Joan Crawford is in trouble. She’s just discovered her husband is having an affair, and plans to kill her. But does Joan panic? Does she go to the police? Absolutely not. Joan puts on a fabulous negligee, gets in bed, and has a cigarette, so she can think properly.It’s Saturday night, and my roommate George and I found ourselves with no plans for the evening. The current object of George’s affection is out of town, and I’ve put a call out to the boy I have a crush on, but so far he hasn’t called back. We decided to turn our phones off, raid the liquor cabinet, and watch black and white movies in our jammies. Our current selection is the thriller Sudden Fear, which we knew would be awesome when the opening credits listed “Miss Crawford’s Hats by Felix, Inc.”
We love a movie with good hats.
Joan’s out of bed now, at her writing desk, carefully outlining how to kill her husband before he kills her, and as a bonus, frame his mistress for the crime.
“You ever notice in old movies everybody has a writing desk?” I note. “Even if you’re living in a tin shack in Hoboville, you’ll still have a writing desk.”
“Well sure,” says George. “The first place to look for dirt is a writing desk. It’s where people keep the safe combinations and incriminating photos.”
“And it’s where everyone creates their diabolical plans. I don’t do enough diabolical planning at my writing desk.”
I suppose everyone needed a writing desk in those days because people still wrote letters. Now we send text messages, and nobody really needs a texting desk. It’s a shame, too, because I think a lot of the charm of watching Ms. Crawford carefully writing out her scheme would be lost if she was punching it into her Blackberry.
As Joan artfully manipulates her sinister husband, I keep casting glances at my phone.
“I saw that,” says George. “I thought it was off.”
“It’s on silent. I didn’t want to miss him if he calls. He said he wanted to get together this weekend.”
George gives me a look, so I switch the phone off and turn my attention back to watching our heroine emerge triumphant.
The next morning, I send a text message to the crush, just a quick one to say hi and inquire about his plans for the day. He doesn’t respond. George joins me on the porch with coffee in hand, finding me staring at the phone, willing it to do something.
“You’re getting awfully close to pathetic territory here, darling,” says George. “How many unanswered messages have you left?”
“One voicemail. Two texts.”
“Topher,” he says gently. “If you were watching this in a movie, would you say this is the behavior of a self-assured individual with a lot to offer a quality man, or the desperate acts of a sad creature whose personal happiness is for some reason entirely dependent on the approval of others? Ask yourself: What would Joan do?”
That answer is, of course, quite simple. Joan would pity the poor soul who missed the chance to spend time in her company. She would forget the man entirely and go buy herself a new hat. If he came to his senses later, she might give him another chance, but he’d have to work twice as hard. I’m not following her example at all. I’m acting like the loosely-defined mousy secondary character the leading man would eventually come to his senses and abandon for someone like Joan.
Joan’s out of bed now, at her writing desk, carefully outlining how to kill her husband before he kills her, and as a bonus, frame his mistress for the crime.
“You ever notice in old movies everybody has a writing desk?” I note. “Even if you’re living in a tin shack in Hoboville, you’ll still have a writing desk.”
“Well sure,” says George. “The first place to look for dirt is a writing desk. It’s where people keep the safe combinations and incriminating photos.”
“And it’s where everyone creates their diabolical plans. I don’t do enough diabolical planning at my writing desk.”
I suppose everyone needed a writing desk in those days because people still wrote letters. Now we send text messages, and nobody really needs a texting desk. It’s a shame, too, because I think a lot of the charm of watching Ms. Crawford carefully writing out her scheme would be lost if she was punching it into her Blackberry.
As Joan artfully manipulates her sinister husband, I keep casting glances at my phone.
“I saw that,” says George. “I thought it was off.”
“It’s on silent. I didn’t want to miss him if he calls. He said he wanted to get together this weekend.”
George gives me a look, so I switch the phone off and turn my attention back to watching our heroine emerge triumphant.
The next morning, I send a text message to the crush, just a quick one to say hi and inquire about his plans for the day. He doesn’t respond. George joins me on the porch with coffee in hand, finding me staring at the phone, willing it to do something.
“You’re getting awfully close to pathetic territory here, darling,” says George. “How many unanswered messages have you left?”
“One voicemail. Two texts.”
“Topher,” he says gently. “If you were watching this in a movie, would you say this is the behavior of a self-assured individual with a lot to offer a quality man, or the desperate acts of a sad creature whose personal happiness is for some reason entirely dependent on the approval of others? Ask yourself: What would Joan do?”
That answer is, of course, quite simple. Joan would pity the poor soul who missed the chance to spend time in her company. She would forget the man entirely and go buy herself a new hat. If he came to his senses later, she might give him another chance, but he’d have to work twice as hard. I’m not following her example at all. I’m acting like the loosely-defined mousy secondary character the leading man would eventually come to his senses and abandon for someone like Joan.
This will not do.
I open my phone and delete the crush’s number, thus eliminating the temptation to call him again. It feels so good, I scroll through and delete the phone numbers of every guy who never returned my call. It’s a lot more names than I expected. Now I won’t be confronted by a list of failed possibilities every time I look at my phone book. Feeling confident and renewed, I walk into the house and sit at my writing desk, the best possible place to plot my next move.
I open my phone and delete the crush’s number, thus eliminating the temptation to call him again. It feels so good, I scroll through and delete the phone numbers of every guy who never returned my call. It’s a lot more names than I expected. Now I won’t be confronted by a list of failed possibilities every time I look at my phone book. Feeling confident and renewed, I walk into the house and sit at my writing desk, the best possible place to plot my next move.
