"So," I asked Rebecca on the Wednesday afternoon. "What do you think?
Should I go with the body spray or the body mist?"
My sister and I make a point of spending Wednesday afternoons shopping to distract ourselves from our troubles. It usually is not a pretty sight. We tend to end up purchasing way too many clothes, sampling way too many perfumes, and buying way too many lipsticks.
The end result is a Thursday afternoon spent at the mall returning items while saying things like "what was I thinking?" and "why did I even buy an orange shirt if I plan on getting red highlights next month?" while attempting to keep our hands as far away as possible from our faces because they reeked of cheap eau-de-toilette.
"Body mist, obviously. Betty Warren bought the spray and said it smelt so awful that she had to use the whole bottle on her dog, which triggered their dog walker to have this huge allergic reaction. He plans to sue her for negligence, you know."
I thought for a moment. "But Betty Warren has the worst tastes when it comes to bath products."
Rebecca nodded while flipping through the shower gel racks. "Yes, and it's not like we're in the same situation. For one thing, we don't actually own a dog."
"True," I said grinning. "However, we do have Tristan. On an intelligence plane, I consider them equal."
Rebecca laughed. "But as a potential solution to dumping smelly fragrances?"
"The jury's still undecided on that one."
*** Excuse me. Excuse me!
Is this 'bash Tristan again' day?
If I wanted this type of abuse, I'd sign on to watch a Hugh Grant movie marathon instead of taking gratuitous jabs at my masculinity and intellect.
***
Oh, cry me a river Tristan.
And quite frankly, stop interrupting. especially just before an important part of the story.
*** An important part of the story?
You consider an afternoon spent sniffing mango and papaya hand creams a momentous occasion?
What about presidential elections and nuclear disarmament? Do you consider those just background details to a day spent at the spa deoxidizing your pores?
Excuse my incredibility.
*** Tristan, congratulations!
I see you're using the big words again.
*** Don't mock my vocabulary, Lauren.
At least I don't think the 'Anna Nicole Smith show' is the epitome of educational programming.
*** If you look at it from a socio-economic perspective, it suddenly becomes all the more complex.
*** For Christ sake's Lauren! You hear the woman pee.
*** It just goes to show you, no matter what background we come from, we still all share the same basic urges.
*** Whatever.
*** Oohh. What a comeback. I'll try to wrack my brain to find a suitable answer for that one.
Now. back to the story.
So anyway, I was in the middle of this really intense discussion about foot sprays (with sparkles or just shine? Who can answer a question such as that one that has been plaguing the minds of the great philosophers during the past half-century?) when suddenly Rory pops up behind us.
Rory: Hi Lauren, Rebecca.
Me: Rory! It's great to see you. What exactly are you doing here?
Rory: Just doing some shopping. Mom wanted us to buy a carrot grater and I heard there's this huge book sale at the emporium. Know of any good books to recommend?
Rebecca: Passions of Yesterday and Intimate Desire.
Me: Sweetie, that's probably not the type of book Rory's looking for.
Rory (looking embarrassed but not wanting to offend my sister): No, no. That's ok. I'll look out for those titles. Would I be right in assuming that these books most probably won't be found in the science fiction section of the bookstore?
Me: Not unless the main characters were sexually active androids.
Rory (blushing): Right.
And then suddenly, this guy shows up right behind Rory. I was totally not expecting it, and was fully prepared to use my 'hook him in the eye' move that I was taught in PE last semester during the self-defense module, when he bends down and gives Rory a peck on the lips.
Not on the hand.
Not on the cheek.
Not on the elbow (though who does that anymore? It's so eighteen eighties).
On the lips.
Right in front of the whole leering crowd of obsessive perfume shoppers.
And then, it was like her voice was on slow motion and got ten octaves deeper, like those voices they put in the movies right before doom is incurred.
"Guys," slow-and-deep-talking Rory said. "I'd like you both to meet Dean."
And just when you think it can't possibly get worse.
"My boyfriend."
