It's hard to believe that it's been one month since the ominously dubbed Attack on America. It seems like a million years ago, and at the same time, it seems like it just happened yesterday. But I guess that's how tragedy is.
After my mom died, I walked around amazed at all the other people carrying on with their lives as though nothing horrible had happened. Of course, nothing bad had happened to them. But this is different. This happened to all of us. We keep getting told to carry on as usual, but there's nothing usual about our lives now.
I've been reading tons of stories about people hooking up over the last few weeks—exes crawling outta the woodwork, casual relationships turned suddenly serious, marriage proposals—the whole nine. My buddy Rebecca started seeing a college professor she met on nerve.com, and she swears the relationship is progressing faster than usual simply because the specter of death is looming over them like a black-clad Cupid. Another friend, Cybele, has decided to take back her completely undeserving ex-husband; she claims one has nothing to do with the other, but all of her friends are praying her forgiveness wears off once the terror fades.
Jolene thinks everybody's getting tragedy ass but her. She's wrong. I love my boyfriend dearly, but watching people jump off the 80th floor of a burning building didn't exactly set my loins on fire, so there's not much knockin' boots over here at Casa di Dategirl. Clearly I had to find some other distraction.
I experienced the same libido crash after I lost my mom. My then-boyfriend didn't get any for months! I thought back to how I coped then. A couple days after the funeral I was wandering around and found myself at a movie theater. I could've used the time to reflect on life and loss and assorted other crap, but instead I went to the movies— Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the only thing playing. It was silly and fun, and Rutger Hauer's dramatic decline distracted me for a couple hours. So when my friend Rose called the other day to see if I wanted to go to the movies, I knew we'd have to choose carefully.
We quickly ruled out action movies—sensitive gals can't deal with explosions during these troubled times. Comedies were out because, hey, what if it wasn't funny? Then we'd be even more depressed. As we looked through the paper it suddenly became clear what we must see: Glitter—the Mariah Carey vehicle, designed to do for her what Shanghai Surprise did for Ms. M.
Though I'm not a big pothead, it was decided that weed huffing would enhance our viewing experience. Rose came to my office and carefully laid a couple joints in front of me. "This one's sleepy pot, this one's more laughy," she informed me knowingly. We decided on the laughy variety and took a couple hits. Once at the theater, we loaded up on snacks (of course) and made our way in. Much to our surprise, we were the only two there! We could be as loud as we wanted! Then right in the middle of me kicking Rose's ass at the movie trivia questions, some strange man lurched up outta nowhere, sputtered something indecipherable about us escorting him outside, and stood cockeyed while he waited for our reply. "No!" we barked in unison. We watched him stumble out the door and wondered what the hell he had said. "Renee Zellweger!" I suddenly shouted triumphantly, pointing at the screen. Pot is good.
The lights dimmed. It was time for our feature presentation! I won't ruin the plot for you guys, but I will tell you this: Glitter is right up there with Showgirls in the Bad Movie Hall of Fame. OK, it lacks bare nipples or shrieking orgasms, but you will hurt yourselves laughing nonetheless. I was never a Mariah-hater, and now I'll even admit to being a tad fascinated by the woman (her insistence on only being shot and lit from one side takes vanity to new heights, plus there's the whole crazy thing). Mariah has provided a great service to a grieving nation. I urge all of you to go see it immediately.
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