...asked for advice from a genie in a bottle of jim beam and she lied to you.
I heard it today in the midst of an otherwise incredibly hickish whiny country song. But it made me smile. What did you expect? Ask the wrong person, get the wrong answer. Fairly simple stuff, no?
So watching tv tonight, the theme repeats itself as a young couple obviously together, yet obviously so not together walk into a bar and onto the dance floor. She is older, presumably the wiser of the two. And yet not so much. I was distracted by John Mayer on stage. Boy needs a hair cut and he's still hotter than pavement on bare feet in the summer. He sang my favorite new song, Waiting On The World To Change. Warms my heart and makes me feel not so much the freak I usually do. Anyway, I digress, the couple dances to the song and then she moves to the bar for a drink as the other half finds someone else to amuse himself with. The bartender signals her that someone at the end of the bar wants to buy her a drink. She says no thank you with a flip of her hair, a smile and runs her finger over her mouth. Is it really no? Or is it tease, flirt, coy dip of the head, and maybe later? When does no really mean no? When it's whispered in the dark after the clothes come off? When she refuses the drink the first time? When the tears begin to fall? When it's screamed in terror and pain? Come on... we all do it? We don't really say what we mean any more than we ask for what we really want or need. How's a man supposed to know? Or is that just a huge cop out and I'm a big sucker?
She picks up a drink. Supposedly the one she bought herself although its merely implied. Her vision begins to blur and the room begins to spin. I'm left thinking that someone slipped her drugs rather than she's had too much to drink. No overt signs of more than one drink anyway. But I'm paranoid about that kind of thing, so I never know when to trust what I'm sensing. And it's not that I hate men or don't trust them... well I don't and with good reason, it's more the bar scene that creeps me out. Then the show cuts away to something else and for a moment her impending moment of peril is lost to me.
I next get a good look at her naked back and GBF hair in some generic hotel room in Vegas. The only problem is the burgundy satin sheets. Not something one would see in a cheap motel is it? Anyway, she's alone - waking slowly and obviously has no idea where she is. It's clear she's been raped. Not from the bruises - there aren't any. Not from the scratches or scrapes - none of those either. It's the look on her face when she realizes that some man she can't remember, doesn't know, and didn't ask nicely, did god only know's what with her unfortunately willing body. Yeah, let's get that one straight. Drugs and or alcohol have a way of making a woman's body compliant where her mind never would.
Like we all haven't been there before? Finding ourselves disappointed for one reason or another. Deciding that the best remedy for our current state of loneliness is a warm shoulder, a cold bottle or both. Preferably both. Like we haven't all woken up once or twice wondering where we were, why we were there, what we had done and with whom? It's the why am I naked, sore and hmm... who does that delicious chest belong to? And do I really have the guts to look at his face before I bolt outta here? Sometimes it just works out better if you don't know. But for most of us, we've a least had the hazy alcoholic fog lift a bit and the puzzle pieces fall closer into place and it becomes somewhat clear just how stupid we've been. Or if you're very lucky, how good it was. She doesn't have that luxury. She doesn't remember. She never will. She didn't have a choice.
As I watch the room come info focus and see her face, a voice in my head is screaming - grab the fucking cell phone and dial 9-1-1. And the cynical side of me is saying - why the fuck bother? They won't believe her and won't even try to find him and it's not like I ever did the right thing so why should she? And when she steps into the shower and hot water rains down over her body washing away any potential evidence of the crime, I want to cry for her, cry right along with her. The law enforcement side of me cries "no" realizing that there no longer will ever be a chance in hell of making him responsible for his crimes. And the woman in me understands just how many scortching hot showers it will take to feel clean again. A lifetime. More than that. Maybe never. I'm still waiting.
Incidentially the show is "to be continued..." like I don't already have some idea of how next week will go? She won't tell anyone. It'll eat away at her like cancer until she can't stand it any longer. She'll try to exact her own cheap brand of revenge, not realizing that even if she gets what she thinks she wants it'll never be enough to make up for what he took from her. And then she'll be back to asking a genie in a bottle for advice that won't help her anyway.
Bitter? Maybe a little... but the fact that I can watch it and even reflect a bit without completely loosing it... is a Martha Stewart Good Thing.
