Saturday, May 31, 2008

Sex and the City

In an odd twist of fate, I found myself in an estrogen cluster-fuck last night at the premiere of the Sex and the City movie. Well, maybe it wasn’t so much a twist of fate as me dropping the ball and not getting tickets for my friend and her crew whose idea it was to go to see SATC on opening night in the first place. As usual, the drama started before I even got to the theatre. It was all just a horrible case of miscommunication. She thought I was getting tickets for everyone, and I thought everyone was getting their own. Of course, by the time we sorted it out, it was too late, the movie was sold out, she and her friends found themselves sexless in the city, and me and my two girl friends, whose arms I twisted to brave the estrogen party I knew was coming that night, were in a theatre with about a million other women and wannabe women. There were Charlottes, Carries, Mirandas, Samanthas, and even a Stanford or two, all desperate to get a little Sex back in their lives. When the lights went down, the whole theatre erupted in applause. And then again when the catchy little theme song filled the room. If this kept up, I was definitely going to have to duck out and join the boyfriends at Iron Man across the hall.


Despite my reservations, the movie was actually pretty good. I laughed as much, if not more, as when I was at home watching the TV show. One scene in particular with Charlotte in Mexico and an unfortunate absence of bathrooms almost had me rolling on the floor. Miranda was even crankier than usual, and Carrie was the same punny Carrie with the same Big issues she’s had for twenty-some years now. But it was Samantha who stole the show. That diva must have kicked some gay writer ass to get all of the best one-liners in the movie.


In the end, the girls (with one exception) wound up pretty much in the same spots they’d been in when the series ended. As much as I love the girls (and their shoes), there is absolutely nowhere else the writers can take us with them. The core of the series was about a group of single women in NY trying to find love. And they finally found it. End of story. Did ya hear that, Darren Star? END of story. THE END. And if you could pass the message along to Indie Jones while you're at it, that'd be great.

Thursday, May 8, 2008

Match.com on, You've Gotta be Kidding Me

So Match.com claims to have about six hundred men in my age group and location who are ready to date available, super cute women such as myself. This statistic is a bit misleading, however, when you factor in the number of men who are gay, emotionally unavailable, and/or just plain weird, all of whom I’ve dated. Taking these factors into consideration, what we have left is about 50-100 guys who all love the Red Sox, beer, and going to Southie for a wicked pissah of a time.

Now, I have nothing against gay men. I just don’t want to date them. But this is an impossible situation to avoid if you’re on Match. There must be some kind of find-a-beard cabal in this city that has infiltrated the online dating community because I swear I have met just about as many gay men on Match as straight (and I’m not even counting the guy who waxes his eyebrows and highlights his hair as gay). I finally got a clue after a month and a half of dating one guy that he might bat for the other team (go Sox!) when he stared at my good friend’s boyfriend all through dinner. Well, that and he complimented my new Coach bag for having a really great lining. Yeah. ‘Cause that’s what all the men are talking about at the bar during guys’ night out over a Bud. Purse lining.

The emotionally unavailable men are just as fun. They’re the ones who have baggage from the past: an ex-girlfriend they just broke up with, being teased as a child, a mother who put him in a harness until the age of thirteen because he kept wandering off whenever they’d go outside … yes, I’ve dated them all too; in fact, just a few days ago. I had a wonderful date with a guy who was cute, charming, smart, had great taste in music, not to mention a doctor. We talked for hours, I met his friends, we kissed goodnight—I was on cloud nine just thinking about all the free medical advice I was going to get without having to rush to the hospital for self-diagnosed appendicitis with every gas pain I felt. But, alas, it was not meant to be, as the next day he said he “forgot” to tell me about this “pretty rough” break up of his … I’ll spare the details, but it did kind of make me want to pull out the world’s smallest violin and play it just for him. Seriously. Where did all these weenie men come from? If they’re not gay, they’re weeping over a lost girlfriend who most likely broke up with them because they were too damn emotional.

The weird ones are probably my favorite group of Match men. I once had a guy whose nose started to bleed over a bowl of fries while were at dinner. And then proceeded to eat the fries. Another guy was talking about some chick flick—I think it might’ve been Steel Magnolias—and then started weeping at the table. Wait. He might need to go in the emotionally unavailable group. No, on second thought, his problem was that he was too emotionally available.

So today I got an e-mail from a really sweet-sounding, intelligent, cute, professional ... woman. If this isn’t a sign from the heavens that I need to end my membership, I don’t know what is.