*** See what happens when you aren't taken seriously?
The worst part is, I warned her ahead of time.
Did I not say: "Lauren, she has a boyfriend"?
It wasn't even like I said it in a confusing way.
It's not like I told her: "Hey, Rory's got a significant other, also a potential life partner if you give their relationship ten years and give him a lifetime supply of Valium to curb those resentful urges of his, whose career aspirations include the packaging of especially delicate produce and to become a featured circus act with the title of 'tallest non-NBA player to grace this side of Pawtucket.'"
Being a man's man, I probably shouldn't say this, but.
I told you so.
***
Tristan, did your mother ever teach you that if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all?
*** Nope.
She was too busy watching old Robert Redford movies and practicing anaerobic respiration.
*** Here's me ignoring you:
Once Rory and Dean left the store, Rebecca and I stayed in a state of partial shock.
I was the first to snap out of it.
"Dean," I said the name resentfully. "What kind of a name is Dean anyway?"
"It rhymes with Bean," Rebecca provided unhelpfully.
"Also with sheen and beam."
"Hey!" Rebecca said. "I think we're due for a musical interlude right about now."
"I think you're crazy."
Rebecca laughed. "No seriously. Let's write a rap song about Dean with all the rhyme words we come up with. And when we can't come up with any more words, we'll just add in phrases like 'word' and 'phat' and 'represent.' "
"What would that accomplish?"
"Just to satisfy our extreme lack of amusement right now."
I sighed. "Did you take a look at him? He's perfect. He seems just so gosh-darn wholesome, in a folksy, 'my parents are so middle America they have exactly 1.8 children and a golden retriever originally named Rover' kind of way."
"So?"
"So! How are we ever going to get her to fall for Tristan when she has Mr. Stable already in her back pocket?"
"Say whatever you will, but Tristan has one distinct advantage over Dean."
"And that is..?"
Rebecca smiled. "His name. Tristan is a far better name than Dean."
I thought for a minute. "You're right. And the name 'Tristan' doesn't even rhyme with anything, either."
"Not true. It rhymes with Blitzen."
"Blitzen? That name doesn't even exist."
"Sure it does. You know. Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen.
"Ok, ok. No need to sing. I get it. Santa's reindeer."
"Ding ding ding. Give the lady a lollipop."
"It's cookie. Give the lady a cookie, not lollipop."
"But that's overdone."
"And it still doesn't solve our problem. How are we going to get Rory to choose Tristan voluntarily- you know, without the help of tweezers and other torture instruments? You don't even seem to be that concerned with 'Dean the bean with the sheen's' sudden appearance into our lives today."
Rebecca looked slightly devious for a moment before quickly smoothing out her mischievous grin. "Well," she began, "a normal person would, quite understandably, be worried. However, if such a person were to look out her kitchen window while her sister was scurrying away from flying pasta and see Rory staring in rapture at Tristan's back muscles while he was doing laps in the pool. well, such a person would come to the quite logical conclusion that if Rory truly loved her boyfriend in such an all- encompassing way, then she wouldn't have been ogling our friend."
For a moment I stood in shock. "You're sure about this?"
"About as sure as I am that Britney Spears will not be appearing to this year's Music Video Awards wearing a Laura Ashley dress with matching headband."
I smiled before quickly attempting a more serious pose. "Well, then. I think I will go for the body spray after all."
*** Is it my turn to tell the story yet?
Because, heaven forbid me trying to get a word in edgewise while Lauren babbles on and on for pages on end without any purpose or end in sight. kind of like those 20/20 interviews where Barbara Walters sits there and asks those 'tough, uncomfortable' questions to sweating celebrities (no, no. It wasn't rehab. It was a support group for people who are just too gosh darn cute for words and have made over 40 million in the last financial quarter).
Anyway, it was Friday. That's right. The big day. In other words, the day I had to make an important appearance to Rebecca's school dance.
The day I had to win Rory over.
Was I feeling the stress? Oh no. Not at all.
