15-Sep-2005

Having once again been dodged by the Wise Man when I tried to ask him out, I found myself in a dilemma at 9:30 this morning.  Do I risk having no one to get drunk in the corner with at my friend Successful Writer's party/screening of Just Like Heaven tomorrow evening?  After mulling it over for several seconds, I decided OF COURSE I don't show up to a party in the Hills without a little eye candy on my arm and a Ziplock bag for the brie.  So I pick up the phone at this ungodly hour and dial my pal the Tennis Pro.  Now, I know, I know, this is not behavior that would be condoned by that horrid stack of filth known as "He's Just Not That Into You" (to which I say so what?  I'm just not that into him either, but I'm twenty-five, fuck true love).  Rant aside, shame seems to disintegrate when you share a one-bedroom with said Tennis Pro and his alcoholic friend Dino for two months.  Ah, Dino.  The only man who has felt me up while he was asleep...  But I digress.  Here is what a 9:30 AM phone call will get you in this town:

Me:  Hey!

Tennis Pro:  It is nine thirty in the fucking morning.  Why are you calling me? 

Me:  Were you asleep?

Tennis Pro:  No.  But I very well could have been.  So rude...

Whatever happened to subtext, people?  To playing games, to telling yourself you're only imagining that the person on the other end of the line sighed and made faces when they heard it was you and not someone hotter ringing them up?  And does the Tennis Pro not remember the time he dialed me at 7 AM to let me know there was a commercial on 102.7 for our favorite Mexican restaurant?  I don't need to be sold on the place, it's already my favorite!

Well, apparently he does remember this injustice, because we'll be hobknobbing with Successful Writer's brother Successful Director at the Arclight tomorrow.  If anyone's in the neighborhood, I'll have brie and crackers in my purse.