Why I'm Single (Part Three)

I swear on all that is holy that this is not going to be another creepy Ode to Lee Pace. Really. I promise. Do you believe me? Yes? Sucker. No, I'm joking, it's really not. Mostly because I've finally thought of a new reason! Oh, this is going to be joyful...

So, remember back in high school when dating used to be fun and exciting and you were all full of rainbow giggles and hope for the future? What happened to that? Am I the only one who has gotten bitter and cynical at the ripe old age of 24? Because, honestly, I can't bear the thought of going out with a new person right now. I'm basically Vince Vaughn at the beginning of Wedding Crashers (except I write my own lengthy run-on-sentence-filled diatribes, a-thank you very much). Am I alone in feeling that dating has morphed into something equal parts horrific, mortifying, nauseating, and excruciatingly painful? It just makes me nervous. And not in that cute teenaged bouncy glitter eyeshadow girly way, either. More like in a Woody Allen-ish way, except I'm fully aware that my quirkiness is not remotely endearing or funny anymore (cough/wink/nudge), or sometimes even a Howard Hughes-esque way where I barricade myself in my bedroom, bite my nails compulsively, develop an involuntary facial tick or two, and regularly direct inappropriate emotional outbursts at the wrong people. What's that, now? Men lined up around the block, you say? I think not.

Now, I realize that what I'm about to say makes me a total traitor to the feminist cause, but as I ran on the treadmill last night while watching the latest episode of Mad Men, I kept thinking that life would be so much simpler if all I had to do on a date was look vaguely like a Kewpie doll, act sweet and feeble-minded, laugh at Don Draper's sexist jokes (while he grabs my ass and calls me 'sweetheart' in a painfully demeaning way, but I've made my peace with it because sweet baby Jesus, that man is DREAMY, am I right??), and light the occasional Lucky Strike. I'm so tired of having to keep up high-brow, intelligent conversation all the time. Particularly when my date looks absolutely NOTHING like Lee Pace...or like Don Draper, for that matter. AND when I'd much rather be talking about whichever TV show I'm newly obsessed with, or just complaining generally about life and humanity as a collective.

Personally, I think playing dumb is grossly underrated as a dating tool. Look at how well it worked for Scarlett O'Hara (before that pesky Civil War incident, that is). I wish I could pull that off, but I'm a much bigger fan of the post-war Scarlett (That brazen hussie! God bless her). She was so much more interesting, and far less irritating than when she played the simpering nitwit. Alas, I have met PUH-LENTY of insipid females and wouldn't you know it, they are literally ALL married, engaged, or at least seriously involved in one way or another. I'm sorry, but I find this a bitter pill to swallow, gentlemen. I've had more intellectually stimulating interactions with inanimate objects and moderately sized dogs than I've had with some of these girls, and yet some idiot somewhere always seems to want to tether himself permanently to what amounts in essence to a mental toddler with breast implants. Clearly I am destined to die alone (save the cat farm, natch). Oh well, maybe now I'll just surrender to my fate and give up the dating scene altogether. I feel like that might be best for everyone. Then again, there's always plastic surgery...

Oh, Life...

Whoa, guys. This week has flown by in a blur of coffee-fueled self indulgence and sloth (coffee is in no way necessary for my current lifestyle, except that I like to be alert while I sit on the sofa and watch my 'stories'). I apologize for the lack of posts. I guess the pressure is ON for this one to be entertaining. Ugh. Anxiety. To be honest, the only reason I continue to write for the masses (Ha. Of voices in my head, maybe) despite said Anxiety is because I keep getting feedback from readers that is great for my self esteem ("We love your blog!", "You're so funny!", "You're a really great writer!", "Did we mention we think you're aggressively good looking?!"). Well, that last one was more inferred than explicitly stated, but I'm taking it to the bank anyway. Sue me.

