Thursday, November 4, 2010

it's just like an interior design consultant, for my life.

For most ladies, the notion of arranged marriages in the western hemisphere has become entirely offensive. Even while women in our eastern counterpart sing its praises, all my American girls can think when a man speaks without horror of arranged marriage is, “WHY DON’T YOU JUST TELL ME I CAN’T VOTE AND LOCK ME IN THE KITCHEN?!”

Well, here’s my stance: Shrug to voting, and go ahead and lock me in the kitchen, I’ll just build a fort out of tablecloths and paper towels, with a frying pan/spatula doorbell and a sign on the door that says “No Boyz Ah-loud” written in hardened mustard. Now who looks dumb?

But in all honesty, this arranged marriage concept might have some merit. Because when it comes to making important choices, I lack a certain level of…rationality and intellect. I can go to a restaurant and never choose the wrong thing for dinner, but every time I think I’ve landed the right boyfriend, BAM, he has issues about his mother and can’t hold a job. And might be a raging alcoholic. I think it has something to do with the type of men I find attractive. I have this uncanny ability to seek out the oddball, the one with the “hasn’t showered today” look, though I have incredibly high standards for hygiene so it really limits the playing field there, and sadly unless he’s a celebrity/professional athlete or trust fund kid, there’s a particular caliber of person accompanying that look. It’s so irritating. Because you know who usually looks unkempt and understated? Unemployed guys. And I make this choice EVERY TIME.

Don’t believe me? Don’t worry, I have an example.

Let me introduce Captain GreenShirt and his friend, Scruffy McBlackShirt.

Well, hey there boys. So here we are, and we’re talking; we're talking about punching strangers and how being a diver is less cool than being a spy, and about how Texas sucks but it’s not as bad as Alabama. Roll tide, roll? And all the while, this conversation is happening about three feet from us.

Thanks ladies. Now, was I looking for my future husband on the streets of New Orleans? No, not really. Oh did I forget to mention that’s where this is taking place? Yep, Bourbon Street. Another solid choice on my part. But the fact of the matter still stands the same. When presented with a choice, this is almost invariably the outcome.

That’s right. I passed up the polite, well-established, adorable guy to talk about superheroes and decade old footwear with a Gary, the sometimes-diver from Washington State with almost zero life goals based in reality. If being a life choice maker was a profession, I would be the least qualified. Or I’d be qualified in the way that people would ask, “What would Eleanor do” and then NOT do that thing. So arranged marriage starts to sound pretty good to me.

Let’s be honest here, in a world where arranged marriages are the norm, I have a better chance of being happy in the long run. Because you know what makes me happy? Designer sunglasses. Shoes. More than one meal a day. And these are things that I’m not going to find on my own, on account of how apparently some stupid part of my brain things underemployment and apathy is cute. So why not introduce an objective third party into the situation.

Arranged marriages provide a certain level of stability that I think could really work for me. Sure, there’s a chance I could get stuck with a real boring accountant type, but at least I’d have SOMEONE. Free form dating is reckless, riddled with uncertainty and overwhelming. Sure, sometimes it’s super cool to meet someone who thinks your jokes are funny, and really gets why you love NCIS and high fives so much, but then again, these are things anyone could learn. I could take my stable, boring accountant husband and say, “I like NCIS because it’s about solving crimes, and the Navy,” and then make him high five me. It’s almost like training a pet. He might not think it’s cool, he might not want to do it, but he will because let’s be honest, he’s stuck with me. And what’s that old phrase? If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

And as far as I’m concerned, if arranged marriages made a comeback, I think I could land a good one, because not only is my father a fantastic negotiator, all car salesmen be warned, P. Thibeaux is not to be hustled, but we also have a good deal of leverage, being from Texas and all. Unrefined oil can make a killing these days. I could be dating the proverbial Prince of Persia with that kind of dowry. And by proverbial, I mean…Jake Gyllenhaal as the Prince of Persia.

Aka - This guy.

So if those are my choices, if I can either be left to my own devices and end up with Scruffy McBlackShirt of Washington State with his “I dunno” career path and minus one checking account lifestyle, or Jake Gyllenhaal as the Prince of Persia, I’m gonna say, forget how I feel, I’ll just play a lot of online scrabble and get an credit card under the name “Princess Eleanor of hypothetical Persia.”

Go ahead, sexism and archaic moral code, put a price tag on my head. Just make sure that being hilarious, good at technology, and addicted to caffeine are all taken into consideration, and bring on the applications.

I’m throwing in the towel.
Let’s do this.


  1. I'll have P.Thibeaux get right on that negotiation! Another fun adventure in Eleanorland!

  2. Cartoon Kaci needs a nose job stat.

  3. You could always collect owl figurines and raise cats. Or achieve fame in the National Enquirer by living off the land as Bigfoot's love slave. Hey, it worked for Merlene Pearlwater.

  4. Most guys just can't handle the awesome.

    If you ever need a green shirt, I've got a plethora that I see everyday. And more than half of them wear superhero shirts.

    I got your back.

    I'm not sure about the hygiene though.