And the fact that Rory had been purposely avoiding me since I met her bikini-clad bad girl true self?
Was not an issue at all.
Barefoot they ran
On sweetened grass Dew flicking in spray During this day in May
You may be wondering: what the hell is this? Tristan DuGrey writing poetry for Christ's sake? What the hell has gone wrong in this world?
And the answer really is quite obvious: it's all Lauren's fault.
You see, I approached her that afternoon right after lunch. I told her I would be a willing participant in her scheme. I told her I wanted her to use her wiles for me to get the girl. I told her to pull out all the stops.
I told her all this. And you know what she told me?
Lauren: Tristan, I hate to say this, but this will never work.
I come to her, pour my heart out, and she tells me it's a doomed cause. That I may as well pray for peace on earth and an endless supply of free Playboy magazines.
***
Just stop the theatrics, Tristan.
*** Don't tell me what I can or can't do. I'm not even halfway finished here.
So what does she do after dropping that bombshell?
She tells me that Rory is way too good for me and that my putrid grasp on men/women relationships would fail to procure even the least bit of sympathy on Rory's part.
That I would have to change. That I would have to become more sensitive.
I hate that word: sensitive. People are supposed to have sensitive gums, not be sensitive.
And let's face it: sensitive men are not real men. They belong to a different breed, one frequently showcased on Oprah. You know, the stay-at- home Dad type who removes his tattoos of ex-girlfriends' name and renounces his motorcycles, and is most in his element serving punch and tiny fruit tarts at PTA meetings.
"But the pecans whirls are so much better, John."
"I don't know. My butterscotch cookies are pretty hard to beat, Ted."
That's sensitive.
Guys like that make me sick.
Anyway, so suddenly I have to be this girly girl, a mockery of the man's man who giggles and says the L-word way too soon in a relationship.
Hence, the poetry. It's supposed to showcase my sensitive side. To prove that I am more than what Lauren calls a "pigheaded numbskull."
And that's not all. Oh no. Suddenly there are more rules that I need to follow.
Lauren: No sex, no allusions to sex, and no jokes that are actually lewd invitations referring to the sexual act.
But that's ridiculous. I mean, what's left to talk about?
Lauren: You can complement her on her hair. Or you can comment on her beatific smile.
Her beatific smile? Lauren, are you on crack? I don't even know what beatific means.
It was exactly at that moment that she whipped out a pocketbook English dictionary. She said that Rory is extremely smart and that in order to win her over, I have to brush up on my "pathetic" vocabulary skills. Starting with the word 'beatific', apparently.
And then she continued, "And you can also tell her that you love her."
Suddenly the world seem to stop, and some kind of parallel universe was put into place where Lauren lips were moving with ominous, silent messages seeping out of them.
During that instant all I wished for was for my Dad to appear, whisk me back home, and make me sit on the living room sofa and tell me all about the latrines in the Vietnam War and how lucky we were here in American with modern plumbing systems.
"I can't tell her that," I managed to squeak. "I can't just blatantly lie!"
Lauren put on her impatient look. It's her trademark 'hurry up, I've got four other social engagements in the next fifteen minutes and if I don't get some kind of cocktail within the next minute and a half I'm going to pierce somebody's rib cage with the heel of my Prada sandal.'
"Tristan, look me in the eye and tell me that you don't love her."
"I. I."
"For Christ sake's, ok so maybe you're a commitment phobe just like me, but if you won't even admit it to yourself that you love her, then how do you plan on getting her to even admit her very obvious feelings for you when you have a dating track record the size of Oregon to scare her away?"
"Okay! Okay. I get it. I'll tell her. I'll tell her tonight."
Lauren looked amused. "Tell her what?"
"Lauren!"
"Fine, fine. And don't forget to be your charming, handsome self."
I smirked. "How could I forget?"
Lauren frowned but walked away. As soon as she was gone, I learnt two very important things.
I was in love with Rory Gilmore and it was no use denying it to myself any longer. The correct definition for the word "beatific" is having a blissful or benign appearance.