Oh, self esteem. My mother thinks I have too much of you. Which I suppose explains her ongoing crusade to utterly defeat and humiliate you. Keep fighting the good fight. Stiff upper lip, and all that. Speaking of Mother, earlier this week I had a nightmare (Or "daymare"? Or whatever it's called when you nap mid-afternoon like you're still in kindergarten. Look, I have to do something between snack time and recess, get off my back), in which said mother was completely and totally awful to me. I'm serious, she effing hated my guts and I felt like Cinderella and she was the evil stepmother and I had to sleep in a broom closet and there were certainly no adorable, chubby, singing mice named Gus to stop me from flinging myself out of a window in a fit of despair. But there was a Prince Charming, right? No dice, folks. Anyway, when I awoke from my dream, I immediately sent my mom a panicked text message that went something along the lines of "WHENAREYOUCOMINGHOME? I JUST DREAMED THAT YOU HATED ME AND YOU WERE REALLY MEAN AND PLEASE DON'T BE MEAN WHEN YOU GET HOME BECAUSE I'M FEELING VERY FRAGILE AND MIGHT BURST INTO TEARS!"

Yea. Her response went something like "Dude, WTF is wrong with you? I think you need to say some prayers and find Jesus". Because that's a TOTALLY legit solution to any given problem, aaaand you're not crazy at all, lady (Except you think that watching True Blood means we're all going to hell, and that gay marriage is some kind of diabolical conspiracy. And that makes you a little bit Whackadoodle). I'm sorry, Mom. I'm just kidding, kind of. Er, anyway...

Little Brother started law school this week, which makes me feel all kinds of idle and useless. But kudos to him, nonetheless. Personally, I would rather be brutally mauled by a hippopotamus in a tutu (and if you read one thing today other than this blog, let it be the article you find on the other side of that link, please God) than go to law school, but that's just me. FYI, I just did a Google Image Search for "hippo in a tutu" and OH EM GEE, the giggles! So that's where I'm at right now. My brother is diligently studying The Law, whereas I spend my days googling fat animals in funny costumes. Unique decisions, Marisa. Unique decisions all around.

Thankfully, I will have at least a few hours of gainful employment through next week. Our neighbors/long time family friends (and may I add, esteemed parents of the vivacious and bubbly ball of fabulousity that is my 'little sister' Mary Ann) are going out of town, and I will be lording it over their bar (The Copper Monkey on Conti Street in the French Quarter) until they return, trying really hard not to massively eff up their finances. I'll be there in the mornings-early afternoons, so if anyone wants to stop by and have lunch or even partake in some day drinking (I won't judge, because, you know, glass houses and such), please do, it's really a cool bar & grill and some of the daytime patrons are just precious (such as Peanut, an extremely grizzled and excessively dirty old gentleman sailor who arrives each morning around 11 and just hangs out being excellent all day long. I'm trying to work up the courage to ask him for pirate lessons, but that particular obsession of mine is a quirk for another day). But yea, I've got that going for me. Since I really don't spend enough time hanging out in bars. Did I mention that I get to handle large amounts of money? Seriously, I get to lock myself into the office area of the bar and distribute lovely green stacks of bills. And all I can think about as I do so is taking fistfuls of cash and tossing it into the air with wreckless abandon as I giggle maniacally, you know, as people do. I don't know why anyone trusts me to do stuff that's even remotely important. The mind reels.

Anyway, I'm off to see a man about a hippo. In a tutu. Christ. I mean...I just...I can't. I'm sorry.

Why I'm Single (Part Two Of An Annotated Anthology)

Now, I don't know what you people like to do on Saturday nights, but I've spent the evening alternately watching stand up comedy on television and searching the interwebz for YouTube videos of Lee Pace (or as I like to think of him, "My Boyfriend"). And I'm not ashamed. I went out Friday night only to be equal parts exhausted and irritated by the lack of single, available, non-mutant males (read: Lee Pace lookalikes) in the vicinity of my barstool. There were a few near misses. For instance, a well dressed architect called Richard who seemed promising at first, but then he opened his mouth and began to remind me increasingly of Will Arnett (think Gob from Arrested Development), which made me want to lobotomize myself. Why are the interesting ones always trolls and the good looking ones always BATSHIT CRAZY?? That means if I don't wish to die alone, I'll probably have to pick between Stephen Hawking or Mel Gibson. Either way, WIN.

Hang on. Can we just talk about 'ol Mel for a hot second? I know, I know, I'm sick of hearing about him at this point, too, and yes, he's a wretched demon from the bowels of hell, the likes of which could give the evil pterodactyl that is Ann Coulter a run for her money (whatever Mom, GET OFF ME, that woman is terrifying and it's got nothing to do with her politics) and blah blah blah, but seriously every time they play the tapes of him screeching obscenities as if he's suffering from Tourette Syndrome and making random guttural animal noises, the only reaction that I can muster is to giggle with wild abandon and try desperately to think of a way to make those recordings into a drinking game and/or an iPhone app. Do with that what you will.

