This weekend, my sister and I watched Fake Fiance on Lifetime (mostly because neither of us could find the remote and... you know) - and like all Lifetime movies in which the title gives away the plot (I don't want to ruin it, but there's a fake fiance involved) here's a valuable lesson I learned about us single women in our 30s: if you're still looking for true love, first become a crazy bitchface (men love being treated badly! It reminds them of football!) until the wedding day, when your ex-teen 90s heartthrob/fake-boyfriend you hired from the internet will realize it's YOU he's been looking for this whole time. And then...true love abounds! Hurrah! Marriage! Babies! Golden Anniversary! This plan is flawless!
Okay. So in all seriousness guys, here's the really sad thing about this God-awful TV romp starring Middle Aged Version of Clarissa Explains It All and Distinguished Version of Blossom's Older Brother Joey (Remember how ripped his jeans were and how floppy his hair? Oh Joey Lawerence, you beautiful, aged, sitcom Adonis...) Anyway. The Bad Idea portion of my brain actually at one point said to itself, "Dude, why are you not all over this?? You should be taking out an ad on Craigslist! You should buy a husband! You can afford it - maybe not a good one, but at the very least a workable model that requires little maintenance."
(FYI: the bad idea portion of my brain is sort of like the 13 year old version of me -just with poor hand-eye coordination, no patience at all, and extreme ADHD, and also prone to things like driving her best friend's station wagon without a license into a neighbor's front yard, and/or stealing SHARP CURVE road signs from the embankment by the canal, all the while insisting, "nothing bad will come of this!")
(True stories, all.)
So what does this mean to me, given my long history of pulling batshit crazy ideas from the people inside my TV? Well, on the one hand, pop culture has taught me that there are many creative (i.e: unusually degrading and stupid) ways to ensure that men will rain over me, like the great Donna Summer once sang about.
For instance, I could become the accident prone but beautiful assistant to a wealthy, insufferable buisnessman, or maybe the accident prone but beautiful maid for a prestigious NY Hotel - but that's only if I'm looking for Hugh Grant. Or Jennifer Lopez. Or just a scathing review from Roger Ebert. But on the other hand, while I am naturally quite accident prone (a plus in the romantic comedy world!), I am not quite at the Danger Zone Level of Desperate Retard - yet. But on the third hand (some people have these) I'm also spending my Sunday nights couch-hugging with my sister, earnestly watching Lifetime. So who am I to say what strategies work or don't work? Maybe the fake fiance plan IS flawless. Maybe I'm the idiot for not having thought of it myself. (As otherwise I've become one of Marge Simpson's spinster older sisters.) But whatever the case, bottomline is most of the lessons I've learned about love I've learned from the fictional world of TV and movies - and all have been super helpful.
So. Here's a selection of those lessons about how to find True Love (or The One!), courtesy of Time Warner Cable, insomnia, a random selection of movies I feel compelled to watch every single time they're on - usually around 3 in the morning - and the advice lady in my brain, who I imagine looks like Lily Tomlin:
If you want to fall in love, first go to a Southern barbeque and wear a low-cut bodice and giant hoop-skirt and flirt like a whore with every man in sight. Sure, being an unfair cocktease is way hard- pun totally intended! - but it does serve a purpose in the end - especially with a war on and men dying before you can get your flirting on. But of course, the most important thing is to make sure the hottest, douchiest guy in the room (i.e: the one you really want) catches you doing something endearing but retarded - like wearing fancy, low-cut curtains to jail to extort money, for instance, or selling yourself in marriage to anyone for any reason, good or bad. (After all, a woman's greatest weapon is her heaving bosom.) So. After your many husbands eventually die tragically for reasons that will mostly be blamed on you, your one true love (not one of your husbands, but this douchebag dude) will be so desperate to catch you before you hooker yourself again, he'll ask for your hand in marriage. Score!
SCORECARD: Total Fail. War just changes people, yo. Also, Rhett leaves Scarlett on the stairs, and the last line of the movie is "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (Which in my book really just tends to mean, "Chase after me because I know rejecting you in a douchy way only makes you want me more!" but again... my track record with men is like -5, not including the guys who were straight before they dated me.)If you want to fall in love, first become a hooker. (This totally works! Ask anyone!) Flash your shit somewhat half-heartedly - or until a luxury car pulls up and a ruggedly handsome rich dude invites you to his hotel room for approximately 5-7 fully paid days - or until he catches you doing something endearing but retarded: singing Prince in a bathtub, telling old people at the Opera you peed your pants (adorable), doing the Arsenio whoop at a Polo match (adorable squared), or just having sex with a lot of men for money (adorable cubed). All of these (including the paid blow jobs) are acceptable methods of wooing. And besides, what rich handsome millionaire wouldn't want to 'save' his nerdy, doofy hooker? (Don't answer that, Tiger Woods.) BOOM! Happily ever after!
SCORECARD: FAIL - hooker is redeemed but man notices burning sensation when he pees. Herpes medication needed for sustainability.
