Paper Bag

Hello my darlings. I am back, and I have for you 3 thoughts which are related in the hazy, three glasses of pinto grigio and two episodes of sex and the city on a Monday night kind of way. (Don't front - you know exactly what I'm talking about. The Roni knows the inner workings of your puny mind.)

Thought #1: I've been in slightly melancholy sorts of late, and as a result, drinking il vino and listening to excessive amounts of Fiona Apple on repeat (and we all remember that embarrassing little bout with Sinead O'Connor last spring...). Fiona, honey, you speak to me. And, dolls, you know what she's saying? "I thought he was a man, but he was just a paper bag."

This leads me to Thought #2: The Roni, as some of you lucky few may know, is like a 1998 Barolo - sure she's been on the shelf for a while, but with a delicious papardelle and some candles...well you get The Roni's point. Here we are, a bunch of fine semi-young things who got it going on in the TLC circa-1987 kind of way and we are surrounded by a bunch of donkeys. I tell you, I couldn't find a kisser to plant something tres french on if you paid me $20! No wonder The Roni is forced to drink so much vino - I'm living in a DESERT here, I tell you!

And I am brought to thought # 3: a paradigmatic instance of why being an old, mildly sober 3L is like finding meaning in a Polly Shore movie (get there people - if you're putting your feet on my ether-ottoman, you best know your cinema de early 90's). The Roni found herself at a party hosted by Zeus himself this weekend, and in the course of the night she stumbled upon several legitimately handsome men whom she had never before encountered. Now paint my ass red and call me Scarlet, I was surprised enough by this tremendous find (actually cute boys? at a law school party? who hadn't already had the privilege of trading foreign policy notes with The Roni and/or any member of the Pink Mafia? UNHEARD OF!)! But these darlings tickled The Roni EVEN MORE, if it's possible. How, you ask? Well, it should be obvious to everyone who is not either dead or afforded relief by Atkins v. Virginia, but for you, whom the french call les incompetents, I will tell you - these little slices of sweet succulence brought...CHAMPAGNE. Sigh. If there's one thing The Roni loves more than a cute boy, it's a really delicious, thick milkshake. And if there's one thing The Roni loves more than the perfect milkshake, it's a frosty margarita. Ok, so I am getting a little off track here, but my point is this - THE RONI HEARTS CHAMPAGNE. It's true. In fact, The Roni has a tattoo that says just that on a rarely seen, but widely regarded, well, just wide, portion of her derriere. So I was tremendously pleased to see these tasty little morsels walking into the party carrying the bubbly. I get all giddy just thinking about it now!!
So, of course, The Roni casually made her way over to these biddies, much like a starved vampire would approach fresh blood.
Now here is the point of the story - in the course of my irresistible demonstration of feminine wiles, the subject of age came up. Normally The Roni discusses her vintage about as much as her pant size and/or actual girth (truste moi, ca c'est une looooooooooongue conversation...), but on this occasion, I could not resist - 'twas either the delicious Korbel pleasing my palate or the big baby blues of my audience. So I find myself unable to resist asking this doll how old he is. He laughs and says "I bet I am MUCH older than you!" There are few things The Roni is less inclined to believe that the aforementioned statement. Especially when it's coming from someone who looks like he was born, oh, six hours ago. So I bite. "Ummm, sorry Tonto, but I have a feeling that is NOT la verdad. How old do you think I am?" To which Tonto replies "23?" The Roni immediately bought two tickets to Vegas and found an Elvis impersonator - fat Elvis, obvi. The Roni: "Ummm, ok. That's sweet. What year did you graduate from college, Future Mr. The Roni?" FMTR: "2003." The Roni: "..." (speechless as is flabbergasted by the exchange which cannot conceivably have transpired.)
What perplexes me most about this exchange is, when did they start letting 19 year olds graduate from college? Well, I guess the answer is "2003." And second of all, why would someone who graduated in 2003 think they were older than The Roni? I mean, what does that make him, 22? 23? I mean sure, The Roni likes to exaggerate how old she is largely because she FEELS like she was born in 1922. But really, I am not all that old (thanks, mom, for telling me that!) and I don't think I would walk around talking to people 3 years ahead of me in school telling them how much older I am than then. There's a word for that. I think it's "presumptuous" in English, but I could be wrong.
I realize I am articulating a tremendous schizophrenia here - on the one hand, I am slightly put off by the fact that the FMTR presumed he was far, far older than I, but on the other, I should be tremendously flattered by how young he thought I was, right? I don't know what I should think - Fiona remains silent on this issue.

But in closing, my little hens, I will tell you this. I am given comfort by a transformation I have seen before my very own eyeballs. A certain member of the Pink Mafia (who shall remain nameless to protect the identities of her victims) was but two weeks ago asking, between bites of Cherry Garcia, to borrow seasons 3 and 4 of SATC as she was planning on settling in for a full Saturday of marathon SATC-watching. For those of you who don't know what that means, that's pretty much the female equivalent of...ummmm...what do dudes do when they've just had their heart pureed by the cuisinart that is some frigid, unfeeling man and are horribly, miserably depressed? Drink 15 highlifes and watch football? (Some would call that "Tuesday," but I think you get where I'm going with this...) So yes, this was a troubled child. But now, after all the Ben & Jerry's has been tossed and the SATCs returned to their proper owner, this little sunflower has finally found the rays and is currently balancing a full dance card of dinner invitations. She's like the shangrila of the dating world - I've been told it exists, but I have certainly never been there. So to you, my friend, I say congratulations on your swift recovery. In the words of my good friend, JBR, "he ain't nuthin' but a man, and they makin' them thangs e'ry day."
Man, donkey, paper bag - they all the same to The Roni.