Anywhoo, we have much more important matters to discuss...Back to Lee Pace. I realize that you all probably think that I'm...let's just say "a bit off", shall we? And many have asked me who the heck he even is. If you were one of the people silly enough to ask such a question, you probably regretted doing so about 2 hours later, after I had finished telling you his entire life story (as told by IMDB and Wikipedia) and filmography (with corresponding plot synopses and personal reviews), in addition to describing in detail every dream I've ever had about him as well as how I see our future together panning out (If you people do your job right and pimp this blog out for me, eventually it will lead to a book deal, which will in turn be adapted into a film, which will naturally star Lee Pace. During filming, Lee and I will be working very closely together and Perez Hilton will catch wind of the behind the scenes shenanigans and eventually out us as a couple despite the months of painstaking effort to hide our love from the press a la Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart. Big dreams. Big dreams all around). So, what I'm trying to convey here is that Lee Pace is one very big reason why I'm single. I'm not entirely sure whether I blame Lee Pace for ruining the rest of the species for me or if I just blame the rest of the species for not being Lee Pace. I'm leaning towards the latter. (By the way, speaking of the Pattinson/Stewart unholy union, I heard recently that My Boyfriend Lee has been cast in the next installment of Twilight, at which point I promptly had a grand mal seizure of joy and then ran around in circles chasing my tail out of happiness for about an hour. The rest of the cast better understand what an honor it is for him to grace them with his presence and act accordingly, or I will give Kristen Stewart something to cry about. Sadly this means I have to sit through another Twilight movie...Oh, the things we do for love). Christ, if this post alone doesn't make it ABUNDANTLY clear why I'm single, then I don't really know what will...

We all know I could go on to write at least one novel about the lovely Lee, but I'm falling asleep at the moment. I will, however, leave you with my newest favorite Lee video. It's a short film (5 min) called Polarbearman and I think I might just watch it on a loop for the rest of my life. As if his gorgeous eyebrows and 6'3 frame weren't enough to make me swoon, he also wants to save the polar bears, and that makes me want to just rock him back and forth as I stroke his hair and sing softly to him until he drifts off to sleep in my arms. Bless his heart. If this doesn't make you want to settle down in the 'burbs with him and adopt Chinese babies...well, then...you're clearly not me.

All You Ever Wanted To Say In A Cover Letter

Soooooo....is anyone else contemplating suicide at the prospect of writing one more effing cover letter, or am I the only unemployed person left on my planet? Seriously, razor blades and sleeping pills, people. It's getting even harder considering at this point, I don't even want AN single one of the positions I'm applying for. Not that I even know what most of them are, due to the fact that the overwhelming majority of Craigslist job ads are inexplicably anonymous (seriously, it's not the Casual Encounters section, what are they so ashamed of??)...Cutting to the chase, this evening, instead of being remotely productive, I sat down to compose the world's most heart-wrenchingly honest cover letter, which I submit without further adieu, for your amusement....

Dear Sir and/or Madam,

I am writing in response to the anonymous post that you placed on Craigslist yesterday advertising an open clerical position within your unnamed company. Please excuse my informality, as your 12-word-long, egregiously misspelled and infuriatingly uninformative ad left me unsure as to whom I should address this obviously vital introduction.

In any case, I would like to share with you a little bit about moi. Having recently finished my MA in International Relations, I find myself living with my parents once again (a situation which, I'm sure you can appreciate, is less than ideal), while I apply for countless positions for which your average primate might be considered overqualified. Among my myriad special skills, I can read AND I have been successfully answering the phone since I was around four years old (in ENGLISH, no less!).

I am proficient in Excel, Microsoft Office, Facebook, and Googling random stuff when I'm bored. I can also text message 80-90 words per minute, a-thank you very much.

As you can probably surmise from this letter, I fancy myself something of a fledgling writer and humourist. I even have a blog that boasts almost a full DOZEN followers*, so you'll be very welcome for the free publicity you will be entitled to should you decide to offer me my Big Break.

In truth, the blog could go viral any minute and in that case, I will be sure to give two weeks notice in order to train Bubbles the Chimp as my replacement before I jet to the big city to be wooed by publishers and to househunt with my new boyfriend, actor Lee Pace. Just in the spirit of full disclosure, you understand.