If you want to fall in love, first find yourself a tiny farm where you can treat your dreamy British farm assistant like assface (remember: men love being treated badly!) until you're kidnapped by a prince and a six-fingered man. But more specifically - just imperil yourself on a daily basis until you manage something endearing but really retarded - like selling yourself in marriage to a REALLY rich dude, because again, a woman's only weapon is her body. What you'll eventually realize is that men like you best when you're just a pretty vessel for bejewled gowns. Also, that true love means coming back from the dead and jumping out of a window onto a horse. Seriously. Or else it's needing men to come to your rescue every fifteen seconds. Or something. (Men love rescuing damsels! It reminds them of their childhood obsession with Superman!)
SCORECARD: FAIL. Repetitive piracy and kidnapping needed for sustainability.
(Sidenote: The Princess Bride is otherwise awesome. Period and end of sentence. "Never mess with a Sicilian! Especially when death is on the line!" "ROUSes? Rodents of Unusual Size? I don't think they exist." "I have a kingdom to run, a wedding to plan, a wife to murder, and Gilder to frame for it. I'm swamped." Go watch it NOW, guys. And then learn from it and find a swarthy farmhand with a kick-ass British accent to treat badly and fuck your brains out.)
If you want to fall in love, first move into a high-rise posessed by a fifteenth century demon so you can mack on the first charming doofy idiot with a bulging proton pack who breezes through your front door. Play aggressive and hard to get with him. If that doesn't work, play the Posessed by a Fifteenth Century Doberman Pincher card. This will be your big chance to let him catch you doing something endearing but retarded - like having returned to the very same apartment where eggs fried themselves on the counter and sinister demons beckoned from the fridge (FYI: men love saving you from demons and your own stupidity! It makes them feel like they're in a video game!) This is how you'll get him to rescue you on the first date (women always need rescuing! We can't fall in love otherwise!) and carry you down 120 flights of stairs into a ticker-tape parade. And by the way - not at all lofty to expect a ticker tape parade. We women expect unwieldy pomp and circumstance. Also, shiny things and men who will save us from giant marshmallow men.
SCORECARD: FAIL. Demons and kidnapping needed on date night for sustainability. Case in point: are Dana and Peter together at the beginning of Ghostbusters 2? No? Exactly.
(Sidenote: Ghostbusters 1? And Ghostbusters 2? Awesome squared. "That's right, your honor. This man has no dick." "It's a river of slime!" "Being miserable and treating other people like shit is every New Yorker's God given right!" FYI: I refuse to believe it's so wrong to put myself out there and expect Peter Venkman to show up. As in, sometimes I sit in the NY Public Library and wait for him to come busting in. ONE DAY HE WILL, GUYS.)
If you want to fall in love, first lose the bra, super-glue Cinnabons to your head, and move to a galaxy far far away. This for sure always works, you guys. And while you're at it, you'll want to spend some time kidnapped - because while you are a badass space renegade, you are first and foremost a lovely damsel with interesting, dessert-shaped hair. So. Now all you have to do is insult the guy who comes to save you (Remember: men love girls who insult them and shoot at them! It reminds them of playing paintball!) until finally you've been rescued and imperiled so much you're exhausted, and you realize it's time to play the Super-Slutty Gold Bikini card, and.... so, okay, any time you whip out your tits, that'll do it. For men in space or anywhere else.
SCORECARD: FAIL - Intergallactic war, cinnabon stylists and the perpetual perky breasts of a twenty-five year old needed for sustainability.
(Sidenote: All implied misogyny aside, if any of you out there in cyberland have still not seen Star Wars, you are dead to me.)
If you want to fall in love, spend at least one summer frolicking on a California beach where all the gayishly handsome and vocally promising gang members like to hang. Work your wiles on just one of them and follow him everywhere - like from your home in Australia to a hip American high school where you can express your love in the style of 50s pop (or what the 70s is sure 50s pop sounds like.) Eventually you can go insane and your harmonious gang member will catch you doing something endearing but retarded - like changing every single thing about yourself to suit whatever you think he wants. In the end he'll be so enchanted by your crazy leather pants, the two of you will fly off into the sunset together.
SCORECARD: Total Fail. High school romances never work for various reasons - usually youthful stupidity. In this case, death by flying car. (Or a little from column A and a little from column B.) It's always something. Still. Go Grease Lightning!
If you want to fall in love, become a hooker and find yourself another mother-effing hooker. (Duh, mofos. DUH.) But seriously - go ahead and become a hooker. There's a reason this one's in here twice, ladies - IT WORKS. So go nuts! Throw crazy parties in your swank Upper East Side apartment, wear awesome clothes bought for you by skeevy pervs, and spend your days as a completely irresponsible, money-grubbing slutbag. Eventually a male hooker/writer will come along and hear you doing something endearing yet retarded - like playing an adorable banjo on a windowsill. Or, I don't know, lying about your past, ripping up your apartment in a blind psychotic break, or scheming to wed royalty from Mexico (Men love obvious mental instability! It reminds them of their moms!) In the end he'll be so taken with your slutty insanity he'll help you chase after your pussy (cat) in the rain. (And who doesn't love a wet pussy[cat])?
Scorecard: FAIL. Too many dueling STDs; non-hookerish behavior required on behalf of both hookers for sustainability.
So in the end, all I'm saying is I'm romantically screwed, you guys. And not in a good way either. Romantically SCREWED.
(Upside: Hot Tub Time Machine is coming in the mail any day now. I.e: Time travel love! Hurrah!)
That's all.
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