The Female Handbook

Dear readers: As you may or may not know Sleepless in Seattle is one of my favorite movies of all time. Now before you bore me with your own favorites just know that I don't care. This isn't about you. It's never about you. It's about me and my opinions which, as we all can agree on, are so ridiculously unnecessary it makes Andy Rooney's curmudgeon-ous opinions over the possible discontinuance of the copper penny seem relevant. Back to Sleepless. Anytime it's on TV, and let me tell you it's on a whole fucking lot, I have this gravitational pull, a compulsion if you will, to watch it no matter what.  This compulsion is so strong I couldn't break it even if I tried. I imagine this is the same compulsion that drives Middle Easterners to Lindsay Lohan's vagina but that's neither here nor there nor currently in a locked-in rehab. I've always just assumed my instinct to tune in had to do with my affinity towards the flick but this time I wasn't so sure. This time, for the first time, I felt like, wait for it, I wasn't feeling it. Say what Sister Sledge? Exactly.

Let me explain. The other night Sleepless was on blah blah blah I was watching. However, in a multitasking moment of viewing my screen, mental contemplation, and casual perusal of Pinterest (more on that later), I took the time to ask myself, Do I want to watch this? Am I in the mood to see Rosie O'Donnell attempt femininity? And then I say, wait a minute, why do I have to watch this? I don't want to watch this. I don't want to hear Meg Ryan say "It's me" to Tom Hanks' "It's you."  So why did I? Why did I sit through it again? And then again because frankly original programming is dead and these movies repeat themselves immediately once the credits clear. I figured if it wasn't grounded in desire it had to be compulsion and since I refuse to believe said compulsion is the sheer result of the subconscious wish of a sad singleton craving "its you, it's me," (Impossible) I came up with an even better, more realistic, and obviously rational explanation. Listen up and take notes because this makes complete sense.  We women are compelled to watch rom-coms on television, even if we aren't feeling it, because there is a female handbook that exists in our collective consciousness that lays out the framework for our lives. This important handbook sets out rules of law that we all abide by unconsciously. An example would be jean shopping. The rule of law plainly states a woman is never to buy jeans in the right size. We know this doesn't make sense. We know the too small waistband hurts our gut really really badly. We know when we sit down we fear permanent scars to both our bellybuttons and inner thighs. There is also, by the way, the high risk of a crushed uterus causing infertility, but guess what? We do it anyway. Why? Because it is rule of law.

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If I were to guess I would say this handbook has been around since the time of Eve. Or, if you're a Scientologist, from the moment the thetans within all of us were trapped on this wretched planet. And on a side note, I would like to believe the thetan that inhabits my voluptuous frame was the Helen of Troy of the intergalactic tribune. I mean, there had to have been a female thetan that single-handedly started the intergalactic war, which in turn, caused the entire thetan population's exile to Earth, right? Otherwise what the hell did thetans fight for? What is there to fight for in space other than well, space? Space, that my 6th grade level of science will confirm, there seems to be an infinite amount of. This train of thought got me thinking even further: if thetans are uber intelligent souls from an exponentially progressive planet/universe/star whatever, how come when they were expelled to earth did it take us a trillion years to invent the internet, indoor plumbing, and toothpaste? Couldn't our gracious host bodies be given some sort of meaningful compensation for the inconvenience like, say,  advanced technological skills and hygiene, as opposed to what we apparently did receive: migraines, self-hatred, and penile dysfunction. And truth be told, as much as I hope my thetan is a Helen of Troy, I know deep down inside her name is Helen of Topeka and her greatest pleasure is collecting miniature porcelain bunnies. A collection so vast it eventually becomes the largest collection in the world. Totally and completely unparalleled. On weekends she fancies trips to Tuesday Morning for all her necessities including doormats in the shape of flip flops. Whatever. I'm spinning out on this aren't I? I can't help it.

Now I'm positive the sole purpose of one of these laws found in The Female Handbook  is to dictate the procedures in the event you stumble across While You Were Sleeping on TNT or in an even more precarious scenario, Beaches. To paraphrase the law: if, let's say, Pretty Woman, Bridget Jones' Diary, You've Got Mail, Notting Hill, Pretty in Pink or Love Actually to name a few are on a female channel, i.e. your Oxygen, your Lifetime, your OWN.....hahahahaha, kidding, no one watches OWN.... the female is required by the law to keep the movie on until it reaches its finality. Unfortunately it doesn't matter at what point you tune in. It could be halfway through The Proposal or heaven forbid the beginning of Leap Year, either way, as a homosapian of the female gender, you have to commit. As a result this rule turns the everyday common task of channel surfing into Russian roulette because your gamble may inadvertently land you in a FX combo marathon of Two If By Sea followed by Mr. Wrong, a cooky film starring the most enticing of romantic leads, Ellen Degeneres and Bill Pullman.

Much to my chagrin, I was unintentionally playing Russian roulette while simultaneously  scrolling on pinterest, a website that has found an even more pointless way to connect people around the world with their weird tastes and fetishes, (C'mon, raise your hand if you too discovered that the random girl from God knows where that you somehow started to follow has a healthy appreciation for how-to guides involving the broiling of salmon. I mean, it's ridiculous.) when I casually glanced up at the television screen and see Gaby Hoffman infiltrate her mother's Apple 2e in a desperate attempt to book Tom Hanks' kid on a first class flight to NYC. I knew then I was toast. About an hour later, as Jimmy Durante sings As Time Goes By over the credits, I shake my head and call it a night with my heart as bitter as three fourths of the songs on the first Mumford & Sons album.

But what can I do? It's rule of law. Or, is it?

What do you think readers? Any chance in all the 7 circles of hell that my more realistic, and obviously rational explanation also known as The Female Handbook makes sense? 50/50? 30/70? 0? Oh, it's 0 is it? Fucking 0? So you're saying I'm just the sad singleton that wants my life to be a series of "you complete me"?

Okay. Fine. So be it. Off to play Russian Roulette.