I Wanna Be Joan Cusack

2003-04-12 - 2:24 p.m.

'saturday morning cooking shows'

PBS is amazing on Saturday mornings. It's all hours and hours of cooking shows. Strange people making strange food I'd probably never eat, let alone stand over my stove trying to make. But, it's entertaining and oddly comforting nonetheless. Right now I'm chillaxing with the chef who actually beat 'the Iron Chef.' And that's mighty impressive. That's something all right.

So last night I got found out and ended up going to the birthday extravaganza. Which consisted of theater people and band people and me. I'm the misfit. And I'm ok with that. It was actually pretty fun. Some of those theater kids are as hot as they are uninteresting. Did I just say that? I'm a bitch.

So about Mason. And you thought I forgot.

My last encounter with him obviously left me disgusted. And sadly disappointed. I felt like I found him out. Like I caught him in this lie. And it left me reeling, because it made me realize who he really is -- a twenty-six year-old guy. A dude. A cliche. The kind of guy who would call up a random girl in the middle of the night and say, 'When was the last time you got laid? Don't you think it's about that time?' For him, I am that random girl. And to know that is all I needed to end my infatuation with him completely. The single cleanest-cut ending I've ever had to this sort of thing.

I saw him last night for the first time since the phone call that destroyed the illusion.

And the first thing he says to me is 'Why is your phone off?' Not 'hello.' Not 'it's been awhile, it's nice to see you.' Not 'I'm sorry for assuming that it was ok to talk to you like a whore.' It was 'Why is your phone off?' Which is ludicrous in just so many ways. I asked him what number he's been calling and he reads me some 602 number. A number so far from mine that it may as well have been a zip code. He got through to me before, so now I see that he's not only an asshole, but a liar besides.

My disgust in him keeps mounting, like the disgust I have for myself for not recognizing it all before. For not seeing the field of red-flags waving before me like endless rows of angry wheat. Maybe I'm just seeing in him the things I never let myself see in JD. Maybe they don't even exist. Maybe I'm just projecting. All I know for sure is I'm so over him. The whole damn thing.

And as all these things are fist-fighting for dominance in my head last night, he drops his notepad on the table and the first page is filled with a hastily-scribbled chicken-scratched poem. Something that a few weeks ago would have made me go awwww. But now just seems sad and like another lie to add to his arsenal. It's not enough. And I wonder sometimes if anything ever will be.

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