be turned into a fake cough or heavy sigh in case no one else thinks the moment is funny, thereby averting being the lone laugher). I wanted to say something, but that would have sounded forced, like I was only lending something to the conversation because she had brought up the fact that I was being anti-social and, effectively, stupid. "Silly, really..." she continued, "I don't understand why people don't acknowledge each other in an elevator, they just look at the lights or at their own stupid shoes," or something to that effect. I was in a state of shock, so I may not have been hearing what was really being said.

Ding. We reached the ground level of the store. It was only one floor we had to climb, it took all of about 7.2 seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The doors opened and filled the elevator with a sense of relief, and everyone shuffled out quickly, as I just stood there, watching the lady waddle out, shaking her head in disappointment, as the sorry saps she shared only a few seconds in the elevator with left without saying a word. I just stood there, unable to move and amazed at what had just happened. As the doors began to close, I snapped out of my daze and hit the button to open the doors again and slowly walked out, feeling more than a bit defeated.

There it was, and there it went. My moment, almost staring me in the face, future almost meeting present....I’ll say "almost" because "Gertie" did not go the extra length of spontaneously throwing her arms around a stranger and whispering, "I’m just so happy you're here," as she nestled her head into their shoulder, as I imagine I would do. But had she done that, I’m pretty sure it would have been game over for the mystery of the life that lies before me. And that would have been the exact future I would have not wanted to meet at a whole foods...I can't stand lipstick.

Jacuzzi

A good friend came over last night to protect me against a Craigslist goof that wanted to buy an old car radio from me. It was my first transaction using that site, and since she's a pro at wheeling and dealing, I thought it would be good to have backup. Even though I haven't seen the movie, I imagine she's the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch to my Will Ferrell in The Other Guys, or perhaps vice versa. Anyway, sold! And now I have booze money for the weekend...or I can keep my lights on and air conditioning running in my condo for another couple of weeks...or I can buy booze and just use the complex's pool to cool off. Either way I win, and perhaps a few lucky friends do, too.

Speaking of pools, I have one where I live. I've heard stories about its existence, and perhaps even have seen the sun shimmering off of it every now and then, but haven't used it in the almost year that I’ve lived at this complex. Oddly enough, whenever I feel so inclined to take a dip, I go to my friend's place and swim there (or just bob like a buoy). Or at least until last night. After the successful transaction, we treated ourselves to a Dixie cup wine tasting and some swimming and Jacuzzi-ing in the warm midsummer night's air. How fitting that just weeks before I move, I discover that treasure. Downright romantic - wish you were there, and by you, I'm talking to Patrick Dempsey and his flowing dark brown locks, so don't anyone else get the wrong idea. Anyway, it was lovely. We had some good laughs, some alright wine, and a few bubbles (mostly mechanically made), which is pretty usual for us, minus the wine and the mechanics.

Our conversation eventually led to our old age...both of us in the realm of our thirties, which apparently is the age where a female should be, at least, one of the following:

A.) In a serious relationship, engaged, or married

B.) Divorced, or about to be divorced from at least their first marriage

C.) Have a bun in the oven, a loaf in the crib, or a whole wheat field full of kids

D.) If none of the following - living with one or multiple roommate(s)

E.) If not that, living with their parents

F.) All of the above

Such tempting options, and we sure as hell feel like we're missing out!  Not.

We kind of resent the fact (and she'll have to pardon me for speaking for her, but I will anyway) that if we're not a, b, or c, then as women of a certain age it's baffling that we are taking care of ourselves and living on our own. Thanks for the credit, peeps. Both of us are college graduates, have fully insured cars, are in jobs that pay more than minimum wage (score!), which, for the most part, pay our bills...and on time. Imagine that shit. We are practically any Kato Kaelin's dreams come true (again). And, every Kato needs a chick with her own pimp crib, right? Well, look no further (but keep walking, thankyouverymuch).

I am well aware of the fact that once I hit thirty, George Clooney won't consider dating me. And let me tell you, I'm going to disappear in a pile of tissues over that. But what else sucks is that 30 is the age where a woman's eggs begin to shrivel and die (or since we're talking about eggs, they scramble, become tough, brown and inedible, and get fed to the dog, if you will), mustaches and goatees must be added to your waxing bill and actually figured into your monthly budget, people (aka "doctors") have to feel on your naughty bits regularly and not in a good way, and that may be the only "play" a single woman gets for months (perhaps, years?), your underarm doesn't stop waving and your face doesn't stop laughing or frowning long after you do because the lines and wrinkles get deeper and the skin starts to become shot like petite-size pantyhose that get wrangled onto a queen-size body day after day.

Look, I shave my armpits and legs and shower at least 98% of the time which is almost every day of the year, I don't wear cargo pants and Birkenstocks (everyday), or carry around cardboard signs on sticks and bullhorns to remind people that women have been given the right to vote. That's not what this is about at all. The mind just boggles at this perception that I, nor my single (and fucking fabulous, I might add) gal pals can't stand on our own two feet.

