Someday, I'm Going to Marry That Woman!
Sorry my old acerbic self has deprived you of your regular shot of piss and vinegar for the last few days. Recent events have left me preoccupied, and I've been trying to preoccupy myself from THOSE events by slurping my way to the bottom of several very, very large martini glasses. Needless to say, between the preoccupations and the hangovers, there's hardly any time to blog.
But I found a little inspiration for my vitriol this weekend in the Times Magazine's profile on Meredith Vieira. I read it sitting in Washington Square Park on this most recent, perfect Sunday morning as I waited for my old friend D. to go get brunch. I liked the profile fine overall, but at one point I nearly spit my coffee across the park. Speaking of Vieira's voice, and her husband, and how they met, the article says:
"It’s the voice you notice first. A smooth contralto of a voice, with notes of amusement and empathy. A naughty, wholesome contradiction of a voice. It was the voice that a young news producer named Richard Cohen heard long before he met its owner. Vieira was a newbie reporter in the Chicago bureau of CBS News back then, and when her words, coming off an audio feed, filled a New York studio, Cohen turned to a colleague and announced, “I am going to marry that woman.” They just celebrated their 20th anniversary."
OH WOULD YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A MOTHERFUGGIN' BREAK?!
The last time I looked at someone and thought, "I'm going to marry that man," fifteen minutes after meeting him, the only thing to become of it was him walking away down Park Avenue, never to be seen -- nor heard from -- again. What a bunch of horse shit. The one hopeful romantic ember in me that hasn't been snuffed or squashed yet (although give it a few months, it's on its last, wobbly, polio-stricken legs) would like to think that someday someone -- and this time, someone without an eyepatch -- will look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" But what's more likely to happen is that I'll meet someone, we'll fitfully date for a few years, decide we more or less love each other, and get hitched. I mean, let's be realistic. Or, as has been the case in the past, I'll dump them because I laughably aspire to having someone look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" instead of something as pedestrian as what we have.
How many times am I going to have to read and re-read this stupid cliche quote anyway? I think it should be banned from the Sunday Styles wedding announcements, the New York Observer's "Love Beat," and all other similar columns. Please don't anyone ever again tell me that you just looked at someone and knew that someday you'd marry them. I just can't take it anymore.
Huffing in utter disbelief in "love at first sight" as I stomped out of the park Sunday, I tried to distract myself by catching up with D., whom I hadn't seen since my return from Colorado. He had a new girlfriend, S., and I sensed things were progressing quickly.
"How are things going with S.?" I asked.
D. -- perpetually girlfriend-less in the five years I've known him -- proceeded to gush and moon and fawn all the way down Thompson Street. People in love are so annoying. But, being the good friend I am, I gamely I nodded along, genuinely happy he was finally happy. But then he dropped the bomb: They were moving in together. After three months.
"Erin, it's just crazy," D. said. "But it's true -- WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW."
Curbing the urge to run to the very next mesh trash bin and vomit at the SECOND well-worn love cliche of the morning, I smiled, patted him on the arm, and offered my congratulations.
And then, I soldiered on toward brunch, committed to finding -- if not love at first sight -- at least a decent plate of eggs and for God's sake, a few ameliorative Bloody Marys.
But I found a little inspiration for my vitriol this weekend in the Times Magazine's profile on Meredith Vieira. I read it sitting in Washington Square Park on this most recent, perfect Sunday morning as I waited for my old friend D. to go get brunch. I liked the profile fine overall, but at one point I nearly spit my coffee across the park. Speaking of Vieira's voice, and her husband, and how they met, the article says:
"It’s the voice you notice first. A smooth contralto of a voice, with notes of amusement and empathy. A naughty, wholesome contradiction of a voice. It was the voice that a young news producer named Richard Cohen heard long before he met its owner. Vieira was a newbie reporter in the Chicago bureau of CBS News back then, and when her words, coming off an audio feed, filled a New York studio, Cohen turned to a colleague and announced, “I am going to marry that woman.” They just celebrated their 20th anniversary."
OH WOULD YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A MOTHERFUGGIN' BREAK?!
The last time I looked at someone and thought, "I'm going to marry that man," fifteen minutes after meeting him, the only thing to become of it was him walking away down Park Avenue, never to be seen -- nor heard from -- again. What a bunch of horse shit. The one hopeful romantic ember in me that hasn't been snuffed or squashed yet (although give it a few months, it's on its last, wobbly, polio-stricken legs) would like to think that someday someone -- and this time, someone without an eyepatch -- will look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" But what's more likely to happen is that I'll meet someone, we'll fitfully date for a few years, decide we more or less love each other, and get hitched. I mean, let's be realistic. Or, as has been the case in the past, I'll dump them because I laughably aspire to having someone look at me and think, "Someday, I'm going to marry that woman!" instead of something as pedestrian as what we have.
How many times am I going to have to read and re-read this stupid cliche quote anyway? I think it should be banned from the Sunday Styles wedding announcements, the New York Observer's "Love Beat," and all other similar columns. Please don't anyone ever again tell me that you just looked at someone and knew that someday you'd marry them. I just can't take it anymore.
Huffing in utter disbelief in "love at first sight" as I stomped out of the park Sunday, I tried to distract myself by catching up with D., whom I hadn't seen since my return from Colorado. He had a new girlfriend, S., and I sensed things were progressing quickly.
"How are things going with S.?" I asked.
D. -- perpetually girlfriend-less in the five years I've known him -- proceeded to gush and moon and fawn all the way down Thompson Street. People in love are so annoying. But, being the good friend I am, I gamely I nodded along, genuinely happy he was finally happy. But then he dropped the bomb: They were moving in together. After three months.
"Erin, it's just crazy," D. said. "But it's true -- WHEN YOU KNOW, YOU KNOW."
Curbing the urge to run to the very next mesh trash bin and vomit at the SECOND well-worn love cliche of the morning, I smiled, patted him on the arm, and offered my congratulations.
And then, I soldiered on toward brunch, committed to finding -- if not love at first sight -- at least a decent plate of eggs and for God's sake, a few ameliorative Bloody Marys.
posted by Had To Move at 10:45 PM
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