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 Why
is melted cheese so much better?
an emily blunt rant
Why
is melted cheese so much better than cold or room temperature
cheese? Fondue is where it's at…that was all I could think
of as the man - and I use that term in its bitterest form - before
me endlessly plugged himself. If he mentioned his art gallery
one more time I was sticking the stainless steel butter knife
into my head for quick relief…. I was…I was.
Okay,
I guess you'd say the "date" wasn't going well. It's
amazing we were even sitting here since technically he had
made a date, once before, then just disappeared only to eventually
called to apologize a day later and the day after that and the
day after that.
See I'm nice. I still believe in romance…. kind of. Damn
you Gene Kelly and your movies filled with great warm fallible
men!
Again
I did not trust my first instincts - the one that told me this
guy was a narcissistic lying manpig - and I was being reprimanded
by my subconscious as I sat there. Hmm, do they give a self-help
course on "Listening to the Inner You - Avoiding Dreadful
Dates" in the extension course catalog?
All
this suffering could have been avoided because in truth I had
actually decided then he was not for me when he unceremoniously
"blew me off" on the first attempt. That and his big
ego head that came over the phone line. But I decided to be a
woman of the now - hip and string free. I was told this fellow
was a playboy of sorts (which upon meeting him gave me a chuckle)
tall (hilarious) , Italian and rugged. I need to remind
my friend - the one responsible for this union - the actual definition
of rugged. But this description had images of a Robert DeNiro
shaped sugar plumed man dancing in my head - before I met him
that is....so who could resist?
Besides
I had no fear of relationship woes with him. He wouldn't be hanging
around wanting babies or a doting dear. Yep, just some casual
rabid Rhesus monkey sex between consenting adults. Just what I
needed as I have come to the blunt realization that 1. I am cursed
and 2. My knight is lying unconscious - perhaps dead- in a ditch
somewhere and unable to get to me.
Why.
Why did I give this guy a chance? He'd already started with the
mind games on our first vocal encounter the other day on the phone.
He had said " I'll call you when I get back from the gym
and we can meet at my gallery [gallery reference 354 in our very
first phone call no less]." I mean this schmuck actually
screwed up on the pre date -to date -date.
About
930pm as the phone still sat silent and ring free, I figured out
he just wasn't calling back. I took a delightful bubbly bath with
oils and scents and forgot all about the silly boy.
But,
yes he called. He called in a decidedly untimely manner the next
day about 700pm…I figured after a gym visit, after
a day at the gallery, after perhaps an audition and after
a salt rub by a masseuse named Uma. After all these things little
old me and our agreement to meet the night before, somehow popped
into his mind.
I
screen all calls because I'm a bitch and also because I live in
the days of Quakers. No caller ID and a machine that insists on
grabbing it for me by the second ring. Who can get to the line
in two friggin' rings. Not me. So all who call have to deal with
the machine. It's my gatekeeper.
He
says to the gatekeeper that he had forgotten to take my number
with him after he left the gallery [ref: 355] and ended up at
his brothers and…and...and...and….whatever. Then he
says maybe we could catch up tonight. It was 700pm. Hahahah. Odd,
wait, yes, um, he's a liar to boot. See he had said he had plans
tonight last night and that's why he insisted we meet last night
and not tonight like I had preferred. This guy can't look like
DeNiro - God's not that cruel.
I
erased the message.
Next
day about 630pm-700pm - I am starting to realize when this lad
goes to the gym or gets ready for his evening of babes at least
- he calls again. Okay he's obviously never seen Swingers and
learned the etiquette of calling a chickbabe. He was making a
big old faux pas with these continual calls. He's totally annoying
me now.
I
erase the message.
So
why and how am I sitting telling you about the "date?"
Why was I there being phony with him?
Simple,
he tricked me in a moment of weakness. I am famous for it so he
gets no points. He called a third time - with out spacing a day-
this meant one of two things; he was either not use to not having
his calls returned by people, or he was genuinely sorry.
I
was told he was a part-time actor on top off it all so I kind
of knew it was the first but the friend who said I should meet
him used words like "rugged" and "Italian"
when describing him. I am only human. When he himself threw in
that he was " 6'2 "' I was a goner. I owed it to myself.
Remember I am in a
city (Los Angeles) where Al Pacino is considered a tad tall and
finding a beau that can reach up to a counter without a booster
seat is a keeper! I'll go. I'll go.
Cursed
from the beginning, I called back and lamely explained I'd been
busy and I couldn't call back by the time I'd gotten back in….blah…blah….blah.
I tried to match each of his excuses from memory; it made my have
a little laugh; he was oblivious of course. I recoiled as he got
cocky and said "so, your blonde and blue eyed...we could
meet at my gallery [ are you counting?] ...what do you weigh?"
What? Huh? Why? Big Mistake Mountain exit up ahead...
Why was I here?
Still I was off to meet him. Call it morbid curiosity.
Call it borderline masochism. Call it plain old stupid. Ho hum.
