Sunday, April 18, 2010
Bright Young Things
“An inordinate passion for pleasure is the secret of remaining young”
I thought about writing about Friday in this post, but when I reevaluated the weekend as a whole, it was Saturday that took the cake and will continue to for the rest of the week.
I woke up on Saturday morning slightly hungover to the sound of my phone vibrating like mad on the windowsill next to my bed. Hungover is not how I usually wake up, but this month it seems like all of my friends happen to be turning 21 or just have a birthday in general. Friday evening was my good friend Sara's birthday and Saturday was my roomie's 21st celebration.
Eventually, I'm out of bed, dressed, and en route to the bank. This is when I check my phone to see why it was buzzing and discover a text message from this boy (we'll call him Guitar Hero) I invited to go to the birthday party on Friday night. Guitar Hero never texted me back that evening which made me wonder if he got the message at all or if he remembered to put my number into his phone.
He got the message and apologized for not texting back, that he was at Coachella and cell reception was lousy. We texted back and forth for the rest of the day with me feeling that same feeling I always feel around Very Good Guys: why am I never attracted to guys who would actually treat me well? Why do I run after guys who are incredibly beautiful, but utterly irresponsible?
It's the eternal mystery.
Onward to the dinner party.
Birthday dinner with everyone for my roomie at Cheesecake Factory where I had some of the best bellinis ever. Champagne with peaches, how I do adore you.
We managed to get back in time for me to go to the play performance and do my assistant stage manager duties. By this point, I'm sober once more and back to being my responsible self.
This was the moment where it got curiouser and curiouser.
The ex came up to me before the play started and put his hands on my face. Framing it with his hands. I think he might have been talking, but as per usual when an attractive guy is all up in my space, I fail to register words from them and just smile and giggle. That evening though, I didn't, but we did wind up staring into each others eyes more than speaking. Damn those sparkling blue eyes of his.
Uh oh. Trouble ahead girl.
Then he puts on his suit and pressed shirt and pink tie combo for another scene, which is bad, bad, bad for me. A man in a pressed dress shirt is my Achilles Heel, biggest weakness in life, stemming all the way from when I wore my Dad's dress shirts in art class in kindergarten, secretly smug that my shirts were so crisp and chic and not plain white tees like my classmates.
Uh, I try to tell him how much I like his outfit, but the words all fall out so in eloquently and jumbled that I sound like: I like your outfit that one tie um it is sharp and um a good look and uh, really you know, I like it.
He looks down at the tie and back at me, "Well, you know I could never dress like this every day."
"Oh why not? I wish every guy did." I reply to which the ex blinks back and I passionately declare, "I mean, I don't even look at guys who aren't dressed nicely."
HEATHER, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? SHUT YOUR MOUTH NOW! My brain yelps.
He is amused, "So you wouldn't even look at a guy wearing board shorts?"
"Nope." I reply, with my hands folded in front of me. This is not true, by the way, but once I make a point (especially in front of someone who seriously questions it) I stick with it, no matter how ludicrous it sounds.
Please Heather, my brain begs me, no more words.
Actions speak louder anyway.
I get the text message of death from my roommate telling me to check my email because the selections for the school literary magazine have been made and she didn't make the cut, even though her poetry was mesmerizing and well-written. I check it and it is empty. I was not selected either.
"ELITIST BULLSHIT!" I text back, even more wrath filled when she replies that 3/4 of the magazine will be filled with writers who either 1) helped put it together, or 2)are tight with those putting it together.
Which means we have another magazine coming out filled with adjective wrought stories that sound more like Coldplay lyrics than prose and involve the writer literally tripping over themselves in their attempt to sound brilliant. The same kind of people who would make love to their stories if they could.
Joy to the world. If I sound resentful, it is because I am if but for the school's sake. God forbid someone could just write something honest and heartfelt and get it published instead of ridden with sentences that are literally about nothing.
But I digress. You guys read my submission and I like the blogosphere people better :)
Continuing on to the play, intermission rolls around and I need to run to the fridge in the green room to get the tuna roll for the next scene. I run like my head's about to get cut off because there's only 5 minutes left. On the way there, some of the cast is dancing and I stop briefly, bust a move, and continue on.
The ex tries to dance with me, but I run past him into the crowded room (everyone was there) and throw open the fridge door.
He runs up right behind me.
The door slams into his crouch.
I gasp because at that moment, something very hard smacked me too.
Something in his pants, tucked off to the side, namely of the penis variety which happened to be very stiff.
I should have emulated Zooey Deschanel from 500 Days of Summer and screamed, "PENIS!" at the top of my lungs.
Everyone laughs and I walk out of the room, with the tuna roll, in shock.
Sara is in the cast and she runs out of the room after me, "Oh my God, what was that? Is he on drugs right now?"
"He's not on drugs." I mutter and put the roll on the prop table.
"What just happened in there?" She asks me and I look up at her and quietly tell what happened.
And I'm telling you, I've never seen a person laugh harder in my life.
I go back to the green room where he's sitting on the little armchair and looks up at me, irritated, "Why did you just slam the fridge door into me?"
"I didn't mean to. I needed something out of the fridge." If I were in his shoes, I would have been equally as annoyed.
"What did you need out of the fridge that badly?"
"Uh, the tuna roll for the next scene?" I practically shouted back and he was quiet, "Oh okay that makes sense. Here," he scooted over on the armchair, "sit next to me."
Oh God. It is bad that I felt giddy about this and even worse that we sat there, giggling and bantering and lightly hitting each other for the duration of intermission.
Meanwhile, Sara is sitting there, still cracking up and eventually leaves the room, after I beg her to and a couple people have asked what is so funny (but will get NO answer back).
After the play, I go out with Randi to the club Sunset and have two drinks while telling her about the day.
Then I dance with the worst dancer of all time. Seriously. I know I'm not very good myself, but this guy was wooden and barely shuffled from side to side.
"Wow, you are the sexiest dancer ever!" He says to me and I grimace under the strobe lights to Randi who is also having a similarly bad dancing experience with his friend.
Ugh. I do not mention to him that I have envision him as someone else of the ex variety in order to enjoy myself.
And then I feel something else...
"My goodness," I tell Randi, "This is the second time today something hard has smacked against me!"
We laugh and leave after. Sketchy scene, that night.
Hooray for wacky weekends...here's to this coming week with the play's second set of perfomances.
Love to you all,