A Valentine’s Wish…Er, Demand

A Valentine’s Wish…Er, Demand

If you believe chick flicks, I’m supposed to loathe being single on Valentine’s Day.  In chick flick world, I’d just lock myself in my bedroom singing Alanis Morissette songs off-key and slamming back pints of Häagen-Dazs.   

True, all the red roses and candy boxes can make single gals wistful around V-Day, and unfortunately the industry doesn’t do much to make us feel less crappy.  But this year, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve.  I’ve got The Secret

Initially skeptical, I decided to give the idea a whirl after my friend Paula got a check in the mail for $368 at a time when she owed a creditor…$368.  Paula attributed her success to the Law of Attraction.  

The rules are simple: Ask, nay, demand from the universe what you want and think relentlessly positive thoughts to manifest your orders.  Shoot high, the book insists, nothing is out of reach.  I figure my chances are even better if I put my demands in writing, so here goes. 

Dear Universe,  

I command you to make the following happen on Valentine’s Day 2009: 

George Clooney picks me up around eight.  He takes me to one of those restaurants where you can buy a $40,000 bottle of champagne, just so I can see how the other half lives.  During dinner, George is bowled over by my dazzling wit as we talk film, culture and politics.  As I explain my views on world cinema and ending global poverty, he stares longingly into my eyes then whispers, “from whence have you come, goddess?  Never have I felt so connected to another person.  We two are one.”  

After dinner, George and I go to a hip lounge to share some cocktails and smooch.  There, he hands me a heart-shaped box.  Inside, I find a publishing contract, a check big enough to pay off my student loans and an invitation to accompany George to next year’s Oscars.  Of course, by next year, my book will have come out, I’ll have turned it into a script and undoubtedly will be winning a screenwriting award at the ceremony.  Note to self: get Oscar speech ready. 

On the way to George’s hotel, I get a call from the Nobel Foundation.  They’ve seen the manuscript of my book and have decided to award me the Nobel Prize for Literature.  The book hasn’t come out yet, but it’s just that darn good.  Next, I get a call from Barack Obama, inviting me to the White House to celebrate my new prize.  As an aside, he says, “you seem to have some creative ideas.  Maybe you’d like to be a member of my cabinet?  We need more women.”  And I say, “thanks, but I wouldn’t want to overshadow Hillary.”  Barack mentions that if I ever need a place to stay in DC, I can totally crash at his place.  

Sharing a cocktail back at the hotel, Clooney says, “y’know, I realize I have a reputation for being a drunken, womanizing schmuck who only dates leggy waitresses and soft-core porn actresses.  But baby, you move me.  Will you be my wife?” 

And I say, “man, I told you I’m not sure about marriage.” 

And he says, “dear God, woman, don’t you see how I suffer?  It’s always been a dream of mine to have a short, brown wife like you to live in my sprawling Italian villa and write novels all day.  What if I put in an extra pool?”  

So, I tell him I’ll think about it.  Then I think about it, then I say yes.  And George weeps and says, “I don’t deserve to be this happy.”  

Then I let him get drunk and womanize me.   

Thank You, Universe,