Actually.....I just would really like it if my grandma would stop thinking I'm a lesbian just because I'm the only one in my family that hasn't had a husband and at least one child at my age. I might be vegan, but I like my sausage know-what'm-sayin' (nudge, nudge)? And I really don't want to have to field her inevitable question, "do you pee standing up, too?" in a supermarket checkout line, or in front of wait-staff at a restaurant, which is where most of her inappropriateness shines its brightest.

Hmmmm. Apple meet tree.

Pub

Somehow I had a momentary reprieve of my self-diagnosed dating exhaustion and had me a date on Friday night (blind...to be clear, I’m not talking about the legally kind of blind with the cane). I probably agreed because it was the last weekday vacation day I was going to have until thanksgiving and I thought I should have a drink (or 2 bottles of sake and a pint of Guinness) to toast to the past week of freedom; it was either that or sun stroke, or perhaps a healthy combo of the two. Anyway, I agreed to meet up with this guy I’ve heard about for a month or so. He hit me with a one-two (three, four, ten) punch: a 35-year old, New England raised paratrooper turned special agent, with a house, a boat, gorgeous (gorgeous!) Blue eyes, biceps that were each as big as my head and a great cologne (or maybe it was just axe deodorant). Ding ding, welcome back to dating, jules! We were going to meet up at a swank lounge in Pasadena, but given that I hate being around people (and so does he--score!) And the lounge was packed, so we decided to walk 17 miles (or three blocks...it's all the same in 4.5" heels) to a very sweetly lit sushi place. Nevermind that I’m vegan, I ordered a cucumber salad the size of my palm (the sequel to the vegan cupcake I had for lunch 5 hours prior) and we ordered two large bottles of sake to wash that down. Yeehaw! MacGyver really knew how to go all out. I was totally stoked that he was a special agent; as he talked (and talked) about his many adventures, I imagined myself as the second "hart" in "hart to hart," complete with the luscious curled locks, and red dress that disguised the gun that would be wrapped around my thigh, who is mostly always smarter than her husband-special agent counterpart. Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, he never brought up the smell of his morning urine (as my last date did), and aside from the fact that he walked a little too fast for a chick in kick ass heels, things were going swimmingly. He was a huge leap up from what I could tell from where I was sitting. However, wait for it...

Bearing in mind my food caloric intake for the day as compared to my alcohol consumption, I kind of knew that it probably wouldn't be the smartest idea to stand up let alone walk 17.5 miles back to my car or drive to another locale. But I did both. Because I’m Irish, Mexican, and Aries, and my uncle didn't encourage me to be a wallflower wuss. But we hung out for a bit, and talked as his ridiculously ridiculous muscles and I had a staring contest and the alcohol was soaked up by the cucumber and lust. Looking back, I’m thinking that I turned from a classy lady love-interest to a member of the good will hunting posse probably around the time we started talking about pubs we like--I mentioned O’Brien’s, he mentioned Lucky Baldwin’s, which prompted me to say, "oh yeah, I’ve always wondered if that was a cool place," but in a completely innocent way, which led to his enthusiastic, "wanna go?!" I couldn't stop the "absolutely..." from coming out for the life of me, and his sweet little blue eyes lit up so fast I couldn't say "...not." the last thing a responsible lightweight like me would ever want to do is walk more or drink more after 2 hours, and when my futile attempts to get him to say he'd drive me there with his yummy smelling muscles were squashed and it was decided we'd take both cars, I knew I had made a bad call when I had let him start eating his sushi before I was served my two cucumber slices at the beginning of dinner. That might have been the moment I went from his ho to his bro.

And so commenced the 100-meter dash (the guy chases bad guys and hops fences for a living, of course he walks fast) back to our cars. I felt like invoking the "no man left behind" motto of the armed forces, but it seems as though these shoes were made for sprinting, and that's just what they did. We got in our cars, and left to meet the friendly folk (including a Mexican "chef" who worked at a Greek restaurant and wore a German soccer jersey) at lucky Baldwin’s. Here's a very quick synopsis of that 2 hours of sheer, unadulterated delight:

We met a few regulars who insisted we munch on the pickle Pringles they had brought with them to the bar (Magnum P.I. Loved these); the aforementioned mexican man kept telling my guy that he was super lucky to be with me and then turned the tables and became my date's "date" when he bought my dude 3 of his 4 beers; i got hit on twice in the two minutes my date was using the loo; actual time of "date death" was about 10:45pm, but i finally called it at 12:00am; i somehow made the "incredible hulk" cry (just my natural effect on men, i s'ppose?) Right before I walked him to his car, only to find that he had gotten a parking ticket, we hugged each other goodbye, and I walked to my car, alone, at 12:05am through a semi-empty garage that smelled of pee and old armpit.

However, all was not lost when I eventually got to climb into bed with an amazing, sweet, and adorable boy--I guess I just need to fully realize and embrace that Wondermutt is the last love of my life and quit all the rest of the bullshit. Ugh, now I know how Jennifer Aniston feels.