I will, however, make myself fully available to you until then (like an insecure girl on prom night, folks), because as of right now, alls I gots to my name is a tiny, obscure corner of the interwebz and an increasingly unhealthy obsession with Lee Pace, and let's face it--That Shit Don't Pay. Yet.

Nevertheless, I am confident that I will be an adequate trained monkey and a bright and shiny addition to whatever swanky little operation you're running over there, so it would be swell if you could just cut the crap and let me know the when and the where of it all so I can stop turning tricks, digging through people's sofa cushions, and being an endless source of crushing disappointment to my mother. Thanks a bunch, KBYE.

Regards,

Marisa

*So there's that. And, PS, If you anonymous readers bump my number of followers up to 20 this week, I will actually send this cover letter out with my next three job applications (NO MATTER WHAT MY MOM SAYS) and if I get any responses I'll be sure to post them verbatim. So tell your friends.

UPDATE: 20? Did I say 20? I meant 40. I'll send out one now. But if you want three, I want 40. And you can't ALL be friends with Matthew Chester. Yes, Matty, you have yourself to blame for this one.

Ok, for 40 I'll make it five applications. I would like to emphasize that Matthew totes cheated, though =P

Oh Yea, We Still Got It...

Confession: Sometimes I forget how truly and deeply awesome the city of New Orleans can be (Although in my defense, let me refer you to my earlier post referencing the STD-ridden den of daddy issues and Dep hair gel that is TJ Quills--and other such disreputable NOLA establishments). I'll admit I'm a little spoiled and I've gotten to do more traveling in my life than most people my age, so I tend to go into 'America-is-so-boring-and-passe' mode on occasion and be all 'too cool for school' (I'm aware that that's super obnoxious, but I'm pretty sure you already know I'm kind of an asshole sometimes. Plus it's a coping mechanism, and you're probably not perfect either, so step off).

Now, let me preface this by saying that I have a pretty diverse group of friends, and I love them all equally (ish). That being said, some of my friends like to do stuff that's Seriously Beyond Lame (like hang out regularly at TJ Quills, the owners of which are probably going to sue me if they ever read this blog, but hey, bring it on, you're welcome to the $63 in my checking account. Honestly, I'd pay a lot more than that to be legally allowed to publicly flog that hellhole on a daily basis. I'll even throw in a couple vintage movie posters. Cuz when ya got nothin', ya got nothin' to lose, baby), and believe you me, I don't hesitate to whine, bitch, and moan like it's my job when dragged out for SBL activities (just ask Charlie how I react whenever someone utters the words 'Red Eye' within a 5 mile radius of where I'm standing. It ain't pretty, folks. But that place is a disgusting sweatbox that I would literally rather be waterboarded than set foot inside EVER again. Sorry, but this is New Orleans, I am Marisa, and in my opinion, central air should not be optional in bars that get so effing crowded I've been tempted to summon the Fire Marshal just so a girl can score a Bud Light from the bar without inadvertently losing her virginity. Yea, I'm not even sure exactly what that means, but I'm upset now. By the way guys, if you ever meet a virgin at the Red Eye, you should start buying lottery tickets). Ok, getting back on track...What the devil was I getting at? Oh, right.

In any case, too many SBL outings tend to send me spiraling into a NOLA-hating depression of sorts, and I forget that there are a ton of non-seizure-inducing places to go and things to do in this city as well. Enter Christine. Bless her heart, the girl never fails to rock my socks off. Chrissy, you are one genuinely kickass broad (please don't ever leave me). So, last night, with Chrissy's help, I was reminded of why New Orleans can't be tamed. We elected to go down to Frenchman Street in the Marigny (land of good food, great music, and an excellent assortment of hippies), and as we exited the car feet away from a gaggle of dreadlocked and hennaed ruffians jumping double dutch on the side of the road, I knew it was going to be a good night.

Now, off we go to DBA (and let me tell you, those folks know the value of some good air conditioning, because it was downright frosty in there. So we know Marisa was happy as a little clam), where we are promptly informed that Mr. Walter “Wolfman” Washington & The Roadmasters will be playing at 10pm. Well, don’t mind if I do, and don’t mind if I do. Christine ordered us two pints of NOLA Blonde Ale, we lit up a couple Marlboros, and let the chips fall where they may.

