Note to all -- Remind me not to mention Hollywood It Girls in my entries anymore, so as not to piss off all the googlers looking for pictures and gossip on said It Girl. Remind me especially not to mention said It Girl’s boobs, for as flattering as the site traffic may be, all those hits are not for me. They are for the It Girl’s breasts.
And now, a sort of montage: Imagine a really great, really mournful-but-cool-in-an-indie-rocker-way song playing, but not one that’s depressing or lame or has been used in Gap and Volkswagon commercials. No Belle and Sebastion…maybe some Beck. Anyway, it’s down-tempo because lately, I have been too.
First, picture me frantically checking my email and phone messages several times a day in hopes of being contacted by prospective employers who have received my [full of appropriate experience] resume. Now, a series of shots of me, dejected as I put down the phone and turn away from the computer. The outfit changes but the mopey fucking frown stays the same.
Then, a happier scene – we see me walking on a beautiful semi-spring day, sunglasses on, through a beautiful neighborhood, past lovely townhouses. I cross Flatbush Avenue, officially entering new territory. I walk past the Brooklyn Academy of Music, marveling at the brownstones rising along Lafayette Avenue. I arrive at my friend Amy’s apartment, just one block away from Fort Greene Park. She greets me with hot tea. I am smitten with the neighborhood and want to move immediately. We cut immediately to me, again at the computer, scanning real estate ads and wondering how Fort Greene can be more expensive than Brooklyn Heights. The dejection appears again as Beck murmurs on the soundtrack of my stupid week.
We see my husband come home, see me making lovely dinners for him and feeling proud and domestic and accomplished. We see me gesturing to the computer, which is open to a web page with the now-familiar real estate brokerage logo splashed across the top. We see Kent shaking his head as I gesture more emphatically. I reach for a calculator; nodding, as if to say, We can so afford it! We see Kent get frustrated, then we cut to him laying in bed reading his GQ while I stare at the closet, hating every single piece of clothing I own.
Next, on another bright morning, Kent and I are walking up Park Avenue, then crossing on 68th towards Madison. The tulips are nearly blooming, the sun is shining, and the townhouses are immaculate. We meet friends of my family for brunch at an intimate and lovely restaurant on 73rd. The streets are packed with filthy rich people. It’s depressing. People are assholes. We pass an asshole pushing a dog in a baby buggy. We pass some asshole kids wearing blazers and talking on cell phones. We hate the East Side. We thank our patrons for the beautiful brunch and escape back to Brooklyn. Cue the rain clouds, cue the wind. We see Kent and me shivering along Court Street, and then ducking into our favorite bakery for coffee and cupcakes.
Later than same night, we’re drinking liberal amounts of red wine and watching The Sopranos. I’m wearing sweat pants and no shoes. The adorable, pointy-toed shoes of death I wore to brunch earlier are nowhere to be seen. We’re happy.
We see me frantically running errands on Tuesday, lugging home groceries and sending my mother her birthday present. I cook all afternoon, I’m in a rhythm in the kitchen, dinner is great and I even roasted beets. Beets! I am feeling pleased with myself, as I had assumed that the beets I bought the previous week would sit in the fridge, mocking me, until I absolutely had to throw their wilted selves out. But see both Kent and I eating the beets I roasted. I am a good wife.
The next night I rush home from work, in a hurry to get to my Cooking Club. I find the dog sleeping, exhausted after having chewed up 4 pair of Kent’s shoes, plus one shirt and three shoe trees. I am mad at her, but secretly think she may have taught Kent a valuable lesson about putting things in their proper place. We see me scold her, but then hug and kiss her because she is cute and small, and has possibly prevented me from becoming a nag about the shoes Kent leaves strewn about. I grab the goat cheese cheesecake I made for Cooking Club and dash – in the rain – to BritGirl’s apartment. Dinner is lovely, although I feel underdressed and in need of a new hairstyle. See me contemplate bangs. I serve the cheesecake with a thyme-infused honey, which impresses all. I come home, full of wine and good cheer, to find Kent slouched on the sofa. He didn’t get accepted to Harvard.
Cut to him and me having dinner earlier tonight, me trying to make him feel better, him clearly feeling like shit. Cut to me packing for my trip to Seattle, eager for a little holiday. See me pack the camera and swear this time that I will use it.
…and fade out, as Beck quiets down for the night.