How Many Margaritas Does It Take To Watch “NYC Prep”?

I’d like to first say “bravo!” to  Bravo and the Blue Light bar for coordinating NYC Prep’s timeslot and the end of Taco Tuesday specials. To the Blue Light, for those margaritas (by the way, it takes about 2 – and by 2 I mean 7) without which I might never be able to sit through even five minutes of NYCP. Ok, that’s probably a lie, but they’re kinda like the spoonful of sugar that makes the medicine go down. The medicine that continues to rot my brain every week and keep me from gettin’ through my bucket list and doing all those big and wonderful things that I had planned when I was a little girl. Ok, I’d love to go off on a tangent about the ramifications of trashy reality TV on our society, but instead how about we revel in the blatant voyeurism and mind-numbing (oh it hurts – hurts so GOOD) tales of those rich, preppy little prepsters?

I wish I could get just a glimpse of these kids in, ohh, let’s say 10 years – when their 15 minutes are nothing but distant memories and all that’s left are the valiums, the failed marriages and the invites to F-list fashion week shows. They’ll wish they did (or didn’t) pose for those Playboy calendars and take that second-fiddle role in the straight-for-vhs (not even dvd) High School Musical 5.

I think I’ll do a separate post for every one of these little nuggets. These golden, rich nuggets that are really those chocolate eggs from last year’s Easter that you find as you’re cleaning out your desk drawer before security comes to escort you out one last time. You could use a pick-me-up – today was rough – so you unwrap the flaky gold material and bite into that chocolate as the tiny gold flakes fall (like your career) to the floor. Except that bite isn’t the pick-me-up you were hoping for – instead, it is just a bitter and stale reminder that you’ve joined the 9.5% of sad sad Americans.

::sigh::

Let us start with my least favorite of the boy nugs (oops, I meant young lads) – Sebastian.

Oh Sebastian, aren’t you the little player? Yet my theory is that he’ll look back when he’s 25 and wonder what went wrong, how did he end up alone when, you know, relationships were like only for the twenty-somethings. Wow, that thought almost made me sad. Almost, but then I remembered his obnoxious hair flips and got over it. Built a bridge, if you will. I actually wonder if the incessant hair tossing is really a physical tick, completely uncontrollable. His parents have probably tried medication, therapy, EVERYTHING but it seems to be all for nought whenever he sees the next unfortunate girl whose heart he can’t wait to break. I can’t blame him – it’s all about the hookup. We’ve all known someone like that – hell I think I “dated” one once. That was back in the day when dates were getting dropped off a block before the movies and making out in the back of the theater while Jackie Chan and that black guy who never quite made it joked around and exploited Jackie’s asianness all for a few laughs in Rush Hour. Seriously, Rush Hour was my first real date in high school, except we never really made out because I thought his rainbow-enhanced Nikes were way too loserish. So obviously that never went anywhere, but he looks mighty fine now (thanks Facebook for showing me what I missed out on).

Anyway, I think I dislike Sebasty mainly because I remember being that heartbroken girl in high school who totally thought that boy and I were, like, gonna get married. We would even stay together in college and we’d talk on aol i.m. all night. It was all going to be so wonderful. Only with so many of these failed attempts at loveeee can a girl stay hopeful – repeatedly telling herself  he’ll realize how much he misses her and come back with flowers and maybe meet her parents too! Oh and how they’d love him even though he didn’t come to the door when his stepdad dropped you off that night. Really, they’d adore him if they got to know him! Even so, you could always elope and over time it’ll be ok – because everything works out in the end when you’re a teenager. Everything.

So Sebastian, this post is dedicated to you and your hair flippie floppies. To you, Chris Tucker and all the boys who leave a girl a little more broken. You aren’t the first (though you truly believe you are, don’t you?) and you won’t be the last. But those girls will someday be women and they’ll see you at the 15 year reunion, with your bald spot and beer gut that you couldn’t seem to lose after college that’s gotten a little bigger from all those nights drinking alone watching Family Guy reruns… and they’ll look at you with pity. You’ll flash that smile that used to make them melt – and they’ll smile a little, oh they’ll smile a tiny smile. You’ll take that smile and think to yourself “Oh yeah, I still gotz it” then shift into that stale, cool guy swagger you perfected over the years working the crowd (and the ladies, especially the ladies) at Bar None. You start to go for the approach  – and yeah, they’ll start walking towards you too. You’ll cock your head and start to extend your arms a little… and you’ll see that smile begin to light up. She begins to walk a little faster – closer, and closer, and then… Right. Past. You. You’ll turn your head a little and see her take the hand of a handsome, well-dressed man at the punchbowl and lead him out to the dance floor. And as they begin to dance to Carrie Underwood’s “Just a Dream”, she’ll glance over his shoulder, one final catch of your eye, and you know – it’s over. Because my poor boy, it was always just a dream.

Just a dream.

(Everybody welcome a brand new Wordsmoker and her superb first post! Yay! Ed.)