It was about 8:30pm when we arrived at DBA, and after being informed that our tab had been 'taken care of' TWICE by the middle aged gentlemen down the bar, we left at 1:30am in a taxi having spent a grand total of $5 (plus taxi fare, we're not quite THAT good) between the two of us, and Chrissy only had to dance with one of the old guys for a hot second before being rescued by an adorable Lithuanian boy wearing a tshirt that said 'ENERGIE' on the front. Before we left, we wrote the blog site on a napkin and handed it to him, so if you're reading this, sweet Lithuanian boy, a-thank you very much. God, I've gone from intense hatred to an outpouring of joy just writing this post. I. Have. Emotions.

Bottom line, if ever you tire of New Orleans, just go down to Frenchman and catch a show any night of the week. And Wolfman Washington, we just can't thank you enough. Please don't stop the music. Peace.

Once Upon A Time...

First of all, I'm sorry I've neglected you chickens all weekend. Such is life. Hopefully you've had better things to do than read this nonsense, anyway. Other than the usual red carpet events and glamourous parties that comprise my weekends (read: dinner with my mother and Chrissy, and a debutante party--though the latter WAS actually fabulously glamourous, and I'd expect no less from the rock star that is Mary Ann), I've managed to finish a rather interesting short novel called Briar Rose. It's based on the Sleeping Beauty fairytale, the dark side being that it's about the Holocaust. Moving stuff (though whether it's appropriate to write about the Holocaust in such terms is questionable). In any case, it started me thinking about my favorite fairytales growing up. And the inevitable and irrevocable psychological scars inflicted thereby.

Take, for example, Beauty and the Beast (Little Marisa's Very Favorite Disney Movie). Allow me to break this down for you. Obnoxious, arrogant A-f*ck (Prince Not-So-Charming) is taught a lesson when he is turned into a giant dog (and Jesus Crush, do I know a few aging frat boys who could benefit from such a fate). Enter pretty, bookish girl who isn't really all that aware that she's nice to look at. Perhaps she's lovely and humble and modest. Or maybe she's just an intellectual elitist snob. Blah blah blah and nevertheless, they fall in love and the spell is broken and he is transformed from rabid dog to lovestruck puppy to handsome and contrite prince, all in a timely manner. Nevermind the fact that he first kept her as his prisoner and inflicted a lifetime's worth of psychological trauma on the poor girl (Stockholm Syndrome, anyone? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder at the very least!?). What does this teach impressionable young girls? Other than to never lose hope that your abusive boyfriend will one day transform from psychotic wife-beater to model husband, if you just love him unconditionally and never, never leave him! Good call, parents.

Let's be honest, pretty much every fairytale you can think of is complete and utter crap. I'm hardly a feminazi, but why do the women in fairytales always have to be so passive and pathetic? I get that they're old-fashioned, but if Steve Jobs can come up with a new snazzy gadget every 30 seconds, can we not update the drivel being spoon-fed to adolescent girls on a daily basis? Come on, folks, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are basically dead to the world until some guy comes along and kisses them back to life?! Why teach girls to just wait patiently until they're chosen by some jackass with highly questionable motives, and then their life can finally begin? A life of cooking for him, cleaning for him, and popping out a bunch of brats because you're so bored with each other you can't think of anything else to do.

It's not that I don't ever want to get married or have kids or anything like that. Because I do. Maybe. But it makes me a little sad that so many girls I know are just settling down before they've even done anything, or seen what's out there (i.e., the WORLD). We're 24 years old, and honestly, half of them will be divorced in 10 years. What's the hurry? It's like as soon as we finished college, half of the women I knew just decided Welp, I don't have any specific career goals in mind so I better marry the first guy who asks just so it looks like my life is moving forward in some capacity. And next time they feel the pressure of not being a complete person, oops, time to have a kid, that should keep me busy for the next 18 years. Well, thanks but no thanks, you keep your husbands and adorable babies, I'll hang on to my youth and freedom a little longer, a-thank you very much.

Not that I'm bitter, believe me, I support my friends in whatever they choose to do with their lives and Christ knows I don't have it all figured out. But we all judge, whether we admit it or not. I, for one, readily and unabashedly admit it. I enjoy quietly (and often, not so quietly) judging other people, and I'm not ashamed. Do with that what you will. In the meantime, I'm off to plan my next adventure, Indiana Jones style. I'll let you know how that works out.