Every once in a while, I get into a mood. Yeah, I know, it’s surprising. Generally, this mood comes not long after certain festivities have been engaged in, so it’s not that I’ve gone without and am hurting, or anything. I think there’s really only one word to describe it, so I might as well: Randy.
I can enter into this fantasy world wherein the men that are the eye-candy of the moment are ripe for the taking. And because this is purely a fantasy world, I don’t have to adhere to any morals, whatsoever, meaning simply that the usual boundaries of life are non-existent. There’s no realness to the word (or act of) cheating, every situation calls for a different co-star and did I mention? They’re all celebrities of some sort? Oh, and I’m not a single parent – or if I am, it’s not an issue in any sort of normal sense.
It’s my fantasy world. It could totally happen. Shut up.
Thus I give you, what will never be, but could so happen if the stars aligned:
Obviously, I’m married. To Jason Mraz. Because we all need a little bit of a hippy dood in our *ahem* lives. A hippy dood who would probably be happy to take you in the middle of a hiking trail, wax nostalgic about that other hiking trail, and then serenade you while you lie half naked in a hilly meadow with the sunlight streaming down.
Did I mention the yoga aspect? And the fact that we two individuals already come with bedhead? Truth be told, in this fantasy, we’re soul mates who can’t not hold hands, even when we’re just sitting on a porch, sipping some tea, watching squirrels gathering nuts for the winter.
But you know, he’s gotta go on tour – he is a rather successful musician. Which leaves me at home, sad and lonely, which means I need some company to get my mind off of myself. But instead of company, I initially turn to the bottle, because what else is a (fantasy) woman supposed to do when her soul mate is gone for an extended time? Practice her downward dog? No. First, Jack Daniels perks me up. Long enough to text Gregory House.
(not Hugh Laurie. House.)
Because I’m feeling self-loathing and melancholy, only one type of man will fill the, um, void. And that’s the limping wounded, narcissistic, all together too intelligent type with an unspoken appreciation for boobs and flexibility, and the want to not discuss feelings. He could leave his cane at the door and leave within a few hours.
But now, I’m bummed out, because not only is my soul mate gone, but I’ve just engaged in drunken, meaningless sex and had these really horrible (fantastic) orgasms with House. And I’m still drunk. So I pass out after drunk texting my buddy, Zach Braff, to see if he wants to hang out in the AM. Because I know he’ll pick me up, with his goofy, sideways-smiling kind of ways.
He does. I laugh out loud so many times as we’re sipping designer coffees on my porch after picking up munchies and enough movies to qualify as whatever is longer than a marathon. A decathlon?
But you know, that whole friends with men thing doesn’t tend to stay all neat and clean and then there’s an awkward moment when watching Joe Vs. The Volcano when I look over at him on the couch and he’s looking at me, and our smiles fade a little bit. The next thing you know, we’re making out like two teenagers who are. just. so excited to be making out. period.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t go much past that, but you know, that’s also surprisingly okay and happy and all good in the *ahem* hood.
A few days later, I’m on my way home from Whole Foods, just running errands – returning those movies from the other night, grabbing a coffee, the like – when I get an insatiable urge to go shopping. For a fabulous outfit to wear. Thank god for cell phones, because I call those dearest and dearest and arrangements are made while I’m waiting for the sales chick at the closest BCBG/Max Azria to find a short, spaghetti strapped ruched little thing in my size. I’ve got enough time to find amazing emerald green shoes and get my hair did into two messy french braids.
9:30 rolls around and Miss walks into the lounge we’ve elected for pre-club drinks in a black Guess sheath. I might as well just go home with her tonight, right? But then, Red Lotus Mama walks in dressed to the 13s in a jersey wrap dress by Issa London. (She surpassed the nines, definitely.) I’ve got a conundrum. How do I have a relaxed, fun evening, when these clothes on my friends has made the temperature rise about 15 degrees?
Did I mention that I live in SoCal in this fantasy world? Yeah. I do.
I chuck back two drinks to each of theirs. It’s hot in here, I was thirsty, alright? And we roll out 90 minutes later, grabbing me a fresh pack of smokes on the way.
Waved through the line, we’re in a club that makes the phrase ‘hard to hear’ an under-statement – the bass is throbbing, the lights are perfectly lit and there are beautiful babies all over the damn place. It’s money. I’m going to need another drink to go with my tequila and smoke.
Speaking of smoke, I drop it. And while I’m figuring out how to stand back up without flashing the entire club my girly bits, someone bumps into said girly bits, knocking me nearly off my stilettos. But it’s okay, because that clumsy Ryan Reynolds catches me before I could nose dive onto what is likely not a fabulously clean floor. And he feels so guilty.
We get the invite to hang at the table he’s got, off behind the velvet ropes.
Yeah, we could be fan-girls but we’re not really like that, despite the fact that Orlando Bloom is sitting at a table across the room from us, I know what Ryan looks like half naked and well, there’s a few other people in the room that I won’t go name-dropping about.
Ryan and I’ve got a shitload of stuff to chat about, since we’re from virtually the same neighbourhood, just a few years apart. There’s all of those six-degrees moments in our childhoods when we would have just missed meeting each other.
C’est une soir magnifique, because two hours later, I’m comfortably drunk with my feet up on the chair beside me, chatting like we go way back. Miss wandered over to Mr. Bloom a little while ago, apparently in search of a lighter since both of us drinking means we both lose our Bics – she didn’t come back, so I can only assume she’s having a great time, too. According to my text messages, 15 minutes ago, he was a really good kisser, so.
I’m not sure where Red Lotus Mama travelled off to, honestly. She’s discreet, like a secret weapon, that way. My bet is, she’s on her way to the best whatever, ever, with the hottest guy, ever and we’ll never know about it. She’s classy, you know?
Within another half hour, the VIP room is technically closed for business, the curtains have been drawn and no one’s coming in until they’re signalled to do so, apparently. I’ve climbed into the lap of my fellow ex-pat, still wearing the stilettos, but with my dress hiked a little higher, right where he left it. He tells me to stop what I’m doing, which was going for the finish line.
I can’t help but be a little annoyed until he changes positions with me, drawing those uncomfortable but glaringly hot emerald shoes over his shoulders – and not coming up for air until I’m done. Because apparently, you can take the boy out of Canada, but you can’t take the Canada out of the boy – we’re known for being polite here and for believing that ladies always go first, eh?