My sister and I make a point of spending Wednesday afternoons shopping to distract ourselves from our troubles. It usually is not a pretty sight. We tend to end up purchasing way too many clothes, sampling way too many perfumes, and buying way too many lipsticks.
The end result is a Thursday afternoon spent at the mall returning items while saying things like "what was I thinking?" and "why did I even buy an orange shirt if I plan on getting red highlights next month?" while attempting to keep our hands as far away as possible from our faces because they reeked of cheap eau-de-toilette.
"Body mist, obviously. Betty Warren bought the spray and said it smelt so awful that she had to use the whole bottle on her dog, which triggered their dog walker to have this huge allergic reaction. He plans to sue her for negligence, you know."
I thought for a moment. "But Betty Warren has the worst tastes when it comes to bath products."
Rebecca nodded while flipping through the shower gel racks. "Yes, and it's not like we're in the same situation. For one thing, we don't actually own a dog."
"True," I said grinning. "However, we do have Tristan. On an intelligence plane, I consider them equal."
Rebecca laughed. "But as a potential solution to dumping smelly fragrances?"
"The jury's still undecided on that one."
*** Excuse me. Excuse me!
Is this 'bash Tristan again' day?
If I wanted this type of abuse, I'd sign on to watch a Hugh Grant movie marathon instead of taking gratuitous jabs at my masculinity and intellect.
***
Oh, cry me a river Tristan.
And quite frankly, stop interrupting. especially just before an important part of the story.
*** An important part of the story?
You consider an afternoon spent sniffing mango and papaya hand creams a momentous occasion?
What about presidential elections and nuclear disarmament? Do you consider those just background details to a day spent at the spa deoxidizing your pores?
Excuse my incredibility.
*** Tristan, congratulations!
I see you're using the big words again.
*** Don't mock my vocabulary, Lauren.
At least I don't think the 'Anna Nicole Smith show' is the epitome of educational programming.
*** If you look at it from a socio-economic perspective, it suddenly becomes all the more complex.
*** For Christ sake's Lauren! You hear the woman pee.
*** It just goes to show you, no matter what background we come from, we still all share the same basic urges.
*** Whatever.
*** Oohh. What a comeback. I'll try to wrack my brain to find a suitable answer for that one.
Now. back to the story.
So anyway, I was in the middle of this really intense discussion about foot sprays (with sparkles or just shine? Who can answer a question such as that one that has been plaguing the minds of the great philosophers during the past half-century?) when suddenly Rory pops up behind us.
Rory: Hi Lauren, Rebecca.
Me: Rory! It's great to see you. What exactly are you doing here?
Rory: Just doing some shopping. Mom wanted us to buy a carrot grater and I heard there's this huge book sale at the emporium. Know of any good books to recommend?
Rebecca: Passions of Yesterday and Intimate Desire.
Me: Sweetie, that's probably not the type of book Rory's looking for.
Rory (looking embarrassed but not wanting to offend my sister): No, no. That's ok. I'll look out for those titles. Would I be right in assuming that these books most probably won't be found in the science fiction section of the bookstore?
Me: Not unless the main characters were sexually active androids.
Rory (blushing): Right.
And then suddenly, this guy shows up right behind Rory. I was totally not expecting it, and was fully prepared to use my 'hook him in the eye' move that I was taught in PE last semester during the self-defense module, when he bends down and gives Rory a peck on the lips.
Not on the hand.
Not on the cheek.
Not on the elbow (though who does that anymore? It's so eighteen eighties).
On the lips.
Right in front of the whole leering crowd of obsessive perfume shoppers.
And then, it was like her voice was on slow motion and got ten octaves deeper, like those voices they put in the movies right before doom is incurred.
"Guys," slow-and-deep-talking Rory said. "I'd like you both to meet Dean."
And just when you think it can't possibly get worse.
"My boyfriend."
*** See what happens when you aren't taken seriously?
The worst part is, I warned her ahead of time.
