I just can’t do it

Posted June 22nd, 2006 by Michelle

There’s this guy. And, you know, I’m trying really hard this time to not write him off immediately. It is so very easy to rule someone out very quickly, even if he thinks you are the best thing since spice racks. This guy in particular is reasonably enlightened, reasonably smart, reasonably many things, but he also lays claim to these things but still calls the waiter a “fucking idiot” in all seriousness when all the waiter is is busy. And I can’t imagine that a comment like that shouldn’t rule a person out. Also, newsflash, folks, I really am more than big tits and a big smile. I mean, as it stands right now, I’m substantially more than that just in body, but my days of being cavalier are long gone and I want someone who thinks I’m hot AND a good writer, or whatever.

I think I know what I want, but then I am presented with exactly what I thought I wanted, and it’s just not it. I think I really need to get it through my thick skull that I don’t actually know what I want (beyond a non-smoking non-Republican). In fact, those are going to be my only two indicators for this next period of time. I think I want someone older, and instead I find someone totally set in his ways. I think I want someone fun and I get someone who lacks depth. I think I want someone in the arts and I get someone who is a narcissistic flake. So, I officially clear my mind, and seek whatever it is that is out there seeking me. We’ll find each other eventually, or we won’t.

As an aside, I saw a Motown cover band tonight called Pride and Joy, and they were really good, you know, if you like Motown, but the one thing I did appreciate is the universality of the song “Shout” from the movie Animal House. I am willing to be that fully half of that audience has never seen Animal House, but somehow it is hard-wired in our DNA to throw our hands up at the appropriate times in that song. We, as a species, cannot help ourselves. I like that.

I do not like that it is well over 100 degrees here in the land of wine. It’s 10:20 at night, and the thermometer in my house, that only goes up to 90, is laying wilted on its side, way past that particular heat mark. Needless to say, Fezzik is not pleased. A few years ago when we were in New York, my dear roommate Hayley went and bought blocks of ice and laid both Fezzik and the late Zooey across the top of them, because they couldn’t stop panting. When I got home tonight, lacking a block of ice, I briefly considered sticking Fez in the fridge for a minute or two.

And that’s the news from Napa Valley.