I get to the rendezvous - not his gallery - and there's no parking.
I mean NO parking. Being the Queen of Hollywood Traffic Court
I was determined to get a safe spot. He can wait. I finally got
one twenty minutes later and who's sneaking to his car….
well someone I figured was him from the dreaded "headshot"
of him the friend shared with me. But wait! Date Man's not six
foot two. How do you do! He's five foot seven - and that's
being generous. What a dickhead. Did he think I wouldn't notice?
I smiled and asked if he was he, and, he was he. Eek and argh
and yech. Plus he has an uncanny resemblance to Roy Scheider the
guy from Jaws! Well, before the nine thousand face-lifts...I'll
give him that.
I
am an academy award-winning actress - at least I should be. I
smiled professionally and said sorry for the tardy arrival. Then
I thought but regretfully didn't say, "perhaps I should just
go…my rudely being late and all…. certainly you need
to get to the gym, yoga class, chi cleaning, colon wash or something
trendy, expensive and superficially LA, no?" Instead I followed
him in for coffee.
Wasn't it Deepak Chopra that said "be true to yourself for
positive karma" or was it " to thy own self be true
and run away while you still can woman?"
We
sat. I babbled like I do when I am on autopilot and uncomfortable.
I pretended as did he, to care about the conversation but I was
drifting. I was gone. I was thinking to myself as his mouth moved...all
that laundry…. the auction on Ebay for a collection of mint
78's ends in half of an hour I hope I'm still top bidder...say
I didn't know this place's ceiling tile were so artful - wow,
would ya look at that - they are really autumn leaves on
glass…never noticed before….
Then
Date Man started celebrity name-dropping about his clientele in
the gallery [reference: 357]. Oh no I had bored the man to point
of the last desperate attempt to convince himself he's a superstar
achiever by dragging in celebrity names? This is Hollywood we
all deal with "them."
What
happened next I really could have counted down to - one, two,
three - in seconds I mean. There's one person that my friends
and acquaintances know is verboten when it comes to attacks of
the gossipy kind. I don't like that talk anyway but this
one's got a special place in my heart. The fellow I most admire.
Naturally Date Man went right for him. Of all the people.
He
says, "[So-and-so] deals with me. Well my gallery [ref: 358]
and he was a cheap guy." I stabbed the plastic cream cup
by accident….
No-
no please don't start the weird bad-mouthing-to-seem-cool ploy.
Please. Of course I was able to decipher the truth through
our mutual friend's description of Date Boy and his demeanor to
that point. If the truth were told Date Boy's stuff is over trendy
and over priced. I said, "Hmm. Perhaps, [so-and-so] didn't
always have a lot of money…or maybe he doesn't like to be
taken advantage of. You know being stupid and paying double for
something may work for your run of the mill celeb that's flying
high on the wealth gig but he's a smart Joe I hear. Probably just
knew of its inflated value."
After
he stopped mentally pounding my head against the table till it
was bloody mush he said,
"Oh no, I like the guy. He ended up buying a whole
slew of old New York photos from me - with a discount of course."
Why
did I stick up for someone I don't even know? Ah, I always do.
I'm a Libra. Plus I just knew this guy was F.O.S.. Truth? I disliked
this goober so much I would have defended Madonna on a shopping
spree. I was determined to be oil to his vinegar at this point.
Entertain myself with a bit of verbal sparing. Then again it was
late and there was that Ebay auction to think about…
The
best part of this whole hideous night was the irony of his last
few moments of erroneous behavior ...after I started to yawn openly
- a subtle hint - we go to leave. I offer to pitch in on the bill
and he takes three dollars from his wallet throws it on
the table and says, "That will cover a tea a coffee and the
tip." CHEAP? CHEAP? I'm sorry, Mr. Negative Nellie,
weren't you just badmouthing somebody about their being cheap?
I wanted so badly to reach into my pocketbook and throw a ten
on the table. We had coffee, tea, and the waitress' time = ten
bucks. But, as we have a mutual friend and trumping a "tip"
is a social no no I decided to feel evil and just follow him out.
I felt terrible and CHEAP.
So
as if I didn't dislike this Dennis Farina voiced carp of a man
enough…. he stops at the pastry counter orders a cheese Danish
but has to throw in…"I usually don't eat these things…I
watch what I eat. They're very fattening and unhealthy."
I had to bite my tongue. Mr. Five Foot Seven Inches looked a tad
anorexic for all his trips to the gym. He should have three Danish,
maybe a ream of ruggala too. Guys that worry about Danish consumption
are not my type. I eat what I want, exercise as I wish, drink
what I will. I was brought up with hearty calorie fearless parents
and a second mother from Sicily that insisted a bowl of pasta
was just an appetizer. We ate. So if I had found him remotely
attractive that alone would forbid me for every seeing
him again. Can't you hear room service, " No sir we don't
have no-sugar no-additive marmalade or Lo-carb flax seed toast
I'm afraid." Wait this is LA they do.
Geeze
I hope he calls…
TAH!
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