Hollywood is a damn liar

I'm a huge fan of movies and television and, with a love so strong, so unconditional, it was bound to happen. Hollywood was destined to lie to me. It's time I accept there are some things that just aren't going to be a part of my real life:


1) Frantic, can barely make it in the door, up against the wall sex.

How many times have I seen this? Pretty much every time there's a scene involving alcohol and  two people who either really like each other or pretend to really detest each other or, in some European art films, may end up being related to each other. An apartment door flies open, two people come stumbling in like they're in a perfectly choreographed but dimly-lit Greco-Roman wrestling match, clutching and grappling while so desperate to consummate their recently discovered passion that they simply CANNOT make it to the bedroom.

Look, everyone has played a little grab ass at their front door while trying to tipsily get the key in the lock, am I right, Mom? But this, the entryway orgasm, like 100 calorie snack packs that keep you satisfied until dinner, is a myth. And it's for one or more of the following reasons: roommates, pets, breakables, common decency. We've all had the "Don't mind me, guys" roommate, right? The one who doesn't announce his pantsless presence until you've already given him a coitus almostus sexy-time visual you'll be teased about for months. I've been roommate-less for years but, still, any real action is at least on hold until the living room. Why? "Shit! They're indoor cats, quick, close the damn door!" "Not on the console table -  my grandmother gave it to me just before she died!" "I don't have curtains in the entryway & besides, these are 100 watt bulbs." "Ouch - that coat rack is fucking sharp! Am I bleeding?" Just writing those is a boner killer, so imagine living it. I don't want to end up just watching a movie any more than you do, so abandon any barely in the door action plans, all ye who attempt to enter there.

2) A car chase through a cool city.

I'm a law-abiding girl with a dirty little secret. I like to drive fast. Okay, more accurately, I like to be driven fast. But here's the thing - I try my damnedest, on any given day, to not associate with anyone who might suddenly be pursued by Interpol. Also, I have no sense of direction; I once hopped in a cab outside a Paris train station and asked to be taken to my hotel. Which was about 75 yards away. So I will be of no navigational use whatsoever to any would-be Jason Bournes. Plus, my constant phantom braking and need to find an 80s station on satellite radio as soon as I get in the car are probably not the most useful qualities when one is fleeing assassins and/or all manner of law enforcement.

3) The montage.

The iconic Pretty Woman montage has been so oft-copied, I've come to expect it in a romantic comedy. If it isn't there, I start to wonder. Does she buy them online? Is she a shoplifter? If there's no montage, WHERE IS SHE GETTING HER CLOTHES?  Rest assured, at some point, our heroine will likely end up in a dressing room. She will emerge in no fewer than 8 completely different outfits, each looking fantastic and perfectly tailored even when they're just so charmingly wrong for her character.

Yeah, most stores I frequent only let you take 6 things in the dressing room. You try making eight outfits out of that. Of those 6 items, three will declare my ass an enemy combatant, one will require instructions to get into, another will give me a pallor not seen since the last diptheria epidemic, and one might, maybe, possibly look okay, if I were wearing different shoes / jeans / my 20s. I will not leave that store merrily swinging shopping bags aplenty, but I may come out swinging if I hear one more chirpy "How are things going in there? Can I get you anything?" Yes - liposuction and a double vodka. The only time my changing room forays come close to a Hollywood moment is when I'm trying to wrangle my cleavage into something clearly not designed with your safety in mind. Oh, it's not a Hollywood romantic comedy moment, mind you; it's more a preview of a Godzilla re-boot, and my boobs are about to sally forth and attack Tokyo.

And let's not forget the romantic montage: In the mid to late 90s, it would likely be set to "Solsbury Hill" by Peter Gabriel. And I feel like Lifehouse got a lot of dinners out a few years back thanks to falling in love montages. You know the ones: dinner date / stroll in the park/ through the city / tentative first kiss / adorably trying on weird hats at a street vendor / amusement park /museum/ ice cream / ice skating/ hot chocolate / closeup of hands clasping on tangled sheets / fade to black.  If my typical relationship had a montage, here's how mine might look: Awkward, uncertain flirting where I seem like I'm having some sort of nervous fit / beer followed by cheap tequila/ 35 minutes of battling other drunk people for a cab/ questionably regretful making out/ fairly enjoyable sex (it's a sliding scale) / drunk text from him 4 days later / booty call where I cut myself dry shaving my legs before he gets here / running into him the following weekend with the new girl he's dating/ who's 25/ fade to rage blackout.  Who are you guys thinking for the song? Is Rancid still together? Then them. Or Adele's "Someone Like You".

4) Hot doctors.

This medically unsound nonsense has been going on at least since the time of Marcus Welby (James Brolin was a total fox). It continued with Mark Harmon on St. Elsewhere and Rick Springfield on General Hospital and reached the apex with George Clooney's Dr. Doug Ross. Hot doctors are a central casting staple. And now the D(r)ILF fuckery has reached new heights on The Mindy Project. Not only do Chris Messina and Ed Weeks play hot doctors, they play hot gynecologists. The only thing a woman wants to see a hot doctor about is one of those sexy medical non-problem problems, like "I'm afraid hot yoga might be making me too flexible", or "I don't seem to have a gag reflex - should I worry?" You absolutely DO NOT go to a hot doctor with any sort of downtown issue. I've gone to the same (female) doctor for 20 years, and I'll still avoid eye contact with her if I run into her in the grocery store. I don't want an attractive man seeing me in stirrups unless it's the early 1900s and I'm galloping across a meadow to his English manorhouse.

God, there are so many other little ways Hollywood has let me down I can't believe we're still together: animals can't really talk (right, Tallulah?), nobody has ever chased me through an airport, catching me at the gate to profess his undying love (Baby, that's great you realized you love me, and I'm really happy,  but how did you get past security? Great, now here come the police. We'll have to start our life together with you on the no-fly list. Idiot) and I've never arrived home from a romantic dinner to find the living room / bedroom awash with the glow of 100 flickering candles. Seriously - who the fuck lit them? Is there someone else here? Is it your Mom?  Or did you light them before you picked me up? That was 2 1/2 hours ago! Jesus, you could've burnt the house down.  Yeah, not in the mood anymore. Put it back in your pants. Arsonist.

Oh, Hollywood, never stop lying to me. Except maybe about the talking animals. It's time for me to let that dream go.