Did I not say: "Lauren, she has a boyfriend"?
It wasn't even like I said it in a confusing way.
It's not like I told her: "Hey, Rory's got a significant other, also a potential life partner if you give their relationship ten years and give him a lifetime supply of Valium to curb those resentful urges of his, whose career aspirations include the packaging of especially delicate produce and to become a featured circus act with the title of 'tallest non-NBA player to grace this side of Pawtucket.'"
Being a man's man, I probably shouldn't say this, but.
I told you so.
***
Tristan, did your mother ever teach you that if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all?
*** Nope.
She was too busy watching old Robert Redford movies and practicing anaerobic respiration.
*** Here's me ignoring you:
Once Rory and Dean left the store, Rebecca and I stayed in a state of partial shock.
I was the first to snap out of it.
"Dean," I said the name resentfully. "What kind of a name is Dean anyway?"
"It rhymes with Bean," Rebecca provided unhelpfully.
"Also with sheen and beam."
"Hey!" Rebecca said. "I think we're due for a musical interlude right about now."
"I think you're crazy."
Rebecca laughed. "No seriously. Let's write a rap song about Dean with all the rhyme words we come up with. And when we can't come up with any more words, we'll just add in phrases like 'word' and 'phat' and 'represent.' "
"What would that accomplish?"
"Just to satisfy our extreme lack of amusement right now."
I sighed. "Did you take a look at him? He's perfect. He seems just so gosh-darn wholesome, in a folksy, 'my parents are so middle America they have exactly 1.8 children and a golden retriever originally named Rover' kind of way."
"So?"
"So! How are we ever going to get her to fall for Tristan when she has Mr. Stable already in her back pocket?"
"Say whatever you will, but Tristan has one distinct advantage over Dean."
"And that is..?"
Rebecca smiled. "His name. Tristan is a far better name than Dean."
I thought for a minute. "You're right. And the name 'Tristan' doesn't even rhyme with anything, either."
"Not true. It rhymes with Blitzen."
"Blitzen? That name doesn't even exist."
"Sure it does. You know. Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen.
"Ok, ok. No need to sing. I get it. Santa's reindeer."
"Ding ding ding. Give the lady a lollipop."
"It's cookie. Give the lady a cookie, not lollipop."
"But that's overdone."
"And it still doesn't solve our problem. How are we going to get Rory to choose Tristan voluntarily- you know, without the help of tweezers and other torture instruments? You don't even seem to be that concerned with 'Dean the bean with the sheen's' sudden appearance into our lives today."
Rebecca looked slightly devious for a moment before quickly smoothing out her mischievous grin. "Well," she began, "a normal person would, quite understandably, be worried. However, if such a person were to look out her kitchen window while her sister was scurrying away from flying pasta and see Rory staring in rapture at Tristan's back muscles while he was doing laps in the pool. well, such a person would come to the quite logical conclusion that if Rory truly loved her boyfriend in such an all- encompassing way, then she wouldn't have been ogling our friend."
For a moment I stood in shock. "You're sure about this?"
"About as sure as I am that Britney Spears will not be appearing to this year's Music Video Awards wearing a Laura Ashley dress with matching headband."
I smiled before quickly attempting a more serious pose. "Well, then. I think I will go for the body spray after all."
*** Is it my turn to tell the story yet?
Because, heaven forbid me trying to get a word in edgewise while Lauren babbles on and on for pages on end without any purpose or end in sight. kind of like those 20/20 interviews where Barbara Walters sits there and asks those 'tough, uncomfortable' questions to sweating celebrities (no, no. It wasn't rehab. It was a support group for people who are just too gosh darn cute for words and have made over 40 million in the last financial quarter).
Anyway, it was Friday. That's right. The big day. In other words, the day I had to make an important appearance to Rebecca's school dance.
The day I had to win Rory over.
Was I feeling the stress? Oh no. Not at all.
And the fact that Rory had been purposely avoiding me since I met her bikini-clad bad girl true self?
Was not an issue at all.
Barefoot they ran
On sweetened grass Dew flicking in spray During this day in May
You may be wondering: what the hell is this? Tristan DuGrey writing poetry for Christ's sake? What the hell has gone wrong in this world?
And the answer really is quite obvious: it's all Lauren's fault.
You see, I approached her that afternoon right after lunch. I told her I would be a willing participant in her scheme. I told her I wanted her to use her wiles for me to get the girl. I told her to pull out all the stops.
I told her all this. And you know what she told me?
Lauren: Tristan, I hate to say this, but this will never work.
I come to her, pour my heart out, and she tells me it's a doomed cause. That I may as well pray for peace on earth and an endless supply of free Playboy magazines.
***
Just stop the theatrics, Tristan.
*** Don't tell me what I can or can't do. I'm not even halfway finished here.
So what does she do after dropping that bombshell?
She tells me that Rory is way too good for me and that my putrid grasp on men/women relationships would fail to procure even the least bit of sympathy on Rory's part.
That I would have to change. That I would have to become more sensitive.
I hate that word: sensitive. People are supposed to have sensitive gums, not be sensitive.
And let's face it: sensitive men are not real men. They belong to a different breed, one frequently showcased on Oprah. You know, the stay-at- home Dad type who removes his tattoos of ex-girlfriends' name and renounces his motorcycles, and is most in his element serving punch and tiny fruit tarts at PTA meetings.
"But the pecans whirls are so much better, John."
"I don't know. My butterscotch cookies are pretty hard to beat, Ted."
That's sensitive.
Guys like that make me sick.
Anyway, so suddenly I have to be this girly girl, a mockery of the man's man who giggles and says the L-word way too soon in a relationship.
Hence, the poetry. It's supposed to showcase my sensitive side. To prove that I am more than what Lauren calls a "pigheaded numbskull."
And that's not all. Oh no. Suddenly there are more rules that I need to follow.
Lauren: No sex, no allusions to sex, and no jokes that are actually lewd invitations referring to the sexual act.
But that's ridiculous. I mean, what's left to talk about?
Lauren: You can complement her on her hair. Or you can comment on her beatific smile.
Her beatific smile? Lauren, are you on crack? I don't even know what beatific means.
It was exactly at that moment that she whipped out a pocketbook English dictionary. She said that Rory is extremely smart and that in order to win her over, I have to brush up on my "pathetic" vocabulary skills. Starting with the word 'beatific', apparently.
And then she continued, "And you can also tell her that you love her."
Suddenly the world seem to stop, and some kind of parallel universe was put into place where Lauren lips were moving with ominous, silent messages seeping out of them.
During that instant all I wished for was for my Dad to appear, whisk me back home, and make me sit on the living room sofa and tell me all about the latrines in the Vietnam War and how lucky we were here in American with modern plumbing systems.
"I can't tell her that," I managed to squeak. "I can't just blatantly lie!"
Lauren put on her impatient look. It's her trademark 'hurry up, I've got four other social engagements in the next fifteen minutes and if I don't get some kind of cocktail within the next minute and a half I'm going to pierce somebody's rib cage with the heel of my Prada sandal.'
"Tristan, look me in the eye and tell me that you don't love her."
"I. I."
"For Christ sake's, ok so maybe you're a commitment phobe just like me, but if you won't even admit it to yourself that you love her, then how do you plan on getting her to even admit her very obvious feelings for you when you have a dating track record the size of Oregon to scare her away?"
"Okay! Okay. I get it. I'll tell her. I'll tell her tonight."
Lauren looked amused. "Tell her what?"
"Lauren!"
"Fine, fine. And don't forget to be your charming, handsome self."
I smirked. "How could I forget?"
Lauren frowned but walked away. As soon as she was gone, I learnt two very important things.
I was in love with Rory Gilmore and it was no use denying it to myself any longer. The correct definition for the word "beatific" is having a blissful or benign appearance.